Chapter Text
His feet are aching something fierce. That’s Dean’s first thought when he comes back to himself, and his second is that it’s damn cold. Unable to help it, he trembles like he’s a chihuahua or something. It’s a little unbearable actually, how much he’s shaking.
Looking down, he sees gravel, shards of reflective headlight, and an empty plastic bottle of Fireball; ahead of him, there’s a blown tire, and by the size of it, he’d say it had to be from a truck. All around, there are bare trees reaching tall into the night sky, like bony fingers. Nothing he can see is special, no matter how hard he tries to look for signs literal and figurative both; he really could be anywhere. There’s not even a highway marker.
God, this is miserable, and his feet really do hurt. Wobbling slightly, he picks up his foot and inspects it. Pieces of gravel and chunks of road salt have both found their way into his skin, and with a grimace he starts to pick them out. Part of him is worried he’s going to get some kind of infection or something, considering all the blood and broken skin, but there’s bigger concerns—like the fact he’s in his fucking boxer shorts in the middle of winter, likely somewhere far from whatever motel room he and Dad have been holed up in. At least the road’s fairly clear.
Fuck, he thinks, Dad. He doesn’t even have his damn phone. Looks like he’s gonna have to keep walking, though waking up Dad in the middle of the night again would have been hardly a good option either. Better than this though, probably, considering the tips of his fingers and toes are already white, and he can barely feel his own face.
It’s so confusing, that’s the only thing he can really hone in on in between all his insufferable shivering. Wrapping his arms tightly around himself, shoving his hands into his armpits, he marches on. It does nothing to help, so he instead transitions to furiously rubbing his arms up and down as he walks. Maybe, if he rubs hard enough he can get a friction fire going, like the ones Bobby taught him how to set as a kid. Honestly, an actual fire—it’s not a terrible idea.
Dean’s a little afraid he might end up dying out here, to be honest, if he doesn’t find some place to go soon. But there's too much snow to go wandering for wood, and as he thinks it, flurries begin to fall from the sky, and so a fire is likely out of the cards anyway if it picks up.
With every snowflake comes a sting, like he’s being attacked by a horde of bees. When he and Sam were little kids, they used to catch snowflakes on their tongues and make a contest out of it, like there was some kind of measurable way to determine who ate more. He’d always let Sammy win until Sam got old enough to realize it all made no sense, and they stopped.
The ache he starts to feel now has nothing to do with the cold, and he rubs his arms even more furiously, though it’s getting harder and harder to do so. At that thought, the wind blows and cuts like a knife; Dean’s eyes start streaming, and his nose starts running, but it freezes against his face in moments. Every part of him shrivels up, even his goddamn dick. He swears if that wind comes by again the thing is gonna fall off.
It’s getting bad—it really is. His shivering is starting to cease, which Dean knows is a bad sign, and he feels himself starting to slow down. Picking up his feet is a real struggle at this point, so he thinks he might just settle on the ground. Yeah, he needs a break. Except it’s even worse, and the cold starts seeping through the thin flannel of his boxers, and if he was cold before it’s nothing compared to now. It’s so cold he can’t even feel it proper, so cold he burns.
In his peripheral vision, he can start to see it again: the smoky figure that won’t stop haunting his dreams. But whenever he really looks, it’s never actually there, and Dean’s struck by how he’s so far gone he’s hallucinating. There’s no one on the highway. It’s empty, only him and the litter, and he can’t even hear anything off in the distance. Only the sound of the wind, the trees as they creak in response, and the low growl of his stomach, because of course, even like this he’s hungry.
Except that’s not right—all the sudden, there’s something like a song, like a church choir, traveling with each gust of wind; fuck, he doesn’t want to die to gospel music. Why couldn’t his mind give him something cool? Though, it doesn’t really matter what he wants because the numbness is setting in anyway; he can’t feel his ass anymore, and his fingers have been long gone.
Leaning back, Dean stares at the moon. It’s double, swimming in his vision—like he’s staring at reflection in a moving ocean. Pretty though. It glows a soft, light yellow like white-cheddar cheese, and Dean wonders if that’s where that whole idea came from. He used to believe that as a really little kid, the moon being cheese, because he was always fucking stupid, and for a while everything Bobby said was gospel. Part of him is left wishing he could touch it. Too far though. He closes his eyes.
The last thing he sees is those twin lights again; but it’s strange, because they’re so close they can’t possibly be the moon. But that’s not the only thing different. This time they’re glowing blue.
