Chapter Ten

Author's Note: This chapter and the next two that follow will serve as brief flashbacks of Dean's life after his father and Sam left.

A storm had been brewing inside of Sam all day. Actually, for several days now. His face may have been carefully neutral, and his voice never wavered, but Dean could see the tension in his body, the way he looked like he was ready to take off running and never stop. Despite noticing the behavior in his little brother, Dean did nothing except pray that their father didn't take notice as well. Whenever Sam got into one of his moods, he and their father would get into it, the argument always coming full circle when Sam would demand, "Why can't we just be normal?"

Dean hated it when they fought, and he hated himself even more for not vocally agreeing with Sam. Contrary to popular belief, Dean was not happy that his entire life had revolved around hunting things that went bump in the night. Hunting was from sometimes - like when he could pretend to be a FBI agent - but at the end of the day, it wasn't the life he would have chosen for himself, and it certainly wasn't a life he would have chosen for his brother. No matter how much their dad tried to deny it, anyone could see that the lack of consistency had taken a toll on Sammy.

However, despite his many protests against many of his father's actions, he kept his mouth shut. He was the only one in the family that kept the peace.

They had just finished up a case and were lazing around their motel room waiting for a new one to pop up. Very rarely did they have down time, and Dean hoped things stayed calm for a couple of days, maybe even a week. he could maybe take Sam to the fair or something, cheer him up a bit and take his mind off their shitty life for a while.

The last thing Dean needed was Sam pulling another Flagstaff.

He shuddered at the memory.

He never told Sam, but John had beat the shit out of him that night. Dean compartmentalized it and ignored the trauma that followed for many years after. But whenever Sam complained, Dean's insides twisted angrily as how much he suffered and sacrificed for his little brother without so much as a thank you.

"Something on your mind, Sammy?" Dean asked, turning the TV down and turning from where he sat on the couch. Sam sat at the rickety table in the corner, lazily dragging the eraser of his pencil across the pages of whatever book he was reading.

"No," Sam answered curtly.

"Sammy," Dean said, grinning when Sam scowled at the nickname. "Come on, man, just tell me."

"It's nothing," Sam insisted, shoving away from the table. "Don't worry about it."

The last four words of that sentence should have alerted Dean to what was to come; they provided a horrible sense of foreboding. He was proven right when, just two hours later, their Dad stomped into the room, the motel door slamming shut behind him. Immediately, Dean turns the TV off and takes the bag his father was holding out to him.

Without even having to ask, Dean knows that it's his duty to clean the guns and knives and have then neatly stored back in the bag before the night is over. he cleans off the table and gets to work. From the corner of his eye he watches his father snag a beer from the mini fridge and plop on the couch, journal on the coffee table in front of him, scribbling away.

There's a comfortable silence that Dean gets to enjoy before shit hits the fan. Just the scratching of a pen on paper, the click of guns as Dean makes sure to get into every crevice, just like how he was taught. The moment is shattered when Sam exits his room. Dean doesn't know how he knows this, but the second Sam stepped into his view with a piece of paper in his hands, he gets the overwhelming urge to either throw up or haul ass away from there.

He watches Sam work up the courage to interrupt their Dad. usually, they try to avoid John whenever he's back from a hunt, at least for a couple of hours, maybe a day or two. His temper flares when he's nagged merely seconds after he walks through the door. Dean tries to catch Sam's eye, tries to tell him please, for the love of God, whatever you're doing, don't do it now -

"Dad?"

John grunts a reply, not even looking up from his journal as he takes a heavy swig of beer.

Sam moves so that he's right in front of John, blocking his light, thus gaining John's attention. John squints up at him. "What the hell are you doing, Sam?"

"I wanted to show you this."

Sam hands over a very official looking piece of paper, and from where he's sitting, Dean can see a very prestigious looking seal on it. His little brother looks proud, almost smug, and Dean finds his hands slowing, setting down the gun on the table, heart picking up speed.

John reads over the paper, and from the way his entire body becomes tight, Dean knows that hell on Earth is about to begin.

"What is this?" John asks quietly, although it's obvious that he already knows.

"I applied to college," Sam says, and shit, that knocks the air right out of Dean's lungs. Sam continues on, either blissfully unaware or ignoring John's dangerous body language. "I picked up jobs here and there and paid for the placement tests and application fee. It's a full ride, Dad! I got a full ride to Stanford!"

