Placidity

by contextually_dependent

Summary:

After emerging from Purgatory and parting ways with Benny, Dean is lost. Sam is happy without him, and Dean can’t bring himself to disrupt his brother’s life again by announcing his return. So by day, Dean drives and hunts and drinks too much. By night, he dreams of Benny. He can’t quite bring himself to ask for what he really needs: help, company, and that sense of belonging he’s been searching for his whole life. But when a solo hunt goes wrong, their paths will cross again, and maybe this time Dean won’t let Benny go.

OR

The happier rewrite of Season 8 that we deserve.

Notes:

We’re ignoring all the Chuck and Jack and Amara stuff here. In this Universe, Dean gets a much-deserved break, and he plays the guitar. This is a fic less concerned with tying up loose ends, and more with Dean getting a happy ending with a man who adores him. The world isn’t his responsibility anymore.

Also, this fic is very much an ode to Benny. God, I love that teddy bear vamp-man.

TW: There is a very brief mention of an attempted SA. Dean kills a man who was cornering a woman outside a gas station. It starts at "Eventually, he had to take. . ." and ends at "The woman ran away. . ."

Chapter 1: What Now?

Under the late night sky, bloody and filthy, Dean carved open the skin of his forearm.  He’d dug up Benny’s bones as instructed, and poured the essence of his soul back where it belonged.

And he waited.

Crickets chirped out a song and the wind rustled through the dry grass, keeping him company while he lingered, anticipating.  

But anticipating what, exactly?  He wasn’t sure.

Dean counted four deep inhales before he felt the presence behind him, warm and familiar. In a crouch, Dean turned. 

“Well, that was fast." 

“No thanks to you,” Benny quipped back.  “The hell took you so long?”

Dean rose to his feet and sauntered over.

“You’re welcome,” he said.

Benny rolled his neck, cracking out the tension.  At that, Dean found his gaze drifting over the length of his friend’s body, eyebrows raised.

“Everything working?”  he asked innocently.

Benny eyed him, a glint of mischief reflecting in his irises under the moonlight.  He craned his neck back and extended his fangs.  They were sharp and ivory, glistening.  

“Good enough.” 

He retracted his fangs as Dean eyed him, entranced.  Something heavy lingered between them.  Something feral and weighted.  

But then that mischief faded from Benny’s eyes, replaced by a hesitation, an uncertainty.  Everything they had been through had led them to this moment, and now here they stood, at a crossroads, together.  With that knowledge, they each took a breath.  Their timing was just out of sync.

“So,” the vampire said slowly.  He averted his eyes.  “What now?”

Dean shook his head, feeling that uncertainty brewing in his gut.  It burnt.  

“Like we talked about, I guess.”

Benny nodded, a frown forming helplessly on his lips.  He looked a bit like a teddy bear, if not, perhaps, more deadly.  Guilt nagged at Dean.  It was a guilt he couldn't quite name, couldn't quite trace.  He shoved it down.  Something he could deal with later-- never.

Benny’s accent still stretched his voice out into a drawl, but it was laced with something accepting and solemn now, lacking its playful lilt.  

“Then this is goodbye.”

Dean opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out.  His heart was thick and heavy in his chest, too full, too something.  He held Benny’s gaze.  He didn’t know what he wanted.  Didn’t know what was best.  Didn’t know where he was going next.  But he did know that he hoped the best for this man-- his friend.  And perhaps, over the course of their time together, Benny had come to mean even more to him than that.  Perhaps he’d crawled his way under Dean’s skin in more ways than one.  Perhaps Dean didn’t feel ready to go back to living without him by his side.  But that was something else he couldn’t deal with just then, if ever.

So all he could think to say was, “Keep your nose clean, Benny-- you hear me?”

Benny nodded again, as if knowing that Dean would say that.  

Then he walked forward, steps strong and certain in a way that Dean envied.  Benny extended an arm out to Dean, hand calloused and warm, surprisingly soft.  Dean clasped it firmly, trying to memorize that sensation.  If only he could sear that into his mind, the planes of his palm, and replace all the memories of death and blood with something as soft as this. . . 

Benny cocked his head, holding that grasp, extending the moment, and murmured, “We made it, brother.”

Dean’s eyes softened.  This was too much.  Not enough.  He could barely breathe.

Benny continued, “I can’t believe it.”

Dean couldn’t either.  But when Benny started to laugh, a low and rumbling chuckle, Dean couldn’t resist.  He didn’t know who moved first, but they pulled forward into a hug, clasping each other’s shoulders and patting their backs, grip perhaps a little desperate.  In the darkness of that night, darkness that had become so familiar to Dean over the course of his life, he clung to Benny too tightly and relished in the strength he found there.  A genuine, helpless smile stretched across his face.  Something prickled in the corners of his eyes.

“You and me both,” Dean finally rasped.

They parted ways, drifting from each other before they were ready.  But Benny wasn’t his to keep, and it was like they’d talked about before-- they were each a means to an end.  Benny got Dean to the door, Dean got Benny free.  Mutually beneficial.  It was a transaction, nothing more, and now that transaction was complete.  He had no business asking Benny where he was going, what he’d do next, and if he could use some company with whatever that entailed.  No, Dean had to let him walk away.  So he did.  And he didn’t look back.

Dean stole a car.  This was nothing new for him, a familiar task, almost boring.  He drove to a nearby gas station, perhaps 20 or 30 minutes down the dirt road, and stepped inside. Sure, he must look like a trainwreck, hair dirty, beard scruffy, shirt torn, arm bloody.  But no one looked at him twice.  The only person inside at this hour was the twenty-something manning the register, clearly high out of his mind, anyway.  

Dean glanced first at the newspapers.  He checked the month.  The year.  Checked again.  

Had he really been gone that long?  

Another thing he couldn’t process then, or ever.  

Dean did what he always did.  

He shoved it down.

His stomach growled, and even though he didn’t feel particularly interested in food just then, he figured it’d be wise to get something in his stomach before he hit the road again.  So he grabbed some candy bars and jerky, a bottle of water, and walked out of the store.  He didn’t have a credit card on him, and it didn’t look like there were any cameras-- not that he gave a shit if there were.  But it simplified things, the anonymity.

No one saw him leave.

It was almost too easy.

Dean drove.  

He drove and he drove and he drove.  Foot on the gas, not stopping for anything.

Two hours.  

Three.  

Six.  

Could he stop, if he wanted to?

He didn’t really see the world he was passing by.  Something in his heart burned too brightly, numbing out the rest of his body, his mind, for him to be able to truly take in his surroundings and his ever-changing place in them.  Dean kept his eyes on the road and his hands on the wheel and his thoughts on the here, now, this.   

Eventually, he had to take a piss and get gas.  But maybe he was looking for trouble, too.  It was nearly dawn when he slowed down by another gas station and saw a man corner a woman in the parking lot.  Her body language screamed scared and his screamed predator and well, Dean would show him what a real fucking predator looked like.  A comfortable anger rose in him and his mind went blissfully blank.  He parked the car, left the keys in the ignition, and hopped out into the dying night.

The man didn’t see him coming.

Not that he would’ve had a chance if he had.

The woman ran away, face streaked with terror, as Dean casually patted down the man’s limp body.  He found the wallet, took out the credit card and cash, and left the man there.

“Adios, asshole,” Dean said.  

He used the stolen card to pay for gas and took a leak on the side of the road. 

He didn’t care.

His knuckles were bloody.  Was that his blood?  

Was that man still alive?

He didn’t care.

He couldn’t.

So he drove.

His body began to protest around 9 AM.  

That was also around when Dean realized he should call Sam.

At 10 AM, after powering through the candy bars and feeling his stomach tie in knots at the sensation of eating-- he hadn’t had to eat in purgatory, and now it was strange, foreign-- he found a payphone.  It was in a small, nowhere, dirtville town.  Someplace forgettable.  Dean felt uneasy.  His shoulders were cramped up painfully from the tension and his spine tingled faintly.  His ass ached from sitting in the car for so long.  He dialed the first of Sam’s numbers and waited.

The number you are trying to reach is unavailable.

That could mean a lot of things.

He dialed the next one.

The number you are trying to reach is unavailable.

Okay, weird.

Third number.

The number you are trying to reach is unavailable.

Officially unsettling.  But if Sam was dead, he wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of deactivating all his numbers. It’d just go straight to voicemail, right?  

Right?

______________________________

The sun rose.  Dean was almost surprised.  

Red and gold streaked across the sky as he tore down another dirt road, tracing through a forgotten artery of the middle of nowhere as if, by accident, he could finally find the heart of something.

His eyes were beginning to burn but he certainly wasn't ready for sleep, so Dean found a local diner and purchased a coffee, waving at the waitress for refills every few minutes.   He paid in stolen cash, tipping generously, because he may be a killer but he wasn’t a dick.

He scrubbed the blood off his hands and face in the bathroom.  The filth of the last year filtered down the drain, swirling in the clear water, disappearing from his body but not his memory.  A glance at the mirror told him he still wasn’t presentable.  He tugged calloused fingers through his hair, wrangling it somewhat.  Not great, but better.

It was as he was leaving the diner and hopping back into the truck that he decided that if he couldn’t call Sam, he’d just have to hunt him down. He’d done harder things before.

 

_______________

 

Dean’s body hurt, and he needed a change of clothes.  The latter was easier to address, so he stopped by a strip mall next and left dressed in a deep green flannel, new jeans, and a fresh pair of boxers.  A small victory.

He kept driving.

When night descended, Dean couldn’t bring himself to find a motel.  Really, he didn’t want to have to interact with anyone else, but he justified it as saving money and the trouble of finding somewhere close by.  

That was how, at 11:27 PM, somewhere in Kentucky, Dean ended up pulling over on the side of a backroad and turning off his stolen truck.  It was a spacious vehicle with enough room for him to almost stretch out his legs, but the night was nice and mild, and Dean was starting to feel claustrophobic, so he hopped out of the driver’s seat and climbed into the bed of the truck.  He laid down flat on the tarp that was already there and let his body sink into it.  He kicked off his shoes, warm night air tickling his toes and tossing his hair playfully.  