These sheets feel too soft to be from that shitty motel. That’s Dean’s first thought, and his second is that he’s warm. Almost too warm to be comfortable, and so he shoves his foot out from under the piles of blankets. Sweet relief; the air is cool against his skin. Fairly chilly even.
Wait, what?
He opens his eyes, and he’s—he’s not in the motel. Before he can fully process it, his hand is already slipping under the pillow, but he meets empty air instead of cool metal. Gripping the bedspread tightly in his fist, he huffs an exhale. Definitely not in the motel.
Where is he? The walls are wood. The motel’s were that ugly floral damask, if he remembers right. They all tend to blend together, but that’s besides the point, he thinks, only a little hysterical.
Pushing himself up, he looks around and checks the corners, but there’s no one around. If he didn’t know better, he would think the place abandoned considering how all the wood looks close to rotting away. One of the beams that stretches across the ceiling is already collapsing, with a deep bow right in the center.
Fuck, he must’ve been sleepwalking again, but it’s all a blur. He remembers the brutal cold, vaguely—the pain of it mostly—but that’s about it. Even if he was paid a million dollars he wouldn't be able to explain how he got here. However he got here, though, doesn’t matter. He needs to leave. God, Dad is going to be so pissed.
Getting up from the bed is easier than it usually is after a night of wandering; it’s strange, but he feels good, well-rested. All his lingering aches and pains are gone even—even his feet. He sits down on the moth-eaten blankets—gross, seriously—and inspects the bottom of his left foot. It’s baby smooth, not even ashy. His stomach drops to his damn knees.
Was walking along the highway…was that just a dream too? But then how did he get here? Heart racing, he thinks he really needs to leave. There’s a broken window to the left of the bed, so he crawls over the sheets to look outside. There’s not much he can see other than an expanse of pure white bordered by barren trees.
Christ, he doesn’t even know what time it is. He and Dad were supposed to head out today some time around eight, but considering the sun is already high in the sky, Dean thinks he might’ve missed that. He’s gotta go.
His next realization is that he's still in his boxers, and he thinks he’s gonna have to take these disgusting blankets with him if he wants to stay warm out there. He stills. What is he even thinking? If he goes out there without knowing what direction to go—he’ll end up dead.
Once, Dean remembers he and Sam decided to take a shortcut through the trees instead of taking the trail to get back to their campsite. It was one of those times during the summer when Dad was too cheap to pay for a motel, and so they pitched tents instead. Regardless, the shortcut ended up being a long-cut because they were lost for hours in those woods. When Dad finally found them, they were both dehydrated and weak; Sammy was damn near dead on his feet. And they quickly found out they were less than a quarter mile from the trail the whole time. Dad—Dad was so angry at Dean for that—but that’s not the part worth dwelling on.
He’ll look around. Maybe there’s something useful in this dilapidated place. Maybe, there’s a freaking phone, though he doubts it. A quick search of this…bedroom, he supposes, reveals nothing of real use. There is a thin trench coat though, hanging off a hook in one of the corners. It’s dirty, frayed a little, but it’s something, and he’ll take it because he’s starting to feel the chill through his feet; it won’t be long until he’s quivering like a leaf again.
Wandering out of the bedroom reveals little more than rotting wood and decay, and it's even worse out here. Part of the roof has collapsed inward, and the splintering wood planks remind Dean of broken teeth for some reason. It unsettles him. There’s no one else here, but Dean has that creeping feeling over his shoulder that he’s being watched. Everything in him is telling him to leave, so he's going to listen. He's going to listen.
He goes back to the bedroom to grab the blankets; there’s six of them, of varying size and thickness. Trying his best, he makes something of a robe. The smallest he leaves for his feet. Ripping through one of the moth holes yields two strips large enough for socks. Wrapping his feet in the fabric, he ties each strip at the ankle. He can only imagine how ridiculous he must look, but there’s not much else he can do.
Well, time to face the music. He tells himself he’ll die here too, if he doesn’t leave, eventually. What's the difference?
The road isn’t too far from this ramshackle cabin; he can see it through the barren trees when he walks outside. It’s a relief. For the first time since waking up, he feels he can breathe properly.
It takes a few tries, but one of the passing cars eventually pulls over for him. The guy, who looks something of a church-going type—he looks like what Dean would imagine a Mormon looks like, but Dean doesn’t know what that means, considering he’s never actually met one—he drops Dean at the next gas station and gives him a handful of quarters, and he doesn’t even ask for a handy in return. A miracle.
Without another thought, Dean goes to the payphone by the ice bins out front, puts in a couple of those quarters, and calls Dad.