"So what the hell are you showing me this for?" John demands. This knocks the smile right off Sam's face. Dean counts to ten in his head. "Just to prove that you could do it? That was a waste of money, Sam." John tosses the letter across the table, and it lands at Sam's feet.

Sam stands there, flabbergasted, before slowly crouching to retrieve his acceptance letter. Before, he had a smile on his face. Now? he looks like he could spit fire.

"I'm going."

Please, Dean wants to beg. Please, please, please. Why didn't you tell me? Why do you want to leave us? Leave me?

John's head lifts up again, and even though Dean can't see the expression on his father's face, the way he slams his journal closed is enough.

"What did you just say?"

"I said," Sam sneers. "I'm going. I'm going to college. One would think that you'd be happy for me."

"You're not going anywhere." Their Dad is standing now, surging forward to grab a handful of Sam's t-shirt. "You hear me? I have had it with your bullshit, and now I find out that you've been running around, wasting my money -"

"Your money?" Sam scoffs, shoving his father off with more force that Dean and clearly John had expected; John nearly gets knocked off his feet by the blow. "I didn't need your money, and even if I did, it's not like you have any! I don't need you!"

The fight that follows is the loudest, most terrifying thing Dean has ever experience.

The screaming; the roaring; the coffee table being broken as John gets physical; Dean's cries being ignored as he tugs his raging father off his bloody little brother; Dean trying to reason with Sam, trying to talk to him over John's hateful words; Sam's cutting remarks, his eagerness to get away, far, far away. Den tries to be in two places at once: protecting Sam from his Dad and protecting his Dad from Sam. John swings, and it collides with Dean's jaw. He's thrown to the side, head colliding with the edge of the windowsill. Pain flares, his vision blurs, and he slumps against the wall, gasping for air. Something warm and wet slides down the side of his face.

His pleading cries are drowned out. He can do nothing but watch as his father and Sam clash. The last thing he sees before the world fades to black is John pointing at the door with a busted lip and bloody nose, and Sam, sporting several bruises and a bloody mouth, disappearing into his room and storming out of the motel, duffle bag in hand.

When Dean wakes up, his father is gone.

His hands clenched reflexively, searching for a gun that wasn't there. His head throbbed, and he groaned, reaching a hand out to feel for a solid surface that he could use to propel himself upward. Hand splayed on the wall, he worked himself up, nearly slipping as his other hand grappled at the damp windowsill. Reaching a hand up, Dean winched as he felt the gash on the side of his head.

Stumbling to the bathroom, Dean took note of how quiet it was. Catching himself on the threshold of the bathroom door, he looked back over the room. His father was gone. Craning his head to see into of the bedrooms, he saw that his father's room was clean. The bed was made and his bag was nowhere to be seen. Even the guns that had been taken apart earlier on the table were gone. Dread may have filled Dean's stomach, but he could't tell the difference between that and the nausea that was coursing through him as a result of his head wound.

He had to prioritize. Despite the heavy feeling in his chest at being seemingly abandoned, he knew he had to go to a hospital. Head wounds fo any kind were serious, and Dean didn't want to risk anything.

Dean cleaned himself up as best as he could with his vision blurring every few minutes. He had nearly passed out when he tugged his shirt over his head and the hem of it had brushed against the cut. Somehow, he even found the strength to at least try to brush his teeth. He may not be minty fresh but at least he couldn't smell the garlic from the bread he had eaten last night.

Staggering out of the bathroom, Dean gathered his things as fast as he could, clothes stuffed into a duffle bag and knife tucked into a pocket in his leather jacket. Shrugging the jacket on, Dean managed to throw a few twenties down on the table as an apology for the damage and make it to the Impala without falling down. He shouldn't be driving, he was reminded as his eyes lost focus for a solid twelve seconds, but he had no other way to get to the hospital. He was all alone.

No, he thought angrily. Don't think about that. Not now. Not yet.

But as he pulled out of the parking lot and onto the street, he couldn't escape the memories of the fight between his father and brother, hateful words that had so easily passed Sam's lips.

"Why would I stay here? So I can be a worthless soldier who can't even think for himself?"

"You want me to be like Dean? Dean, who dropped out of high school? Dean, who's only good at shooting a gun?"