There were clusters of trees cropping up here and there, but for the most part, the landscape was just empty and rolling plains.  It was all open space. Unlike purgatory , he thought distantly.  Open space, where no one could hide.  It was dark out, but still, when Dean saw shadows dance and race across the plains, his heart rate ticked up.  He clenched his jaw and forced himself to exhale.  

After a while, he looked up.  The stars were out.  With so little light pollution, the expanse of the heavens was blatantly visible, almost crystalline in its clarity.  Just spans of silver speckled across the velvety expanse of the night sky, like it had been painted on ever so carefully, but with enough elegance and skill to look unintentional.  Breathing in deeply, trying to settle his nerves, Dean found the Big Dipper first, and then Orion.

Was Benny looking at those same constellations?

He closed his eyes, rolling over onto his side.  Where had that thought come from?

Sure, he wanted to indulge himself.  He wanted to wonder where Benny was just then, what he was doing.  But he couldn’t.  Not now.  Not tonight.  Dean squeezed his eyes shut, tighter, as if that alone could help him block out the world.

Around 2 AM, he tumbled into a restless sleep.

A mist of brackish water sprayed across his face.  Dean blinked.  He looked down.  His hands loosely clasped a railing, and beneath his feet was a deck.  He looked back up.  Stretched out before him was a wide river, surrounded on both sides by tall trees and greenery.  He was in the Southeast, by the looks of it.  On a boat.  

Then behind him, laughter.  He turned slowly, feeling, distantly, as if he were suspended in honey.  The moment trickled in around him, leisurely and gentle.  The sun kissed his face.  He was warm.  The sky was bright and blue.  The air was humid, thick, slowing everything down.  He turned, and he turned, and finally saw the source of the laughter.  Benny.  It was Benny, standing in the shadows of an awning to protect himself from the sunlight.  It was Benny, clad in a white tank top, black pants, suspenders, and his trademark black cap.  It was Benny, grinning widely, brightly at him, a guitar in his giant hands, looking delectable.  The muscles of his arms rippled.  The circles under his eyes had faded.  He looked at Dean, eyes piercing and icy blue and never before had Dean wanted to drown so badly in a color.  Those eyes twinkled.

“Like what ya see, Cher?”

“Maybe I do,” Dean heard himself saying. 

Benny laughed another hearty laugh, and Dean’s heart was so full from that sound that it could burst. 

He moved forward, drifting towards Benny as if it was gravity forcing him inevitably in that direction.  The deck swayed beneath him smoothly, rocking with the river’s natural movement.  Dean slid through the honey of that moment, slid through the humid, humid air, and slid towards Benny.  He had to.  He finally understood.  

He was within arm’s reach now.  His fingertips were about to touch Benny’s shoulder; he was about to grip him, ask him where he was, ask him when Dean could come home to him.  But just before he could, it all evaporated. The moment dissipated like mist, like headlights in a thick fog, like a reflection on water shattered by a thrown stone.

Dean woke up with an ache in his chest.  He blinked, bleary, in the bed of the truck.  The sun had risen again and it glared down on him where he lay.  That bone-weary fatigue was even more intense than it had been before he went to sleep.  

As he sat up, his head spun just a bit.  Sweat trickled down his neck and brow, dampening his new shirt.  With a sigh, Dean pulled his boots back on and hopped out of the bed of the truck, feet thumping heavily on the ground.  

What did that dream mean? 

A twist of keys and the vehicle roared to life.  

Why did he feel like something was missing?

Dean tore off down the road, going, perhaps, a little too fast.  

Why couldn’t he snuff that longing, that pull, like a candle flame between his fingers?

Dean shook his head.  He turned on the radio.  AC/DC accompanied him as he made his way deeper into Kentucky.

He would go find Sam.  That was something he could do.  

An hour later, he rolled into another small town.  Dean parked the truck in front of a diner, stretching, then straightening his collar before entering the establishment.  

He ordered coffee and pancakes with sausage.  

An older waitress, hair graying and face lined with grease and wrinkles, placed his food and drink on the counter in front of him.

“How ya doing, dear?”  She asked. 
Dean pulled his face into an empty smile and looked up at her.  

“Doin’ great,” he said simply. 

He took a bite of the pancakes.  They tasted like sand.  

“Food’s alright?”  

Dean made an okay symbol with his thumb and forefinger.  

“Pancakes are out of this world.” 

She laughed, appeased.

As she turned to walk away, Dean called out, “Hey, where can I find a library ‘round these parts?”

The waitress raised a brow.  She looked him up and down.  No one did that when Sam asked about the library, Dean noted. 

With a look of faint disbelief on her face ( this woman really shouldn’t play poker, he thought), she answered.  “Ten miles to the next city.  There’ll be a library there.  Head West, dear-- you’ll find it.”  

As she turned to walk away, she chuckled to herself, “Wouldn’ta taken ya for the reading type.”

Dean shoveled the rest of the food in his mouth, left some bills on the counter, and got back in the truck.

Libraries had computers, and Dean needed a computer.  So he followed the waitress’ vague directions to a ramshackle library that was, indeed, approximately ten miles West.  Some research, internet stalking, and (rather impressive) detective work later, and Dean had tracked Sam down.  Apparently, his little brother had a steady job in Kermit, Texas now.  Address memorized, Dean got back in the truck.

 

_______________________

 

Sam lived in a quaint house on a quiet street.  A girl-- small, pretty, dark-haired-- lived in the house, too.  From the street, Dean watched them mill about their house together.  Sam, cooking in the kitchen.  The girl, folding laundry.  Both, sharing a kiss in front of the window.  It was strikingly domestic.  They clearly had been together for a while, judging by the familiarity with which they navigated their shared space, and how comfortable in their routine they seemed.

So, if Sam had been living with this chick for several months (at least) . . . had he bothered to look for Dean at all?

His jaw tightened.

Suddenly, the world seemed a bit more gray.  

Suddenly, he felt even more untethered.  

Suddenly, he felt like falling.

Dean watched for a couple of hours over the course of a few days, and in that span of time, he saw a softness in Sam that he’d never witnessed before.  His brother was finally out.  He’d escaped.  Sam was no longer hunting, had settled down, had a dog and a girlfriend.  

Dean couldn’t fuck that up for him.  

This was all Sam ever wanted.  The apple pie life.  

He considered leaving a note in the mailbox, something to the effect of Hey, I’m still alive, don’t look for me though, it’s totally chill that you abandoned me to cozy up with some woman -- but that would cause more problems than it would solve, and, on some level, he didn’t think he deserved to be quite so bitter, so he did what he did best.  He drove away.

Dean drove to a liquor store.  

 

He parked the truck in an empty field and powered through a bottle of whiskey to the best of his ability.  The alcohol burned his throat, but quenched some of the fire that threatened to raze what was left of whatever was keeping him going.  Thoughts quieting, limbs numbing, head spinning, Dean finally felt able to recognize a simple truth:

There wasn’t a place for him here anymore.  Perhaps there never had been.

That night, he dreamt of Benny again.  This one was decidedly less pleasant.  Having drunk himself quite literally to sleep, passing out in the bed of the truck again, this time with his shoes on, limbs sprawled, and a bottle of whiskey falling from his hand, Dean slipped out of the waking world.

Benny was lost.  The vampire wandered around, like a ghost that couldn’t quite make itself visible, drifting through the streets.  Dean tried to call out to him but his mouth wouldn’t open.  He tried to scream, tried to run over and get Benny’s attention.  It didn’t work.  He was stuck.  Dean floated behind Benny, a captive observer.

The shadows beneath Benny’s eyes were back.  They were rings of dark purple, deep and hollow.  His cheeks were sunken and pale.  His scruff was more unruly than normal, and his steps were labored.  

Benny was starving.

People walked past him, oblivious, and Benny’s nose twitched.  A couple passed by particularly close, and a look of pain, acute and tormented, spasmed across the vampire’s face.

Ah, so that's what it was.  Benny was starving, yes.  But he was true to his word-- he refused to feed on a person.  

So, he wandered, wandered aimlessly over cobblestone streets, ducking down alleys, tugging the collar of his coat up to hide the lower half of his face.  Benny’s strides lacked lightness, confidence.  

He was growing weaker by the minute.  

Dean felt like he’d been following him for hours, like the shadow of this ghost, the shadow that would follow Benny to hell and back, follow him anywhere, anytime, without question.  Perhaps it had only been minutes.  He couldn’t tell.  Time was suspended here, in these streets.  It was suspended by that aching hunger, that darkness in Benny’s eyes.  The icy blue was duller, haunted, and Dean felt haunted, too.  

Benny was stumbling openly now, as if he was drunk.  He grunted with exertion, exhaustion.  There was an alley up ahead, another one, and he barely made it inside, away from the open street’s prying eyes, before collapsing.

The vampire fell heavily.  His large body crumpled, strength leaving him.  His back hit the alley wall, coat falling open around him, and his fangs came out even though there was no waiting neck for them to sink into.  Dean would offer his own in that moment, if he could.  

Benny’s eyes slid shut.  His face went, somehow, even paler.

He huffed out a ragged breath.

Dean woke in a cold sweat.  It was still dark out.  Underneath the smattering of stars, his head felt like it was being split open by an ice pick.  The bottle of whiskey had tipped over in the night, draining onto the tarp.  Dean groaned.

After moments of just laying there, breathing, recentering, he sat up.  Immediately, his stomach lurched.  It twisted ominously, bile burning the back of his throat.  Dean barely made it off the truck bed, falling into the tall grass, before he vomited up dinner and alcohol and stomach acid.  I’m too old for this shit, he thought, retching, then wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

As he rose to his feet unsteadily, he remembered the way that Benny had walked in his dream-- staggering, alone, uncertain, unstable, dying.  