It doesn’t take long, only a couple rings, before the call is picked up.
“Dad?” Dean asks, “Are you there?”
“Where the hell are you?” Dad nearly growls. With the static from the phone, it sounds almost incomprehensible.
“I-I don’t know, sir,” Dean says, “I’m at a Gas n’ Sip… Somewhere. I think I was—”
“Again, Dean? We’re going to have to start tying you to the damn bed.”
“Can you come get me? Please?”
God, Dean can only imagine how pathetic Dad must think he is—and it’s only going to get worse when he catches sight of Dean in his shitty blanket socks and boxers.
“Find out where you are first,” Dad says, “Jesus, Dean. This has gotta stop.”
“I know.” Dean winces. “I know. I—”
Dad’s already hung up. It’s lucky that Mormon gave him so many quarters.
“I’m glad you’re alright, at least,” Dad says, “I figured that you were off wandering. That, or drunk off your ass.”
“Yeah,” Dean says, staring out the window. The view from Dad’s truck is always strange. It’s so high up compared to the Impala. He can never get used to it.
“This can’t keep happening, I ought to drop you somewhere until you figure this out.”
“Dad, I’m fine, I swear,” Dean says, turning towards him, “Just… tie me to the bed, like you said.”
The snow is so white, still untouched. Even along the road, it hasn’t quite gone that disgusting, sludgy grey yet. It’ll happen soon though, as it always does.
“Jesus, Dean,” Dad says, his dark brow furrowed. He runs a hand through his hair. It looks longer than usual, more grey somehow, as if he aged a couple years since Dean last saw him. “I picked you up in your damn boxers—we’re miles from the motel. You’re not fine. You were supposed to grow out of this.”
“I—”
One look from Dad and Dean's lips are glued shut. Tracing the window sill once more, Dean watches the white as it blurs past.
“Dean, don’t try to argue with me. This is getting worse—and you know it. You could’ve died in that cold.”
“Where am I supposed to go?” Dean asks, covering his eyes and squeezing.
Dad goes off, who knows where, soon after he drops Dean off in the motel parking lot. As Dean slips into the Impala, he feels a little lost in thought. Part of Dean is tempted to chase after Dad, heedlessly, but he doesn't want to try Dad’s patience more than he already has. He’s been stupid enough lately. Besides, this is what Dad does when Dean’s being a problem; he hands Dean off for someone else to deal with. When this is done, Dad’ll come back for him. He always does.
At least Dad brought him some clothes back at the gas station. They ditched the moth-eaten blankets in the dumpster, but Dean kept the trench coat. Couldn’t tell you why, but something about it—he doesn’t know. Either way, the clothes go a long way to make him feel a bit more normal, even when normalcy feels… he’ll take what he can get. The trench coat will just stay crumpled in the trunk of the Impala, and eventually, he’ll forget about it.
The drive to Bobby’s is long and quiet. Their hunt was a ghost in Billings, Montana, close to the Crow Reservation, so it's not too far from Sioux Falls. Still, it’ll take about nine or ten hours to get there. And those nine or ten hours are starting to feel like the longest hours of his life.
Dean loves to drive; he loves the freedom of the open road, the sound of the tires hitting the asphalt, the idea of moving towards something. But really, what he tends to love most is the control. He can pick the music, he can pick the destination, and there’s no one to stop him.
That’s what’s so insidious about all this—it feels like he’s driving towards his execution. Bobby is going to have questions, especially if Dad apprised him of the situation, and Dean—Dean doesn’t want to talk about this. If they talk about it, really talk about it, it becomes something. He’s still hoping it’ll all just stop, like it did when he was a kid, after a while.
Sighing, he turns up the music and hums to the beat. Might’ve pulled a shitty hand, but it doesn’t mean he shouldn’t try to enjoy the game.
“So, what’s your daddy saying about you sleepwalking again?”
“I don’t know, Bobby,” Dean says, holding the top edge of the driver’s door. “Not even gonna let me take my shoes off?”
He’s still got one foot inside the Impala—Bobby didn’t even give him a chance to get out before starting the assault.
Bobby stares at him, his eyes narrowed so small Dean can barely see them. Because of that ratty hat of his, they’re cast in shadow, too, so it only strengthens the impression they’ve all but disappeared.
“Bobby—”
“Are you gonna tell me, or are we gonna do the usual song and dance until you finally come out with it?” Bobby asks, pulling at the scruff of his beard.