How could Sam say those things? How could he so easily turn his back on his family, removing himself from the Winchesters without an ounce of hesitation? How could he find it within himself to tear Dean down, after everything they'd been through, after everything Dean had done for him?

Dean's vision blurred and the car swerved, nearly careening into the metal road railings before he managed to catch himself, jerking the Impala back in the lane and forcing his eyes wide open. The muscles in his neck and upper shoulders were stiff, and ever time he turned the wheel of the car, pain flared up.

Just a little more, Dean told himself. Just a little farther.

Slinking into the hospital parking lot was easy, it was the parking that was hard. He just decided, fuck it, and sloppily pulled into a parking space, and sank out of the car, nearly falling to the left in his attempts to remained balanced.

He could see the entrance for the hospital, just a few feet away, so damn close, but then suddenly it wasn't close. His vision tunneled, and now the hospital looked like it was miles away. Dean slammed the door to his car closed and dragged one foot forward after the other. Cars flew past him, birds littered the ground, and yet he couldn't hear any of it clearly. It was like someone had turned the volume down really low, not yet on mute, but damn near close.

Still, he trudged onwards, mouth clamped shut to stop the vomit from escaping.

Making it inside the hospital was one of Dean's greatest accomplishments. What happened next wasn't so great.

The receptionist, taking in his bleeding head and haggard appearance, and the way he couldn't even stand up straight, had moved forward to help him, and before she could even ask Dean what was wrong, he dropped in a dead faint.

For the second time that day, Dean woke alone.

The nausea and blurred vision wasn't as bad as before, and Dean gingerly rolled his neck to test out the muscles. Finding the stiffness gone, he looks to his left and sees a window. Weak rays of sunlight streamed through the glass. He could see the sun was beginning to set, the sky turning a gorgeous pink, the clouds swirling together and shifting slowly away from each other.

Letting his head rest against the pillow, he took in his surroundings. The room was small, with only a bed and a two seater couch on the opposite wall as furniture. Machines beeped quietly to his right, and back on his left was the IV drip, hooked up to his left arm. The only other sound in the room was the rattling of the air conditioner that sat under the window.

Usually, he would have ripped the IV out by now, but he didn't have the motivation. He was trained to never let himself sit in a hospital for too long, and he'd gotten good at sweet talking the doctors into letting him, a clearly gravely injured man, out into the world. But now? He just wanted to lay on the hospital bed and burrow under the scratchy white sheets for a few years, take a breather. Maybe if he asked the docs to put him in a medically induced coma, he could escape the events of yesterday.

"Good evening."

A woman in a white lab coat walked in with a clipboard, smiling gently at him. Her name tag told Dean that her name was Dr. Jacobs. He didn't respond, and instead watched her check the readings on the machine. Her pen scribbled against the paper. She was beautiful, the light of the sunset casting a beautiful glow over her dark skin. Her thick hair was pulled back into two braids, with the ends hanging freely past her shoulders.

"Can you tell me your name?"

"How about you tell me yours, beautiful."

She laughed, chocolate eyes lighting up. "My name is Michelle. You're surprisingly smooth for a man with a head wound."

"Dean," he said. "Dean Winchester."

He ahd been told that he should never use his real last name at a hospital unless absolutely necessary. "Dean Winchester" was a lot easier to trace than "Dean Michaels" or "Dean Parker". But it was his dad that had told him that, and where was his dad now? Not here, not at Dean's side. Never at Dean's side.

"Well, Mr. Wincehster-"

"Dean," he interrupted. "Call me Dean."

"Dean," Michelle smiled. "You had a pretty nasty cut to the head. Luckily for you, it wasn't inflamed or infected, but we still want to give you some antibiotics to make sure nothing pops up while it heals. The cut wasn't too deep, so we didn't have to give you any stitches. It's better for the wound to heal from the inside out, anyways. No signs of a concussion, although we do want you to stay a bit longer for observation-"

"Can't do that," Dean said. "I have to get out of here today."

"Dean, I cannot in good conscious let you check out of the hospital just yet, especially not when you'll be behind the wheel of a car."

Dean turned away and stared out the window. He was stuck here after all. He didn't know how long it would take his head to heal, and he knew she had a point; he couldn't drive like this. He'd barely made it to the hospital in one piece.

