Chapter Text
The worst day of Dallas Winston’s life was the day his Johnnycake died.
If he’s being honest, Dally ain’t even sure what that day was; Two-Bit insists it was November, but Soda says April. Dally didn’t care, whether it was April, November, or any other month, he lost his Johnny.
The best day of Dallas Winston’s life was three days after that, when Johnny came back to him.
Dally swallowed and reached over to push Johnny's hair back. "Never could keep that hair back... that's what you get for tryin' to help people, you little punk, that's what you get..."
Whirling suddenly, he slammed back against the wall. His face contracted in agony, sweat streaming down it.
"Damnit, Johnny..." he begged, slamming one fist against the wall, hammering it to make it obey his will. "Oh, damnit, Johnny, don't die, please don't die..."
He suddenly bolted through the door and down the hall.
He ran out the hospital, heading straight to Buck Merril’s place. He grabbed the boy’s keys off the hook and got in the car, speeding away.
He ended up at a store. He wasn’t sure how he got there. He wasn’t sure he cared.
He made his way in and pulled his heater out, pointing it at the clerk.
“Empty the register, empty the fucking register!”
Part of Dally hoped the clerk wouldn’t listen, would give him a reason to shoot.
Sure the heater was empty, unloaded. The clerk didn’t know that, and it would still hurt like hell to be hit with a blank at this range.
He needed to shoot, needed to hurt someone. Johnny was gone, his Johnny was gone.
But the clerk listened, emptying all the money into the bag with shaking hands.
Dally took the bag and turned, running out the store as he heard the clerk call the cops.
He was bleeding. Why was he bleeding? He ain’t punched nothing but the wall, did it break skin? Did it even matter?
He headed to the payphone, dialing the number for the Curtis boys.
“Hello?” Darry said.
“Dar, it’s me. Robbed a grocery store and the fuzz are after me. Meet me at the lot, I need a place to lay low for a while.”
He didn’t know why he called. He knew what his plan was, he was only hurtin’ the gang.
But he needed someone to hurt. They wouldn’t miss him. It was Johnny they’d miss, Dally was just the hoodlum. Good for fights and rumbles, but too crass and wild to be valuable otherwise.
Still, he couldn’t help but hope they’d miss him, hope they might shed a tear or two.
‘Cause even Greasers cry.
He put the phone back and ran to the lot.
Why was he limping? Dally didn’t remember getting hurt. He ran all the way to the lot, and reached it just as the gang made it.
He stopped under a streetlight and turned to the police cars that had pulled in. He pulled out his heater, aiming it at the fuzz.
He knew they’d shoot him. They thought he was armed, that the gun was loaded. He wanted them to shoot him.
On the off chance the gang would miss him, he didn’t want to kill himself. But letting those good-for-nothing cops kill him?
Perfect.
Shots rang out as they fired, and he was vaguely aware of the other Greasers screaming and begging for the cops to stop.
He was jerked half around by the impact of the bullets, then slowly crumpled with a look of grim triumph on his face. He was dead before he hit the ground.
It was what he wanted, and Dallas Winston always got what he wanted. He wanted to be dead, and so dead he became.
Or so he thought.