Looking at the gravel at his feet, Dean stares at it like it will somehow give him his lines. Unsurprisingly, the rocks are quiet as, well, rocks, and they’ve got nothing to say. The stacks of junkers, rusted car parts, and debris have no words either.
“Son—” Bobby sighs.
Dean looks up.
Bobby lifts his hat before tucking it on more securely. He says, “Just come on in. It’s cold.”
Bobby turns around and goes inside that house of his; it’s seen better days. One day, Dean thinks it’ll just become another piece of scrap, indiscernible from the rest in this yard, with the way Bobby treats it. Or doesn’t treat it, Dean supposes.
When Dean was a kid, at his peak, he used to sleepwalk with incredible frequency. Bobby used to tell him stories of how he’d wake up in the night scared shitless to find Dean standing over his bed, just staring at him, unblinking. Not like Dean ever remembered, but apparently Bobby would have to get up and steer him back to his own bed. Over time, it became such a routine that Bobby came to expect it. Eventually, when he was around twelve, it stopped completely. Though, by that point, it had been slowing for years.
But this seems different than that, worse, even if the frequency isn’t quite as high. He keeps going further; he actually leaves wherever he’s staying, even with the doors locked. Dad’s phrase of ‘sleep-wandering’ seems more accurate than anything else. This time was the worst for a lot of reasons, Dean thinks, but he’s woken up in plenty of strange places over the past few months. Behind a dumpster, once; on the roof of one of the motels; inside of the Impala, keys in hand; in a seedy bar, standing in the middle of the dance floor.
There's a second part to it, too, but Dean doesn't think he can even acknowledge it. If he were honest, he would admit he’s scared shitless himself, but he’s never honest, especially not with himself.
Sitting across from him at the breakfast table, Bobby slides over a steaming mug of coffee and the acrid smell soothes him a little. The cup has a chip in the ceramic, so he digs his fingertip into it, forcing himself to focus on that and the disgusting, bitter aftertaste. Dean doesn’t think it could be possible to be this bad at making coffee, but Bobby’s known for his sludge. It takes special talent. Dean wouldn’t be surprised if Bobby snuck a little motor oil or something in there from the yard—it’s that bad.
“Out with it,” Bobby says around a swallow.
Dean grimaces into his mug.
“I’ve—I don’t know what Dad told you—” Dean says.
“He hasn’t told me much,” Bobby replies, pointedly.
“I’ve been…wandering.” Quickly, Dean takes a sip of that nasty coffee and his nose wrinkles.
“Wandering.” Bobby narrows his eyes again. “Gonna elaborate? Jesus, talking to you is like pulling teeth.”
“Fuck off,” he says, but it’s weak, and Bobby doesn’t seem to acknowledge it. Wincing, Dean looks away.
The kitchen is just as dirty as usual, just as ill-maintained. Cooking in here would probably be some kind of health violation, but it’s not like Bobby cooks anyway. The filth in here is the filth of neglect, rather than any evidence of use. There were a couple times growing up that Bobby would at least try, but the results were just as inedible as the coffee; seems like he’s given up entirely at this point.
“I keep waking up in random places,” Dean finally says. “Last night, I apparently walked a couple miles from the motel, but I can’t remember doing it.”
“Yeah.” Bobby exhales. “Your daddy told me he found you in your damn boxer shorts. It's the middle of winter. That’s not good, Dean.”
Bobby’s expression is fairly impassive, hardened even; Dean can’t get a true sense of what he’s thinking beyond the words.
“I know it’s not good. Why do you think he made me come here?” Fiddling with his cup, Dean spins it slightly on the worn wood of the table.
“I don’t know what he expects me to do about this,” Bobby says, a hint of irritation in his voice. “That bastard, I swear—”
“Don’t talk shit about him.” Averting his eyes again, Dean steadies the mug.
“I can call him what I want to. Not talkin’ shit if it’s true.” After a pause, Bobby says, “Maybe you oughta go to a doctor.”
“No way!” Dean says as he pushes the coffee aside.
He stares at Bobby wide-eyed.
“I’m not going to the doctor. It’s… It's gotta stop eventually.”
“You’re not a kid anymore,” Bobby says, rubbing his forehead under his hat, “This ain’t normal.”
“I know.”
He really does know, because he can’t stop thinking about how his feet went from a bloody mess to perfectly smooth in what must have been a matter of hours. Something about this… it really isn’t natural. It’s worse than Dean thought. And Dean knows what Dad and Bobby tend to think of what isn’t natural.
“I can’t make you do anything,” Bobby says, “But think about it.”