He spent the rest of the day lounging in bed, and at one point he requested a tv, which was wheeled in on a cart and placed a few feet from his bed. He flicked through the channels lazily, trying to find something that would provide a distraction to the thoughts churning in his head, but nothing worked. His mind kept returning to his father abandoning him, and the way that Sam walked out with the intention of never coming back.

Why didn't he want to come back?

There life wasn't fantastic, Dean knew that just as well as Sam did, but didn't Dean do everything he could to ensure that Sam's life wasn't completely awful? Yeah, they lived in crappy motels and didn't always have food, but Dean always kept the place clean and gave Sam as much food as he wanted before he even got one plate. And he would take Sam to the library, the movies, and even real restaurants where they could eat food that wasn't soaked in two day old grease. Dean thought he was a good big brother, but evidently he was wrong. Why else would Sam have left?

He just needs time to cool off, Dean decided firmly. He'll call in a few days. He's older now; he can take care of himself.

Dean had to believe that, because the only alternative was that Sam really was going to Stanford and wasn't ever coming back, and he didn't want to face that reality.

It took three days for the hospital to finally discharge him. The only pleasant part about being stuck in that bed was getting to half heartedly flirt with Dr. Jacobs, but even seeing her everyday wasn't enough to wash out the taste of awful hospital cafeteria food out of his mouth. The sheets were forever scratchy, the rooms cold, and there was never anything good on tv.

He was relieved to find his baby untouched and still parked where he had left her.

Sliding into the driver's seat, Dean tossed his leather jacket into the back seat and took a deep breath, hands gripping the steering wheel. He pressed his face against the steering wheel and allowed himself to just breathe for a few minutes. Jesus fuck, what was he going to do? He had never been on his own like this before. Before, whenever his dad would go off on a hunt, he'd at least have a rough estimate as to when his dad would be back? Now? Was his dad coming back? Was anyone coming back?

What would he do? Hunt alone? He was good at hunting, but he wasn't stupid enough to think it would be safe for him to hunt solo. The Winchesters had made a name for themselves in the world of the supernatural, and John hunting solo was completely different from Dean hunting solo. Once word got out that Dean was by his lonesome, he'd be snatched up faster than a discarded ten dollar bill.

A sharp knock on his window jerked Dean out of his thoughts, and he sat up to see Dr. Jacobs standing outside his door. Her thick, curly hair was in a different style today; it was pulled up into a bun on her head, a few strands having escaped the hair tie and hanging freely, the tips brushing agains the sides of her jaw.

Even though he'd only known her for a few days, Dean would miss her. She was witty and knew her music and pop culture. He found that she shared some of his music tastes, and she even kept a few cassette tapes in her car that she played on her way to work. She didn't have any siblings, and her parents had passed a few years ago of old age. He'd even learned her favorite color, which was green. She had looked at him slyly when she said that, and Dean had flushed, knowing that she was admiring the bright color of his eyes.

"You weren't going to say goodbye?" she asked with a smile. "I expected better of my favorite patient."

Dean cracked a smile, trying not to let his tiredness show. "I didn't want you to miss me too much. Sometimes it's better to have a clean break."

Dr. Jacobs bit her lip, looking over her shoulder at the hospital briefly before meeting his eyes again. "I didn't tell you this before, but I think it's something you should know before you decide anything."

"What are you talking about?"

"When you were sleeping the first day you got here, we went through your pockets and found your cell phone. We called your father and someone named Sam. Your dad never answered and Sam...made it very clear he didn't want anything to do with you."

Dean clenched his jaw and stared determinedly ahead, fighting back the tears.

"I know this isn't my place," she whispered. "But I think it's okay if you wanted to take some time to yourself. Even when I left the voicemail to your father and Sam that you were in the hospital, there was no response. I don't mean to be cruel, but I don't think those people care for you, Dean, and you deserve better than that."

"You're right," Dean snarled. "It isn't your place."

He shoved the keys into the ignition and turned it, revving the engine and putting the car into reverse so he could back out of the parking space. A soft hand on his stopped him.

"Take my card," she insisted, pressing a business card into his left hand. On the back I put my personal cell. If you ever need anything, you ever want to talk...I'll be here."

She stepped back from the window, and Dean drove away so fast his tires squealed against the asphalt. He could see her standing in the parking lot still, getting smaller and smaller as he drove. His left hand traced the edge of the business card, tapping against the corners in frustration.