He couldn’t take it anymore.  Maybe their relationship had been transactional at the start, but it wasn’t anymore.  Screw former agreements; screw propriety.  

So, at 3:39 AM, he pulled his new cell phone out of the front seat of the truck and called Benny.

Benny picked up on the first ring.

“Dean,” he said, sounding slightly out of breath.

Dean almost fell over.  Maybe it was the hangover, maybe he was still drunk, or maybe it really was just the sound of Benny’s voice, all smooth and deep and rich.  He leaned heavily on the side of the truck.

“God, it’s good to hear from you, man,” Dean said before he could stop himself, filter out the feeling, the longing.

There was an intake of breath on the other end of the line.

“You alright, brother?”  

Dean lied.  “Yeah, Benny.  Yeah, I’m alright.  Just wanted to check on ya.”  

Benny could tell it was a lie, or that it was, at the very least, nowhere near the full truth.  

“You’re just checking on me at three in the morning?” 

There was a note of disbelief in his voice, as if he was somehow shocked Dean really thought he’d fall for this shit.

Well, Dean had started the lie, and he was sticking with it.  It was easier than honesty, anyhow.

“Yep,” he said.  “Was up already, figured I’d make sure you’re keeping your nose clean.”  And maybe he slurred a few of those words, because he could almost hear the concern radiating off Benny over the phone.  And when Benny spoke next, he could definitely hear the exasperation.

“Well, it’s cleaner than a whistle.  Been getting donations from the Red Cross.”

They paused.

Dean didn’t really know what to say to that.  Didn’t know how to continue the conversation, just knew that he desperately wanted to.  Wanted to keep hearing Benny’s voice.

And that silence may have been revealing in a way he didn’t intend for it to be, because he usually had a quip, a joke, or something.  Something to fill the silence.  But now, he had nothing.  

Benny heard that silence too.  And because that vampire was a braver man than Dean, or was, at least, less emotionally constipated, he continued: “You know, if you wanted to come down to Louisiana, you’d sure as hell be a sight for sore eyes.”

Dean blinked rapidly. Something tugged at his heart, something needy and battered.

He opened his mouth, closed it again.

Finally, he managed to wrangle out the words, “Sometime, sure.”  And then, because he’d already started lying and wasn’t about to stop now, “Got a new hunt lined up.  But yeah-- soon.”

Soon.

 

 

___________________

 

The claim that he had a hunt lined up had obviously been a lie, but now that he thought about it, it could be a good idea.  As uprooted and alone as he was, returning to something familiar could be comforting.  If nothing else, slaughtering a pack of werewolves would certainly be cathartic.  Part of him missed the purity of purgatory, the reality of kill or be killed.   

So yeah.  He’d go hunting.  And he didn’t need Sam-- he could do it alone.  He’d done it alone before.  And now, it was looking like he’d keep doing it alone until the day he died.  That was fine.  Dean was fine.

It took him no time at all to find a monster to slay.  A couple towns over, there was a werewolf preying on teenagers.  Apparently, it just didn’t think adult hearts tasted as good.  Dean took particular pleasure in shooting it, firing a silver bullet straight into its chest, point blank.  Blood and gore splattered across his face, spraying up to the ceiling of the room they stood in.  The werewolf fell to the floor with a heavy thud, dead as a doornail.  Dean laughed.  He laughed, and laughed, losing control over his body, sliding to the floor next to the corpse, ribs aching, and he lost track of what was so fucking funny.  When he finally quieted down, adrenaline fading, a beautiful clarity permeated him.  Covered in blood, at the foot of a corpse, he was the most peaceful he’d been since getting back from purgatory.  Everything was okay.  Or at least, he was finally numb.  And that, to him, seemed pretty okay.

 

It took two hours after that hunt for his antsy agitation to return.  He turned the car radio louder and got the hell out of dodge, praying that if he could drive fast enough, maybe he could outrun the emotion that was right on his tail, threatening to eat him alive.  That was a monster he wasn’t ready to slay.  

He found his next case.  A shifter, judging by the security footage.  After two days of searching, Dean found its hideout-- the sewers, of course.   The tunnel it seemed to patronize the most was littered with piles of skin and goo.  Dean poked at one of the piles with the end of his knife and wrinkled his nose.  The thing scurried about behind him, in the shadows.  Clearly, it thought it was sneaky.  Clearly, it didn’t know just who and what he was.  It charged him, but Dean stepped out of the way easily, used its momentum against it, and slammed it to the floor with a grunt.  He knelt over it, holding it down, and slammed his knife into its chest.  Again.  And again.  It died with a look of shock on its face.  Dean didn’t care.  That peaceful, numb feeling washed over him along with the blood and viscera.  He inhaled deeply, eyes sliding shut, allowing himself just this single moment of nothingness.

On the drive to a motel, he heard his father’s voice.  

The fuck is wrong with you?  John Winchester said. 

Did I raise a wimp? 

And, You’re not a real man.  You’re nothing.  Pathetic.  

Sam is better off without you.  We all are.

Dean turned up the radio, rolled the windows down, and drove faster.  Blood and shifter guts were crusting into his hair.  In the safety of his own mind, he wondered if he’d ever have the strength to tell his father to shut the fuck up.

This time around, his violence-induced numbness faded after only one hour.  He drank himself to sleep that night.  Just before he fell into a restless slumber, he pulled up Benny’s contact information on his phone.  Dean dreamt of him again, of them walking through a forest together, sun filtering through emerald green leaves, moving over a hill, footsteps tapping out a light rhythm that crescendoed when they reached a little cabin at the top of the hill, enclosed in tall and sturdy trees, a safe place, a place for them to stay together, smoke billowing out of a chimney, and then they were in the cabin making breakfast, both in oversized T-shirts and boxers, Benny grinning at him over his shoulder, and Dean could smell the bacon sizzling in the pan--

When he woke up, he had no memory of it, was left with nothing but a piercing hangover and a deep, lonely sense that something was missing.

Chapter 2: The Final Hunt

The next case was a vampire.  Dean almost didn’t take it, when he recognized the signs.  He almost packed up and left town.  The puncture wounds and blood loss hit too close to home, reminded him of someone he couldn’t have, and he was filled with the overwhelming urge to run away.   But there were seven people dead, and he heard his father’s voice call him a coward, so Dean picked up his machete and decided to track the vamp to its nest. 

The nest, it turned out, was an abandoned house on the outskirts of Greeneville, Mississippi.  The building was poorly maintained-- falling apart, in fact.  It was one story, a rambling ranch, with cracked windows and a backdoor that didn’t lock properly.  Dean kicked that door down with ease; in fact, he may have been a little too forceful, because it slammed into the wall and cracked ominously.  So much for a stealthy entrance , he thought.  But he didn’t need the element of surprise anyway.  

He moved into the house.  It was quiet-- too quiet.  

The floorboards creaked under his weight, protesting.  Dean surveyed the kitchen, ducking into a living room filled with dust and flaking paint, then did a cursory sweep through the halls, two bedrooms, and absolutely foul, filthy bathroom.  

The back of his neck tingled, but a quick glance over his shoulder showed him nothing was there-- nothing but the hollow insides of a house that was steadily falling apart.

Could he have gotten it wrong?

There were no signs of life (or undead life, anyway).  No bloodstains, no beer cans, no drained corpses strewn about.  But everything had pointed to this house, so where was the vamp?

Dean was about to leave and check the outside again when he noticed the door to the basement.

It was tucked into the end of the hall, covered mostly by a piece of plywood.  The plywood wasn’t nailed down, so Dean shoved it aside, adjusted his grip on his machete, and flung open the door.  

A steep staircase descended into an unlit basement.  Dean blinked, giving himself a moment to let his eyes adjust to the darkness, and then started down the stairs. 

The steps moaned under him.  Dean winced internally at the noise.  It was as if the house itself was trying to give away his position.

Still, he reached the bottom of the stairs without event or ambush.  The hair on the back of his neck prickled.  Dean squinted through the gloom as he took in his surroundings, hand clenching around the handle of his machete, muscles in his forearm twitching.  He was still struggling to make out the shadows in the dark when the potent smell of blood washed over him in waves and he was transported. 

He was back in Purgatory.  He was back in the purity of nothingness, back in the simplicity of savagery.  Dean could smell so clearly now all the dirt and the ash, all the blood-- so much blood.  Trees sprung up around him like ghosts, flickering, stretching up tall and wavering, just faintly transparent.  There were fallen husks of leaves underfoot, dead branches, smoke and skin and emptiness.  The color washed out of his vision until everything was shades of gray and pain.  God, it was so much easier.  Dean took a step forward, as if it would carry him out of this reality, out of his mind. . . 

And that was when the vampire got him.

It leaped at him out of nowhere, dispersing the illusion of Dean’s flashback.  Before he could even register what was happening, even re-enter his body, the thing had taken a powerful swipe at him and he was flying across the room, thrown by supernaturally strong arms.  His back slammed against the cinderblock of the basement wall and he fell to the dirt floor in a heap.  Then the thing prowled towards him, just a shadow in the gloom with a sly grin composed of brilliant white fangs, and Dean wondered idly if he could finally just die already.

But no.

Apparently not.

Instead of sinking its teeth into his neck and tearing his throat out, the vampire opted to throw him again.  In his head he heard his father say:

You deserve this.

This is what happens when you let your guard down.

Give up, son.  It’s over for you.  About damn time, too.

Dean landed hard and something cracked loudly.  A rib, maybe?  Pain flared up his side, a white-hot streak of sensation.  He struggled to his feet, feeling lopsided and fatigued.  The vamp charged at him, fangs extended, and Dean didn't move.  He saw the fangs, and all he could think was, I hope Benny’s okay.

A gnarled knot of shame sank in his gut.  This vamp wasn’t Benny, and Benny wasn’t his to worry about, anyway.  But it didn’t matter-- nothing did.  It was too late now.  Because the thing grabbed him in a vice grip while he was dazed and seeing stars.  It hauled him towards a structural post towards the middle of the room, pushed his back flush against it roughly, and tied him in place.  In the back of his mind, Dean knew he should struggle-- knew he could still get out of this.  But did he want to?  He could still smell the ash and blood of Purgatory.  Could almost feel the dry, dusty air on his skin.  Dean closed his eyes.

Then there were fangs at his neck and he shuddered, faintly.  

Somewhere, he heard Benny yelling at him to fight.  His voice was kinder than his father’s.  

Don’t you give up, Cher, Benny said.

You don’t get to leave me when we just got out.

Fight it.

Fight it.

Dean didn’t fight it, though.

He’d fought all his goddamned life.

He was tired.  He was done.

So, instead of fighting, he sat there, limp, as the razor-sharp fangs pierced his skin and the vamp took a deep draw from his neck.

The vamp drank

and drank

and drank.

It sucked long pulls of blood from him, and Dean thought, distantly, that it would drain him dry right then and there.

When it was done, Dean was still awake.  Blood soaked his collar.  It felt almost cold against the stuffy warmth of the basement.  

The vamp left him there, presumably sensing that he was in no condition to try to escape.  Dean heard it ascend the stairs quickly.  Moments passed.  A door slammed. 

He was alone.

But there was nothing he could do.  He was too weak to get out of his restraints on his own.  Across the room was his machete, still where it had fallen from his grip when he’d been thrown the first time.  There was no way to reach it.  Dean sighed.

As far as ends go, this one was, in a way, fitting.

Just when that thought crossed his mind, there was a flare of protest within him that said NO.  No.  No, he didn’t want this.  He didn’t want it to end-- not now.  He wasn’t ready.  And if, as he realized that, he also recalled the image of Benny smiling at him on a boat in his dream, well, that was between him and God.  So what if he wanted to live long enough to make that dream a reality?  So what if he wanted to get on a boat-- any fucking boat-- with Benny, and do absolutely nothing, just enjoying each other’s company, floating, laughing, flirting, finally at peace?

Yeah. 

Dean really didn’t want to die here.  

But if he was going to get out, he’d need help.

In perfect cosmic timing, his phone rang.

The buzzing came from his back pocket.  The vamp hadn’t bothered to search him-- a rookie move, on its part.  Dean didn’t have full use of his hands, and his mobility was certainly limited by his current . . . situation.  But he still managed, with much wiggling, to shimmy the phone out and lean over far enough onto his side awkwardly, twisting his arms at an uncomfortable angle, to answer it.

It was Benny.

Dean almost sobbed. 

Instead, he cleared his throat, tightening his jaw and blinking away the emotion that threatened to spill over.

“Man, am I glad to hear from you,” Dean said.  He knew he sounded like shit.  His voice was strangled, thick, broken.

Benny immediately knew.  He knew something was wrong.  The shift in his energy was detectable even over the phone.  

“What’s wrong, Dean?”

That tone was low and dark and dangerous.   

“I got myself a bit of a situation here,” Dean said.  He almost dropped the phone, barely managing to hold on.  

“Vamp got the best of me,” he continued.  “A little tied up now.  In Mississippi-- Greeneville.”

“You hold tight, Cher.  I’m on my way.”

“Benny?”

“Yeah?”

“Hurry.”

A heavy sigh.  A deep inhale.  

Benny said, “You know I will.”

 

 

 

 

 

It took Benny no time at all, but it still felt like an eternity to Dean.  He faded in and out, dizzy from blood loss.  He managed to get his phone tucked under him where he was seated, but couldn’t quite get it back into his pocket.  Dean finally opted to try tugging at his restraints, but they were well knotted and, however he loathed to admit it, he was just too weak right then to muscle his way out.  

His head spun from the effort.  He leaned back against the post.  

Benny, where are you?

A door opened on the main floor and Dean’s heart jerked in his chest, thudding painfully.  He had sweat through his shirt but it now felt cool, clammy.  

He listened closely.  Footsteps approached the basement door.  

Dean opened his mouth to call out, but then, through the fog of his mind, he understood-- those footsteps weren’t Benny’s.

Fuck.

The vamp had returned.

 

It opened the basement door, 

descended the stairs, 

smiled at him, 

and moved closer.

 

It drifted forward in a way that looked aimless, but was woven with an undercurrent of danger and feral power.  Dean felt his blood grow thicker.  His heart rate was unstable, flighty.  The vamp slunk closer.  It extended its fangs. 

Benny hadn’t been fast enough.

He was going to die here.

The hunter in him couldn’t help but look at the facts.  By his estimation, he’d lost about a liter of blood already.  Maybe a little more.  If that vamp fed on him now, he’d be fucked.  He had nothing left to give.  It’d take, what, another liter for him to pass out, and one more after that to kill him?

The vamp was within arm’s reach, now.  

It leaned over and Dean closed his eyes again, preparing for the sting of fangs on his flesh.  

But nothing happened.

He waited.

Still nothing.

Dean cracked open an eye.

The vamp stood upright, stock still, head cocked to the side.  It looked like it was listening to something.  But what?

Then Dean heard it, too.

Footsteps.

Heavy footsteps, moving with fierce intention.  

Footsteps that Dean would recognize anywhere.

With what energy he had left, Dean yelled:

“DOWN HERE.”

The vamp whirled around, glaring at him.

Dean shrugged.

A tense moment dangled in the air, like a mirror that was only a single breath away from shattering.  

Dean took that breath.

And then a hurricane named Benny Lafitte stormed the basement, kicking down the door, flying down the stairs, so fucking fast he was a blur.

He came to a halt at the foot of the stairs, a fake smile on his face, eyes tight and cold.  Benny cast a glance at Dean, appraising him, and Dean nodded a silent message.

I’m alive.

I’m alive.  

Kick some ass for me, yeah?

And Benny understood, because of course he did.  He nodded back, all rippling power and charm.

Benny turned his attention, then, to the vamp.

In a smooth drawl, he said, slowly, “I believe you’ve taken something that ain’t yours.”

The vamp had the decency to cower.

It was fast.  An affair of fangs and brute strength.  Benny left very little of the vamp left, tearing him, quite literally, to pieces.  Viscera sprayed across the room in a broad sweeping arc, coating everything in droplets of red and mush.  The corpse-- what was left of it-- fell to the floor heavily.

 

 

Then Benny rushed over to Dean.

“Hold on now,” Benny said as he tore through the knots keeping Dean plastered against the post.

The bindings came free quickly, and Dean realized that maybe before today he didn’t quite know how strong Benny was.  Maybe he still didn’t know.

Benny was hauling him up then, helping Dean to his feet.  Dean tried to stand, tried to make a quip, but all he could focus on was the smell of dirt, sweat, blood, and Benny.  He couldn’t get his legs under him.  His knees were shaking.  He told himself it was just from the bloodloss, not relief.

“Quit your flailing,” Benny huffed.  “I got you.”

He draped Dean’s arm over his shoulders, wrapped the other around his waist, and like that, sides pressed flush against each other, they left the nest.

 

 

____________________

Benny dragged him from the house.  In a daze, Dean saw the night sky emerge above him, cloudy and dark, with a yellow half-moon, and tall trees jutting up past the horizon.  He took a shuddering breath.  The air was thick and swampy.  

“Fuckin’ Mississippi,” he muttered, bordering on delirious.

Benny huffed out a laugh.  He tightened his arm around Dean, pulling him, somehow, even closer.  

At some point, they made it to a car.  Dean realized this at the same time he realized he was in the backseat, laying down.  Out the window, if he craned his head, he could see the witch’s hair danging from the trees.

 

They drove

 

and drove

 

and drove.

At some point, somewhere between waking and sleeping, Dean heard himself speak.

 “Hey, I didn’t know you could drive.”

Silence.  Then:

“You never asked.”

Moonlight filtered through the clouds and pierced the car windows.  It made everything fuzzy, soft.  Dean’s head hurt.

Sure now that this was a dream, he answered honestly.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?’

He closed his eyes.

Dean came to his senses in the outskirts of another small Louisiana town.  Benny had parked the car in front of a rambling, dilapidated house, clearly abandoned.  It was two stories, with wood siding, chipped paint, and greenery growing up the sides.  The windows were mostly intact, although some were broken beyond repair.  The house had a big front porch, a collapsed chimney, and was surrounded by trees.  

Benny went to get Dean out of the car, cracking open the door and leaning forward.  His defiant streak strong, Dean sat up on his own, head spinning.

“You’ve done enough.  Don’t want you to think I’m a damsel.” 

“How much blood did you lose, Dean?”  

Benny crouched outside the car, making eye contact.  In the moonlight, his irises were almost green.  It was a crystalline color.  Dean tried not to let it distract him.  He failed.

“How many times did that bastard feed on you?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean said.  He hopped out of the car, Benny backing out of the way, and promptly went weak in the knees.

Just his luck.

Benny was on him with superhuman speed, catching him before he could hit the ground.

Dean opened his mouth to speak but before he could, Benny hauled him upright with ease and said, “If you say ‘I’m fine’, I’ll drop you.”

Dean shut his mouth.

Benny wrapped a strong arm around him again and Dean leaned on him heavily.  The way his head pounded and pulse fluttered, the vamp may have taken more than a liter.  He didn’t know.  He couldn’t think straight.

They stumbled their way up the porch steps and Benny kicked in the door, almost carrying him at this point.  Dean couldn’t quite remember how his legs were supposed to work.  

They crossed the threshold.  It was cooler in here, darker.  

He looked around, head lolling, and saw that the place was still partially furnished.  It looked ancient.

Okay, maybe not ancient.

But old.  Definitely old.

“If you think this is old, I worry how you view me,” Benny said.

Dean realized he may have been thinking out loud.

Benny laughed.  

“Yeah, you tend to do that.”