Jacobs was just being nice because she felt sorry for him as what he tried to convince himself of. It was so much easier to be mad at her instead of at his father, who couldn't even be bothered to call his son and make sure he was still alive.

"I guess he decided to just cut his losses," Dean muttered, heart broken.

Had he not been a good son? Had he not been a good soldier? Every single day he put up with his Dad's bullshit; running endless laps, sparring, cleaning guns and knives, watching Sammy, skipping meals so Sam could eat, helping Sam with his homework so their dad didn't have to, finding ways to put food on the table...

How did anyone get past a revelation like this, finding out that their own father didn't care about them?

Dean had worked so hard his entire life to make his father proud, doing everything he said when he said it without any complaint, and what had it gotten him? What was his reward for his unwavering loyalty? Nights spent cold and alone in a hospital.

A hospital he wouldn't have had to go to if your dad didn't knock you on your ass, an angry little voice hissed in the back of his head.

Desparate to escape from the thoughts in his head, Dean fumbled around and grabbed his cassette tape case, pulling a random one out and pushing it into the dashboard. He cranked the volume up and rolled the windows down. The combination of the wind rushing in his ears with the bone rattling force of the music numbed his thoughts and let him drive in peace.

A few hours later Dean had the music turned down to background noise as he cruised down the highway. He didn't even know where he was. Pulling over to the side of the road, Dean sat and watched the sky for a bit. The sun wasn't quite setting yet, but it was getting pretty low in the sky, the sky turning a pinkish orange.

Sitting in the middle of nowhere with no clear plan, Dean had never felt more lost. His whole life he had been told what to do, and now that he had actual freedom, he didn't know what to do with it? Hunting was a no go, but what else was there to do? He was a Winchester, and the Winchesters didn't have many friends in the hunting world, so there was no one he could stay with for a little bit. He kinda wished he was back in the hospital. At least there he had some company.

He thought back to what Dr. Jacobs had said to him, that his father and brother didn't care about him. He had wanted to refute her claims, but deep down he knew. He always knew. His feelings of love and loyalty weren't reciprocated. Over the years, he'd just been hiding from the truth, burying it down deep and acting as if nothing was wrong. Dean ignored the snide comments from his father no matter how much they hurt, and he ignored the disgust and annoyance on Sam's face whenever Sam got in another fight with Dad and Dean didn't speak up.

Is this what his life was? A flurry of alcohol, dirty motel rooms, and pretty white lies meant to keep him satisfied and apathetic to the way his father treated him?

He didn't know what he was supposed to do. What did he have left? All he had to his name were a plethora of fake IDs, guns, knives, and a lifetime of trauma. What was he going to do with that?

Dean opened the compartment on the passenger side and pulled out a map, opening it and flattening it as much as he could against the steering wheel. According to the map, he was somewhere in Missouri. He actually wasn't too far from Bobby's, and if he slept the night away and then drove all the way through the next day or two he could-

No, an overly cheerful voice in his head scolded. Bobby wants nothing to do with you Winchesters. Besides, why would he want you, anyways?

Dean nibbled at his bottom lip. He wanted to go to Bobby's more than anything right now. After all the shit that had happened, he just wanted to collapse on Bobby's dusty couch and pass out for a few days. He could see it now, waking up bleary eyed in Bobby's living room with a blanket over him and his shoes off. He'd ask Bobby about it, but the gruff man would quickly brush it off. Dean imagined himself sitting in Bobby's kitchen, inhaling pancakes and bacon - the bacon extra crispy, because that was the only way to eat it. He'd look up and meet Bobby's eyes, and everything was all right.

"You're pathetic," Dean whispered to himself, letting the map flutter onto the passenger seat and leaning his head against the steering wheel. So desperate for attention, he imagined himself as Bobby's son, as if Bobby didn't have more important things to do.

So, swinging by Bobby's house was out.

But what the hell was he supposed to do in Missouri?

It turns out he could do a lot in Missouri. So much, in fact, that Dean spent three weeks there, stationed at a surprisingly decent hotel close to the downtown area. No one knew him here, and there was no judgement. Here, he was just another tourist, walking up and down the quaint little streets in small neighborhoods and window shopping in the city. What made it even better what the organized chaos going on, which made Dean even more invisible to the public.