Then Dean was being carried up a flight of stairs and down a hall.  He could have tried to stand on his own, but he was comfortable here, in Benny’s arms, and for once, he didn’t have to worry about anything.  He let his eyelids fall, feeling too heavy to keep open.  Benny held him steadily, and as Dean slipped into sleep, he leaned into the touch, nose in the hollow of Benny’s throat, breath ghosting across the vampire’s skin.

Notes:

A bit of a shorter chapter here before a really long final chapter! Any comments/kudos are greatly appreciated

Chapter 3: Aftermath

Summary:

Dean recovers in an abandoned safehouse. Feelings are felt.

Morning slipped through the spiderweb cracks of the window, casting a net of thin amber sunshine over him.  Dean awoke slowly, reluctantly, cracking his eyes open and squinting against the light.  He sat up with a groan.  The change in position sent a dull pain shooting from his neck down his spine.  Off to a great start, he thought blearily.

Awareness still trickling back to him, Dean looked around the room.  Why was he so tired?  He was alone, the room around him dusty and disheveled.  The bed beneath him was stiff and bare-- essentially a naked, stained mattress set into an antique-looking frame.  That frame was definitely older than him, including the years he’d spent in Hell.  It still wasn’t the grossest thing he’d slept on, though.  Dean would be the first to acknowledge that he was not a man of expensive taste.  

He slipped out of bed, wavering on his feet, and stretched, neck throbbing.  His hand came up to it to feel a thick bandage there, pressed against the space where his wound was.  Wait-- what wound? 

Flashes of the night came back to him.

The basement.

The call.

The vamp being torn to shreds.

A car ride.

  Benny .  

. . . So that had all been real.  

Dean didn’t want to think about any of it.  Instead, he opted to find some water or whiskey to soothe his headache.  It’d been at least a day since he’d had anything to drink, given how long he’d been trapped with the vamp, and that dehydration was gnawing at him now with dull teeth.  

Dean began to move across the room, his first steps more unstable than he’d like.  The floorboards creaked under him, bending gently, wearily.  Light streamed through the cracked and shuttered windows.  It illuminated the thick dust particles floating through the air.  His breath scattered them, dispersing like dandelion seeds in a spring breeze.

Vision blurred just at the edges, Dean staggered out of the room.  The doorway led him  into a hallway that was lined with doors, beaten and faded.  In its prime, the house may have been beautiful.  He shook the thought and made his way down a staircase that barely seemed able to take his weight. 

The last step squeaked gratingly.  The hunter in him winced at the noise, but quiet prevailed-- a low hush permeated the foyer, coating everything alongside the dust.

Dean paused on the first floor, scanning the space.  Then a voice called out.

“Look who’s up and about!  Thought you’d sleep through the week.”

 

There was a laugh, too, and the warmth of it was unforgettable.  He could recognize that laugh anywhere-- in Purgatory, in Heaven, or in the depths of Hell.  He could recognize it blind, dead, dying, or after a century of isolation.  It was not a conscious decision, but he would later come to understand that that was the moment in which he determined he would follow that laugh anywhere.

 

So he followed.

 

Dean followed Benny’s voice to the kitchen-- or what was left of it, anyway.  It was a small, quaint space, to put it kindly.  The cabinets were falling apart and there was a thick layer of dirt everywhere.  The bones of the walls were varyingly visible as the drywall had been steadily chipped and crumbled away by age or, perhaps, neglect.  

Benny sat at the kitchen table, pressed into the shadows, safe from the morning light.  He was reading a newspaper with a tall cup of coffee and a water bottle placed in front of him.

He peered over the top of the paper when Dean moved towards the table.

 “These are for you,” Benny said.  He nodded towards the drinks.

Dean plopped down heavily in the other chair and gulped down all the water in one go, his throat bobbing.   Benny was looking.  His gaze was thick, piercing, overwhelmingly blue.  Dean set the empty bottle down.  He glanced out the window, shifting in his seat. 

It became clear that Benny wasn’t going to speak first.

Dean took a deep breath.  He resolved to keep his voice neutral.

“Thanks, man.” 

“It’s nothing,” Benny said.

Dean’s jaw twitched.  He looked up, reached over, and grasped Benny’s thick shoulder firmly.  Benny was solid and strong beneath his fingers, and Dean's grip tightened involuntarily. 

“No," he said.  "I mean it.  I owe you.”

Benny’s eyes softened.  

“You don’t owe me nothing.”

“Gonna have to agree to disagree on that one.”

He let go of Benny's shoulder, realizing he'd been holding on for too long now.  Needing something-- anything-- to do with his hands, he picked up the coffee and sipped at it, relishing in the way it eased the soreness of his throat.  He focused on that taste, the bitterness, and wished distantly he had a little whiskey to top it off.

They passed a few moments in silence.

Dean had finished half the coffee when Benny spoke again.  His voice was quiet, almost pained.

“What happened, Dean?”

Dean looked up at that, brow furrowed in confusion.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what the hell were you doing that got you chained up with a vamp feedin’ on ya?”  

Benny was staring at him intently.  Something unreadable laced his gaze.  The sharp square of his jaw was tense and the tendons in his throat were pulled taut, but the rest of his posture came across as relaxed.  

Dean hummed, noncommittal, avoidant.

“Just another day in the life,” he finally said.

“Right,” Benny drawled.  “And this wouldn’t have nothing to do with you calling me at 3 AM drunk off your ass a couple weeks ago?”

Dean froze.  

He opened his mouth but before he could say anything, Benny interjected.

“Don’t say you weren’t that drunk.”

“I’ve been drunker.”

Benny sighed heavily.  

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

Dean pursed his lips.  “Not a chance.”

“Figured as much,” Benny said.  “If you change your mind, you let me know.  And in the meantime, try not to get yourself killed, yeah?”

Dean took another sip of the coffee.  “No promises.” 

He’d meant for it to sound like a joke.  He’d meant to keep the self-loathing out of his voice.  He’d meant to hide, distract, and make light.  But judging by the look of pain that flashed across Benny’s face, the vampire saw right through him. 

 

He took another swig of his coffee, opting not to say anything else.  Benny granted him that quiet.  He seemed to sense exactly what Dean needed.  Unable to say the words, Dean prayed that Benny could see the depth of his gratitude in his eyes alone.

They sat together in silence for a while more, cohabitating the crumbling kitchen like it was something they’d done dozens of times before.  Benny paged through the paper.  Dean stared out the window, sipped his coffee, and tried not to study the way that the shadows played with the planes of Benny’s face, softening his edges and ghosting over the lines that marked all the years he’d survived.  

When his coffee was drained, Dean went outside.  

Humid, stuffy air greeted him on the covered front porch.  He inhaled deeply, steadying something shaky inside himself.  His legs quivered just a little underneath him, so he slid into an old rocking chair that rested in the shade.  It groaned under his weight but held firm.  Dean let his spine sink into the wood backing, some of the knots in his shoulders easing ever so slightly.  With much unspoked and unaddressed, with pages of words and years of feeling trapped on the tip of his tongue, he fell back into a light slumber in the dewy morning glow.

Dean slept through the day.

Sometime in the afternoon, he noticed a hand on his shoulder.

It was a strong hand, large and calloused and dusted with fine hair.

It shook him gently.

“Gotta change that bandage for ya, sleepy.”

Benny.  

Dean blinked his eyes open.

“Can change it myself,” he said, on instinct.

Benny rolled his eyes fondly.

“Hold still,” he said.

Dean held still.

Benny cleaned up the wound, sanitizing it with alcohol, and then rebandaged it with care, with a gentleness that Dean, on some level, did not believe he deserved.  Still, he resisted the urge to make a quip, or push Benny away.

When it was over, he said, “Thanks.”  

Benny pretended not to notice the way his voice wavered.

An hour or so later, Benny came back with some food.  Dean ate happily, and, for the first time since returning from Purgatory, it didn’t make his stomach churn afterward.  His headache had mostly faded by now.  He was still covered in bruises but, for him, that was normal.  

This time, Benny didn’t go back inside.  He hauled another chair out, a dusty book in hand, and plopped down next to Dean in the afternoon shadow.

They passed the rest of the day leisurely, sitting in each other’s company, Dean dozing, and Benny thumbing through a book that he’d found somewhere inside.  It was quiet.  Nice.

 

Night descended.

When the world was safely shrouded in darkness, Benny set down his book and looked up at Dean.

“There’s something I want to show you,” he said.

 

 

Benny led him through the forest, about half a mile, to a secluded spot out in the tall grass.  It was a clearing, an oasis, sheltered by the ring of trees on all sides.  They lingered on the treeline for a breath, and Dean noticed wildflowers tucked amidst the sea of deep green-- little pale pinpricks that, in the daytime, might have been lavender or yellow.  Something wistful in his heart reared its head.  This time, Dean did not shove it down as forcefully as he usually did.

Benny turned to him.

“Follow me,” he said.

Dean followed him.

They drifted into the clearing, and the sky above them opened up, the shell of the trees cracking away to reveal an expanse of inky sky, dusted with glittering stars that flickered and danced far above the horizon.  Dean could’ve simply stood there, staring up for hours until his neck protested.  But Benny wasted no time in getting to the ground, sprawling out on his back and beckoning Dean to do the same.  So, just a foot away from Benny, Dean lowered himself into the medley of meadow grass and wildflowers.  He stretched out, letting the earth take his weight, and focused, for a moment, on nothing other than the way that the grass tickled the back of his neck.

He inhaled.  The air was fresh, clean, humid.

He exhaled.  Some of the vigilance and decades-old fear slipped away.

He inhaled.  So close, now, he could smell sweat and musk and what must have been Benny’s cologne.

He exhaled.  That wistful thing in his heart pulsed a little brighter.

One more inhale, and Dean turned his attention to the sky above.  Unobscured by clouds or manufactured light, the moon glowed brightly.  Dean stared at it.  He breathed.  Another trickle of tension trapped in his body seeped out into the ground.  

He traced over the constellations with his eyes, mapping out the familiar pieces of the sky.  It was a habit of his now, something he had started doing with Sam when they were kids, a habit which Sam had grown out of, but he had not.  Whenever the stars came out, whenever he had a moment to breathe, he mapped them, traced them, recalled the story of each constellation in his mind.  Something about the tiny bright lights collectively forming a larger picture settled that restless beast inside him.

And not even an arm’s length away was Benny.  The vampire radiated a steady, grounding energy, warm, somehow, despite his lack of a heartbeat.  He occupied a solid amount of space, filling in some of the emptiness around Dean.  

Dean was suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to reach out, to touch.  

His hand twitched.  

He stared resolutely up at the stars, the long, strong line of Benny residing in the corner of his eye.

They passed minutes or hours like that, silent, hushed, still, and Dean understood exactly why Benny had needed to show him this.  

As more tension slipped away with the night, Dean felt increasingly vulnerable.  His facade was littered with cracks.  Pieces of what lay beneath began to shine through.  And maybe Benny felt the same, because under the serenity of the sky, there was something loaded and raw blossoming between them.  Something, perhaps, a little broken.  

Just as Dean felt it, sensed that weightedness lingering between them, Benny sighed heavily. 

Dean rolled over on his side, instinctive and immediate.

Benny’s face was drawn.  The lines on his forehead seemed deeper.  

Dean leaned closer.

“You okay, man?”  

He should’ve asked it sooner.  

Why hadn’t he asked it sooner?

Benny sighed again, keeping his eyes on the moon.

The moment extended, and Dean wondered if he would decline to answer.  But after another breath, Benny found his voice.

“I don’t even know if this world is real,” he said.  Then, quieter, “If I’m real.”

There was a sudden pressure in Dean’s chest.  A constriction.  He tried to keep his voice strong, reassuring, certain.  

“Hey,” he said.  “I’ve seen what happens down that rabbit hole, okay?”

And then, because that wasn’t enough, “We’re real, Benny.  This is real.”

Benny turned to him, finally.  There was something in his eyes, something sad and deep and infinite.  

“You’re real,” Benny said, then, so softly Dean almost didn’t catch it.

The moment was too heavy, too tender, too much; Dean couldn’t bear the weight of it anymore, couldn’t keep fighting off that longing.  

“Yeah,” he said, with a pained huff, something that wasn’t quite a laugh.  “I’m real.”  

“You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself,” Benny said.

Dean met his gaze.  He noticed there was a ring of silver around Benny’s pupils.

“I am.”

Benny nodded knowingly.

They paused, both laying on their sides, facing each other under the night sky.  Moonlight cascaded down, streaming onto them and highlighting the architecture of Benny’s face, the ridge of his nose, his cheekbones, the sharpness of his jaw.  Dean allowed himself to stare openly.  To observe.  To watch the gentle, silver light blanket his friend-- his friend who was, perhaps, something more.

Dean stared.  

Moonlight dripped, steadily.

Dean stared.

And then he remembered.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” he said.

Benny hummed, waiting for him to continue.

“How did you find me?”

Benny raised an eyebrow, confused.  

Dean elaborated.  “It took me hours to find that nest, and I only gave you a city.  How’d you know where to look?”

Benny averted his gaze, a small smile spreading across his face.

“What?”  Dean asked.

“Just thought it’d be obvious,” Benny said lowly.

Thought what would be obvious?

And then it hit him, his lips falling open in an O as the realization swept through the current of his mind.

Benny saw it happen, saw the sudden knowing.  He confirmed it anyway.  

“Once a vampire gets your scent, he’s got it for life.”

Dean exhaled sharply, heart seizing with something.   

Benny turned back to him, and continued, “I could find you anywhere, Dean.”

The sadness in Benny’s eyes had been replaced by something hazy and tender, something that made the icy blue of his irises warmer.  Dean noticed the shadows his eyelashes cast on his cheekbones, noticed the flecks of silver in his beard, the silver not unlike the ring around his pupils, and Dean reached out then, body acting of its own accord.  He crossed the last foot between them, extended his arm, grabbed Benny’s hand.  The gesture, however impulsive, was still hesitant, questioning.

Is this okay?  He asked silently.

And when Benny wove their fingers together, as natural as breathing, it was a clear answer: Yes, yes this is okay.

His hands were every bit as soft and strong as Dean remembered.

The tightness in his chest was no longer from the pain.  His heart swelled, thudding so loudly that he was sure Benny could hear.

Neither of them moved.  

They laid there, hand-in-hand, neither wanting to disturb the stillness between them, neither wanting to shatter the moment.

They laid there, chests rising and falling in sync.

They laid there, stretched out under the stars.

They laid there, bathed in moonlight, clinging to each other as if that alone was all they needed to move through this life in one piece, enduring, surviving, living, together.

 

 

Dean could not say how long he stayed like that, studying the details of Benny’s silhouette, his face.  Eventually, though, after moments, minutes, or hours, they turned back to the stars, bodies mere inches apart.  

Neither let go of the other’s hand that night.

 

_____________

They made it back to the house before sunrise.  Dean sat out on the front porch and watched the sun rise above the horizon, glazing everything in amber and scarlet.  As the world brightened, Dean’s anxiety made a reappearance.  It filled him, bubbling at a low simmer.   Benny went into the house, said something about having to pack up, and Dean was left alone outside.   

Where did this leave them?

What the fuck had happened last night?

His gut clenched.  He was overreacting.  It was fine.  Everything was fine.  He could go about life as normal now-- right?

Wrong.  

There was no more ‘normal’ now.  ‘Normal’ meant hunting, meant Sam, meant drinking himself near death every week.  After the events of the past couple of days, and now that Sam was out of the picture, Dean just couldn’t do it.  He couldn’t return to his isolation, to hunting, to the endless, hollow road trip.  Not after last night.  He couldn’t say goodbye again.  

 

He just couldn’t.

 

Twenty minutes passed.  The air had warmed noticeably.  Light peeked through the trees, through the witches’ hair, and Dean felt it kiss his skin and instil him with a sense of urgency.  He understood, now, what he wanted.  He opened and closed his hand, remembering the feel of Benny’s calloused fingers woven through his own.  

 

Benny emerged from the maw of the house, a single duffle bag slung over his shoulder.

Dean rose to his feet, and they walked down the porch steps together, towards the car.  Benny’s coat collar was pulled up to his ears, his cap drawn low, protecting him from the sun.

The duffle bag was tossed in the trunk.

Both men lingered, hesitant.

They could have been on the road by now, but something kept them waiting, tethered to that specific moment, that place.  Leaning against the hood of the car, stance more casual than he felt, Dean decided to be brave.

“What’s next for you?”  He asked.

Benny gave him his signature weighted stare.  

“I suppose I’ll head back down to the river.”

Dean steeled himself and said, “Could you use some company?”

Benny flashed him a brilliant smile.  

“I’d love some.”

 

Notes:

Hey all! I decided to split up the last chapter into two parts because it was longer than I had anticipated, and I wanted to give it the space it needs/deserves. So here's part one of the last chapter, and stay tuned for the final part!

Also, for any of you who are curious: I headcanon that Benny has explored a lot of Lousiana and is really into finding old & abandoned places. He seems like he'd enjoy seeing/feeling the history of a space, so that's how he located this particular house. In my canon, he actually has a little map where he keeps track of safe spaces, spots he wants to return to, etc. Most of them are located along the Mississippi River, because he's more comfortable traveling by water than by road.

Anyway, as always, any and all comments/kudos are very very greatly appreciated!

Chapter 4: Placidity

This time, fully conscious and not dazed from bloodloss, Dean took the wheel.  While Benny settled into the passenger seat, Dean turned on the radio to the nearest classic rock station.  He noticed, with some relief and pride, that the windows were tinted to protect Benny from the sun-- something that’d make this daytime drive a hell of a lot less stressful.  

Benny clicked his seatbelt into place.

“Where to?”  Dean asked, drumming his fingers on the wheel.

“New Orleans,” Benny said.  “You can get on the highway, but it’s mostly gonna be backroads til then.”

Dean nodded, backed away from the house, and tore off down the packed dirt road. 

 

Benny was more familiar with the area than him-- that much became clear quickly.  The vampire guided him through a twisting knot of backroads and shortcuts to reach the first real paved, two-lane street Dean had seen in days.  

“Now take this down for about an hour,” Benny said, leaning back in his seat.

On either side of the road, trees, ditches, and the occasional sign flew past them.  

Dean turned up the radio louder.  The guitar’s melody, wafting over them, was punctuated by static.  Neither man seemed to mind.

 

 

 

They arrived in the city just after noon.  It was an uneventful drive, the landscape sweeping past them easily.  

A sign proclaiming: “Welcome to New Orleans” popped up in front of them.  Benny shifted to sit upright.  He directed Dean towards a parking lot that was, for the most part, empty.  Dean slid the car into a spot and turned it off, removing the keys from the ignition and tossing them to Benny.  Both men hopped out of the car, Benny locking it behind them.  With a groan, Dean stretched, back cracking.  His shirt hiked up over his hips, exposing a patch of skin above his waistband to the sun.  When he turned, he saw Benny watching him intently, leaning over the hood of the car.

Dean cleared his throat and gestured at the sun, then Benny’s cap.

“You gonna be good?”  Dean asked.

Benny gave a wry smile.  

“Just fine,” he said.  “Not much of a walk anyway.”

Dean shrugged, opened his hands in acquiescence.  “If you say so, man.”

Benny tugged his cap lower, casting shadows over his face.  His coat collar was already pulled up around his ears.  The day was warm and stuffy, but Benny didn’t seem to mind the heat, even with the extra layers.  The vampire gave Dean an unreadable glance and then moved away from the car.

“We’re just headin’ over to the dock,” he said, pointing out past the lot.

Dean turned and saw a stretch of water, not too far off.  

When he turned back, he saw that Benny had begun the walk, taking off across the lot at a leisurely pace.  Dean knocked on the hood of the car twice and followed, jogging a short spurt to catch up to him.