There were movies being filmed, plays being performed, and there were even several dramatic readings. Now, Dean wasn't much of a Shakespeare fan - hated him since the seventh grade, truthfully, because why the fuck didn't the characters just say what they meant instead of wasting precious oxygen spouting all those metaphors and underhand comments about one another's sex life - but he found himself at several dramatic readings and plays. Normally, he would run from the hills at the very name of the old playwright, but the performance of Macbeth was so good that he came back the next day and the next to see it again.

He'd purchased a second hand copy of Macbeth, the pages dog eared and the cover a bit busted, but as he smoothed his fingers over the soft pages, goosebumps went up his arm. This was his. It was so rare to have something that was solely his. The only other things that he had that were his property was his Baby and his favorite gun. Everything else technically was shared Winchester territory. The book wasn't new, but it was his, and that was what mattered. That night, he'd stayed up until the crack of dawn, deeply immersed in the tale. He'd woken up slumped over the table in his motel room, the book smushed under him.

Having been so focused on hunting for so long, he hadn't realized what else there was to do. Before, his life consisted of shooting bullets and throwing knives, and now, he had the freedom to do whatever he wanted. There was so hunting, no being Sam's parent, and the last time he was this relaxed was when he was five, before his mom died. He didn't even have to concentrate; memories of her were easily brought forth.

Mary Winchester, blonde hair brushed away from her face and down her back. She used to wear this perfume, and whenever he hugged her he could inhale as deep as he could to memorize the scent of her; a mix of lavender and vanilla. Once, he'd even doused himself in her perfume because he wanted to smell like her, and his dad was livid because his son "smelled like a girl" for nine straight. In Dean's defense, he didn't know he shouldn't have dumped the entire bottle on his head.

"I think it's sweet," Mary had snapped at John when Dean's lip had begun to quiver. "He admires me. Are you saying he shouldn't?"

That had shut his dad up real quick, and John spent the rest of dinner scrapping his fork obnoxiously across his glass plate.

That memory was how he found himself climbing in his car and heading towards the mall. It wasn't anything too large, but it did have some good department stores. He only stopped walking when he got to the perfume counter in Macy's. He couldn't remember the name of the perfume, it had been too long, and he was young the last time he'd seen it, but if the packaging didn't change, he could probably identify it. And if not by that, by the smell.

He felt out of place in the store, with the well groomed men and polished women leisurely shopping, expensive coats and handbags hanging off their frames. And there he was, in his worn jeans, thrift store shirt, and muddy hiking boots. Goodness, he hadn't been insecure about his physical appearance since his late middle school and early high school days, back when the kids would pick on him for not being trendy or hip. All he'd really had to his name then was his dad's old leather jacket, and for the most part he'd been too busy looking out for Sammy to really care about what other people said about him.

But...he could still get himself new clothes without caring about what other people said about him. He hesitantly stepped away from the perfume counter and traveled further into the store, seeking out the men's section. He'd just seen the sign when a sales associate appeared, shooting him a perky grin and asking, "Good morning, sir, did you need help with anything?"

"Yeah," Dean said. "I, uh, I have to buy new clothes. The ones I have are...well, I guess you already know."

She looked him over, pursing her lips.
"No offense, but you're right. You are in dire need of a new wardrobe. I'm Rosaleen, but you can call me Rose. Come on, I'll help you out."

Her helping him out turned out to be her calling over two other women, Lucinda and Ellie. The three of them practically pounced on him, circling him like vultures and mumbling things under their breath about what they thought he'd look good in.

"Your eyes are gorgeous," Lucinda remarks, and Dean flushes. "Shirts that make his eyes pop would be good, make him even more gorgeous, although I'm not sure the world could take it."

"I'm thinking blues, greens, and purples," Rose murmurs, inserting her hands inside Dean's leather jacket and sliding it down his shoulders, tossing it on a nearby chair. "Good god, the arms on you!"

Dean didn't know if it was possible for his face to get any hotter. What was wrong with him? He damn near made a living off flirting with women, and now that three of them were turning the tables, he didn't know what to do with himself.

"It has to be certain shades, though." Measuring tape appeared in Ellie's hands, and Dean instinctively shied away when she wrapped it around one of his thighs, her fingers dangerously close to his intimate parts. She glanced up at him, an eyebrow arched, and Dean smiled awkwardly. "For blues, I think he'd look best in navy, electric blue, or aquamarine. With greens, we should definitely use darker tones since that'll make his eyes pop more. Nothing too muted, because then that'll make him look washed out. Maybe army green?"