 

Benny was right.  The dock really wasn’t far off; it only took a couple of minutes to reach.  The stretch of wood planks, floating over green-blue water, opened up beneath their feet, stretching out into the river like an open palm, an invitation.

A handful of boats lined either side, their empty shells rocking with the swells and dips of the current. 

“One of these yours?”  Dean asked.

Benny nodded, pointing out towards the end, where the wood dropped off into water. 

“Last one on the left,” he said, patting Dean on the shoulder before taking off down the dock.

Dean followed, trailing behind him.  

The boat they stopped in front of was humble but well-maintained, off-white, with a wide awning so Benny could sit outside, safely in the shade.  A good size for two people, Dean thought.

Benny leapt aboard, agile and quick for someone his size, hauling himself across the water and over the railing.  He then turned, leaned out and down to offer a hand to Dean.  His smile was wide, mischievous, bright.

“All aboard,” Benny said with a twinkle in his eyes.

Benny gave him a cursory tour of the boat, showing him the kitchen (a short countertop with a sink, single burner, and a minifridge), the bathroom (compact, with just the necessities), and the sleeping area (essentially a closet with a double bed crammed in, and a curtain across the doorway).  

At the single bed situation, Dean raised an eyebrow.  Benny rested a hand on his shoulder again.

“The benches in the kitchen can fold out into another bed,” he said simply.

Dean hummed in acknowledgment.

 

 

 

After the tour, they lounged about the boat for a couple of hours, recovering from the drive.  Benny sipped on some blood he had stashed in a cooler while Dean worked his way through a beer.  

Around three, Dean’s stomach growled. 

“Hey,” he said.  “Do you eat people food, too?”

Benny rolled his eyes.  “I can, yes.”

“How about I make us dinner?  It’s been a while since I had anyone to cook for.”

Benny softened.  He reached across the table and grabbed Dean’s hand.

“That sounds wonderful.”

Dean returned to the car and ventured out into the city.  It took him an embarrassingly long time to locate a grocery store, but Benny didn’t have to know about that.  After several wrong turns and an adventure learning about varieties of hamburger buns, he made his way back to the boat, groceries in tow.  An hour and a half had passed.  

“I was worried you fell in the river,” Benny drawled, looking meaningfully at the clock with an eyebrow raised.

“Shuddup.”

Benny laughed, head thrown back, throat bobbing.  And if Dean’s mouth went dry at the sight, well, Benny didn’t have to know about that either.

He made burgers from scratch and they ate together as the sun dipped below the horizon, coloring the world in a wash of magenta and gold.

 

That night, as they were winding down, Dean went to take the fold-out bed. He plopped down heavily, springs creaking under him, and looked up to see Benny leveling a withering glare in his direction.

“What do you think you’re doing?” 

Dean pursed his lips.  “Going to sleep?”   

“Take the real bed.”

That tone left no room for argument.  But Dean wouldn’t let that stop him.  He argued anyway.

“Nah,” he said.  “This is your place.  You take the bed.  I can sleep out here.”

Benny raised an eyebrow in the look that Dean was coming to understand meant Really, Winchester?

“You really not gonna budge on this?”

“Not a chance,” said Dean.

Benny craned his neck back in exasperation.  

“I’m a southern gentleman.  You understand I can’t just have you sleep out here.”

Dean opened his mouth to argue some more, but Benny was still talking:

“-- so I’ll just have to budge you myself.”

Dean blinked, processing that sentence, but before he could, his world turned upside down.  Benny hauled him over a broad shoulder like he weighed nothing.

“Fuck!”  He gasped.  And then he was laughing.

Benny carried him in long strides towards the bedroom, holding him securely.  

“You really are a stubborn motherfucker, you know that?”

“Look who’s talking,” Dean said, still catching his breath.

They reached the bed quickly, given the close proximity of everything in the boat.  Benny tossed him down on his back and Dean bounced once, the breath rushing out of his lungs again.  He looked up, and what he saw staring back at him made his heart stop momentarily. 

Benny stood over him, strong and broad, filling the doorway.  There was something hungry in his eyes.

It took Dean what felt like an eternity to find his voice again.

“Guess I’m not gonna budge you on this?”

Benny smiled at him.

“Not a chance.”

That hunger in Benny’s eyes was dark and curling.  Dean’s heart pounded.  He searched his mind for something to say, something flirtatious or clever or suggestive, but came up empty.  Instead, all he could do was look up at him, waiting.

But Benny took a step back, cooling himself. 

As he turned and closed the curtain between them, he simply said, “G’night, Dean.”

And that was that.

 

 

 

Dean dreamt that Benny hadn’t left it at a simply ‘ Good night’.  That instead, the vampire had crawled up the bed towards him, lowering himself onto Dean’s body, sealing the evening with a kiss.

_________________

 

He awoke flushed, in a thin sheen of sweat, the blankets strewn over him messily.

Around 9, Dean made coffee at the counter and Benny sipped some blood.

He lowered himself onto one of the benches at the kitchen table, mug in hand.

“What’s on the agenda today?”  

Benny shrugged.  “Thought I’d take you out to town, show you off a little.”

Dean rolled his eyes and took a long draw of his coffee.

In the end, Benny suggested they head over to an old bookstore that he’d been meaning to check out.  The day was peacefully cloudy, so they didn’t have to worry as much about Benny’s solar challenges, as Dean had taken to calling them.  The pair walked through town, meandering down the streets.  The buildings were colorful and pastel, some with greenery winding steadily up the sides.  The buildings were close together, towering, stacked on top of each other and sandwiched.  Dean ogled at the brick, stone, and siding.  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d just strolled freely through a city, no particular mission in mind.  Perhaps he never had. 

People milled about, laughing, talking.  Music lilted through the air.  A turn around the corner revealed a man perched in the shade, strumming at a guitar.  His voice rang out through the throngs of people, crooning a folk song that sounded both parts foreign and hauntingly familiar.  They paused, in sync, enraptured.  

The melody melted around them, unfurling, liquid and smoky and something in Dean’s heart unclenched at the sound.  

In the midst of the notes, he had a single distinct thought:

When was the last time I played the guitar?

The song went on for another minute or two.  When it was over, the last chord floating out to be swallowed by the street, Dean took a ten dollar bill out of his pocket and tossed it in the open guitar case.  He nodded at the musician once, feeling Benny’s eyes on him.

They walked away, shoulders bumping together, and Dean resolved to acquire a guitar at some point in the near future.

They made it to the bookstore in their own time. 

Benny led him inside, holding the door open.

It was a dark space, lit faintly by antique lamps and seemingly randomly placed wall sconces.  The shelves--made of rich, lacquered wood, stretching all the way up to the ceiling-- were a labyrinth, carving a twisting path through the space that, according to the woman at the front desk, took up three stories. Their footsteps were muffled by a dense, plush carpet as they meandered their way into the belly of the first floor.

They located an ornate spiral staircase that was tucked between shelves.  Benny peered up it, craning his neck with a look of awe on his face.  Then he turned to Dean and their eyes met, a spark of childlike glee flying between them as they both realized this place would consume their entire afternoon.  

“You a reader?”  Dean asked, keeping his voice low to preserve the general hush pervading the main floor.

Benny arched an eyebrow.  “There weren’t books in purgatory.  Figure I have a lot of catching up to do.”

Dean eyed him.  “Yeah,” he said, with a wry smile.  “I can relate.”

 

They parted ways for the time being, flocking to different sections of the store.  Benny made his way up the staircase, steps creaking lightly under his weight. Dean, meanwhile, immediately set himself the task of tracking down a copy of Cat’s Cradle for Benny, resting firmly in the knowledge that Vonnegut was the best way to catch up on modern literature.  

After that, he perused through the selection of historical fiction, thumbing through book after book, ultimately finding himself, somehow, in the science fiction section, buried in a mountain of space-adventure novels.  

They reunited in the lobby two hours later, both weighed down by books.

When Dean presented Benny with the copy of Cat’s Cradle he’d picked for him, Benny furrowed his brow for a moment before pulling Dean into a hug.  

“Thank you, Dean.”

Dean cleared his throat.

“No problem, man.”

Inside, something warm and fluttering tickled its way up from his stomach to his heart.

They spent the evening reading together on the deck, sharing a comfortable silence.

_____________

 

 

They passed a week like that, meandering, observing, reading, breathing, not doing much of anything.  Benny finished Cat’s Cradle , and they spent an afternoon talking about Vonnegut.  Benny resolved to acquire a copy of Slaughterhouse Five next.  Dean commended him for the decision.  

 

______________

 

 

It was a Tuesday when Dean didn’t want to sleep in his bed.  He couldn’t quite place the restless feeling inside him, just knew that he needed to be out , to feel the open space around him, to see the vast expanse of sky above.  He crawled out to the deck around midnight, laid flat on his back, and stared up at the stars.  The night was cloudless, the constellations crisp and clear.

Orion, Gemini, Little Dipper. . . .

“Can’t sleep?” Benny said.

Dean startled briefly.  He hadn’t noticed Benny’s approach, hadn’t noticed the presence behind him.  In the back of his mind, he marveled at what that represented.  Very few people could sneak up on him, even fewer without even trying.  Was Dean really so comfortable with Benny that the hunter in him didn’t register his presence?  Yeah, he realized, rolling that thought over in his brain.  When did that happen?

Dean watched as Benny lowered himself onto the deck, sprawling out beside him so they were shoulder-to-shoulder.

“Found Big Dipper,” Benny said, pointing at a cluster of stars overhead.

 

After that, it became a ritual.  On clear nights, they would find each other on the deck, would lay shoulder to shoulder, and trace the constellations together.  It was a facet of the diamond of their routine, steadily building, polished by time.  

 

_____________

 

Two weeks in, and the restlessness crept back in.

Was he intruding?  It’d been weeks-- wonderful weeks, but still, maybe Benny wanted to resume life without him?  Was Dean getting in the way?  Should he leave?  Was he supposed to leave?

He found Benny reading inside mid-day, avoiding the harsh light of the sun.

Dean stood awkwardly in front of him, considering his next words.

Benny set the book down on his lap and looked up.  The tension between them was palpable, and entirely of Dean’s making.

“Spit it out,” he said, with his Really, Winchester? eyebrow arched.

Dean rubbed the back of his neck.

“I don’t want to overstay my welcome,” he said, finally, hurriedly.

Benny stared at him.  Was that exasperation in his eyes?

“You’re not,” he said simply.

“Oh.”  Dean paused.  “I mean, just, if you need me to leave, it’s okay.  No hard feelings.”

“Why the hell would I need you to leave, Dean?  You got someplace else you need to be?”

“No,” Dean said.  “I want to stay.  Just . . .”

“You’re just giving me an out.”  Benny finished for him.

Dean shrugged.

“I don’t need an out.  I don’t want one.  I just want you to stay here with me for as long as you want to.”

Stay here with me . . . Dean felt those words pulse inside him, radiating warmth, settling that nervous beast that lurked in the shadows of his mind.

“You’re sure?” Dean heard himself asking.

Benny sighed and stood up.  He set large hands on Dean’s shoulders, looking him straight in the eyes, just inches away.  

“Yeah, Dean.  I’m sure.  I’ve enjoyed the past two weeks of my life more than I’ve enjoyed anything else in the last century.  I want you to stay.  Is that clear enough for you?”

Dean nodded.  

“Yeah.  Yeah, that’s . . . yeah.”

Benny huffed a laugh.

“Okay, then.”

He sat back down, resumed his book, and Dean stood watching for several long seconds after, reeling, heat blossoming in his chest.

__________

At the end of week three, they agreed to take a weekend to head up the Mississippi.  Benny sailed them upriver, navigating the water with a confidence that Dean refused to admit he found endlessly attractive.  

A day’s trip north of New Orleans, they attended a farmer’s market, wandering through the stalls, chatting with vendors.  Dean felt like a normal person.  It was unfamiliar, but not unwelcome.

They were buying strawberries from an old gardener when she asked, “How long have you boys been together?”  

Dean flushed.

He supposed the way they stood together, so close and casual, did give off a certain impression.  Before he could clarify that they were just friends, Benny chimed in.

“It feels like it’s been forever and no time at all.”

The old woman laughed knowingly.

Forever and no time at all, Dean thought.  He repeated those words in his head as they made their way back to the boat.  Forever and no time at all.  In the safety of seclusion, away from the crowds, he decided that he liked the sound and feel of them.  Forever and no time at all.   

The next town over, Dean stopped inside a music store while Benny was buying more books.  The selection of acoustic guitars caught his eye.  He spent half an hour looking through the options, feeling the weight of them, strumming idly, experimenting.  Finally, he settled on one that felt at home between his hands and had a reddish tint to its wooden surface.  

When they met up for lunch, Dean showed Benny the instrument.  

“Did you use a stolen card for that, too?” Benny asked, chuckling.

“Old habits die hard.”

But as he said that, Dean wondered if, maybe, when their trip was over and they settled back in one place, he could get a real job and make some money of his own.  

He ran the idea by Benny and it was met with approval.

“You’ll make an honest man of me yet,” Dean said.

Benny laughed brightly at that.

 

 

 

They had acclimated to navigating space together as friends, but they continued to dance around something more , both of them prone to leaving lingering touches and heated glances, testing the line, toeing it, seeing how far they could safely push.  That line was one that neither had fully crossed.  Not yet, anyway.

 

That changed when Dean had a nightmare. 

 

In his dream, he was trapped in a maze of shadows, stumbling, sweating, tears streaming down his cheeks, alone.  All alone.  Benny was gone-- Benny had left him, had died, had disappeared, had never really been there at all. had evaporated before his eyes like a reflection or a mirage, slipping through his fingers like sand, melting, melting, gone.  And Dean was alone, now, without him; he was deep in a pile of empty bottles, liquor rotting away his insides, with nothing left but the scars from his childhood and a duffle bag of weapons.  Dean was alone.  And all around him was darkness, darkness that mirrored something inside him, too and--

--then, a voice:

“Dean, honey, wake up.”

“Dean.”

“Dean!”

He gasped. 

There was a pressure on his shoulder, someone shaking him.  Benny-- of course.  Benny hovered over him, kneeling on the bed beside him, large, warm hands on both his shoulders.  Dean stared up at him.  He was caked in a sheen of cold sweat.

“I’m sorry,” he said numbly.

“Don’t be sorry.  Never be sorry.”

And then Dean did something he never would have done a year ago.  He leaned up and grabbed Benny, wrapping his arms around the vampire’s waist, pulling him down.  Benny fell onto the bed next to him-- he could have resisted, could easily have broken free, but chose to roll down with Dean onto the bed, chose to stay in his embrace.  Benny grabbed him back, holding him, and Dean let his head fall onto Benny’s shoulder, nosing at his neck.

In his sleep-dazed state, Dean felt almost drunk.  More than that, he felt honest. 

“Sounds like that was one hell of a nightmare,” Benny whispered against the crown of Dean’s head.

Dean sighed, breath shaky.  His heart rate was beginning to slow.

“I was alone.”

“Yeah?”  Benny prompted.

“What if this is the dream?”  He said, quiet, hushed, uncertain.

And then, “I’ve lived alone for so long, I don’t know if I can go back to that.”

“You’ll never have to.”

Benny put a finger under Dean’s chin, directing his gaze.  Dean met his eyes, finding stability there, and something that looked a lot like home.

“Dean,” he said again.  “You’ll never have to.”

Benny tugged Dean in, leaving just a sliver of space between their lips, giving Dean the choice, letting him decide.  But, in a way, Dean realized he’d already made that choice.  He closed the last gap without hesitation, sealing their lips together. It was a gentle kiss, reverent.  Benny’s mouth began to move against his slowly, tasting him, savoring him.  Dean sighed into the kiss.  He lifted a hand up to run his fingers through the little hairs at the base of Benny’s neck, sucking lightly at his lower lip, drawing a hum of approval out of him.  They moved together, bodies pressed flush, until Dean ran out of breath and had to pull away, just an inch.  

Dean breathed, deeply, in and out, watching the way Benny watched him, until his world softened and his pulse slowed further, easing back into a more restful sleep.  Benny stayed by his side, holding him tightly, for the rest of the night.  

 

_________________

 

 

After that, things were easier.  

Benny was there, solid and real, and the world continued without Dean constantly on guard.  

On the water, he didn’t have to worry so much.  On the water, he was safe at last.  On the water-- with Benny-- he had everything he could ever need and more.

 

____________________

 

It had been two months on the boat, now, give or take a week.  In that time, Dean hadn’t yet played a full song on his guitar.  He’d been tinkering, here and there, testing out chords, remembering, practicing.

But today, something felt different.  It felt right.

Just after 10 PM, with the world hushed around him, Dean took his guitar up to the deck.  He plopped down under the stars, which danced over the river, reflecting a gentle silver glow that glazed the glassy, rolling surface. 

A song came to mind.  He stared at those stars, marveling.  The music called to him, pulling his attention, and Dean smiled.

Without thinking, his fingers began to strum out the first chords.  He closed his eyes, leaned his head back into the night, and sang the first verse. 

 

Well its 3 AM again, like it always seems to be

Drivin' northbound, drivin' homeward, drivin' wind is drivin' me

And it just seems so funny that I always end up here

Walkin outside in the storm while looking way up past the tree-line

It's been some time

 

The words came naturally to him, easing from between his lips gently, fluidly.  The softness of the song felt perfect to him in that moment, as they drifted along the river in their own little bubble, their own corner of the world.  Dean looked up and saw Benny under the awning, watching, something like awe on his face.

 

Give me darkness when I'm dreaming

Give me moonlight when I'm leaving

Give me shoes that weren't made for standing

Give me tree-line, give me big sky, get me snow-bound, give me rain clouds give me a bed time just sometimes

 

Dean flashed him a grin.

Benny’s eyes glowed in the moonlight, the way they always did.  

 

Now you're talkin in my room, but there ain't nobody here

'Cause I've been driving like a trucker, I've been burnin' through the gears

I've been training like a soldier, I've been burnin' through this sorrow

And the only talkin lately is that background radio

 

You were my friend, and I was the same

Riding that hope was like catching some train

Now i just walk, well I don't mind the rain

Singing so much softer than I did back then

I love you , Dean thought.  Fuck, I love you.

 

The night, I think, is darker than we can really say

And God's been living in that ocean, sending us all the big waves

And I wish I was a sailor so i could know just how to trust

Maybe I could bring some grace back home to the dryland for each of us

Say what you say, you say it so well

Just say you will wait, like snow on the rail

I been combing that train yard for some kind of sign

Even my own self, it just don't seem mine

Benny drifted closer.  He sat beside Dean on the deck, watching, entranced.

 

Give me darkness when I'm dreaming, give me moonlight when I'm leaving

Give me mustang horse and muscle, I won't be going gentle

Give me slant-eye looks when I'm lying, give me fingers when I'm crying

And I ain't out there to cheat you, see I killed that damn coyote in me

 

Dean finished the song, letting the last chord ring out into the night and sink into the water.  He rested his hand on the body of the guitar and took a breath.

Quiet stretched between them.  The boat rocked underfoot, swaying with the current.

“I didn’t know you could sing,” Benny said finally.

“You never asked.”  He smiled, stared down at his hands.

A pause.

“Play me another?”  

And the request was so hopeful, so earnest, that there was no way Dean could deny him.

“What do I get in return?”  He asked playfully.

Benny lift a brow, eyeing him.  A smirk stretched across his face.  

“I can think of a few things.”

Notes:

Wow this was a project!! If you've stuck with me this far-- thank you! I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it :)

p.s. The song Dean sings is Gregory Alan Isakov's 3 AM (I'd recommend giving it a listen)