Lucinda nodded, grabbing another roll of measuring tape and instructing Dean to lift his arms up. "Army green and emerald, I think. And then some plum, burgundy, maybe maroon, and lavender. Short sleeves are my recommendation; gotta show off these arms. But still, with the right haircut and facial hair trim, he could rock button ups and ties, too."

Rose disappeared into the aisles of clothing, but her voice could still be heard over the catchy music playing over the speakers, which sounded a lot like Bon Jovi. "When you get his measurements for his pants, make sure you get some skinny jeans. It would be a crime to hide an ass like that."

Dean gave a squawk of protest but was herded into the fitting rooms. Lucinda pointed towards the largest one and ordered, "Take your clothes off."

"What?"

"How else are you going to try stuff on?"

The next two and a half hours were spent with Dean nearly naked in front of three women who kept giving him more and more clothes to try on and take back off. He did his best to ignore Lucinda's appreciative gaze at his crotch, although he was flattered. The jeans they'd set aside for him in a cart were a mix of skinny and bootcut. The bootcut were a bit more flexible with the material, but he had to admit that the skinny jeans made him look great. The shirts they'd put in the cart varied. There were short sleeves, long sleeves, sweaters, button ups, and he'd seen Ellie throw a couple of cardigans in there, too. Dean had managed to convince them to throw some sneakers in there, and Rose agreed, but only if she got to pick them. When they'd finished running him ragged with that, they pulled out the suits. Smooth slacks and pressed shirts, shiny shoes, and handkerchiefs, things he never thought he'd own so much of.

"My god," Lucinda panted, collapsed on the floor, head resting against the basket of the metal shopping cart. The cool metal gave some comfort. "When you said he needed a new wardrobe, you weren't kidding."

"My family and I didn't have a lot of money growing up," Dean explained, pulling his old clothes back on. "Now that I have some, I thought I'd treat myself to looking like a decent human being."

"With a smile like that, you didn't really need our help," Lucinda muttered, fanning herself. "What are you going to do now?"

Dean shrugged. "I don't know. Today's been tiring enough as it is. I was thinking of going to a barber and getting that haircut Ellie was talking about earlier."

"We should go out," Rose declared, clapping her hands together. "You can buy your clothes, drop them off wherever you're staying, and then we can treat you out to a night on the town."

"That sounds like fun," Ellie admitted. "Our commissions are gonna be through the roof thanks to Dean."

"And that's...a good thing, right?" Dean asked.

"Hell yeah!" The three women said in unison.

"Commissions boost our pay, and that means bills get paid and we can treat ourselves to something nice," Ellie explained. "Your bill will come out to at least, what, four hundred? I'm eating lobster tonight!"

"I saw a Red Lobster up the street," Dean said. "We could go there?"

"And the movies!" Lucinda grinned. "You said you didn't go to those much either when you were a kid. We could see Spider-Man. Action, romance, sci-fi...all the best movie genres thrown into one. You'll love it."

Dean had spent his last week with Lucinda, Rose, and Ellie, and on his last day, he woke up feeling solemn. He hadn't known the three women for a long time, but he felt close to them. They listened to him, had genuine interest in him, and they'd even exchanged contact information. He didn't know if he'd ever call them. Not because he didn't want to, but because he wasn't sure if he would go back into hunting. If he stayed out of that life...he could call them. He could visit. But if he got back into hunting? In that lifestyle, one wasn't allowed to have many friends.

It took him less than an hour to shower, pack, and hit the road, the impala's engine a comforting roar in his ears. Driving away from Missouri, away from the friends he'd made, he felt...not like a new man, but definitely not as broken as before. The soft cotton violet shirt Lucinda had thrown at him in the fitting room was what he wore now, along with a pair of the skinny jeans Ellie had measured him for. He had yet to wear the sneakers he'd bought, but he figured he'd have time to do that.

Where to now, though?

Dean stretched his arm behind him to reach the duffle bag in the back seat. Using one hand, he unzipped the bag and dug around until he found his cell phone. The little screen brightened when he flipped it open, and Dean eased his foot off the gas pedal so that he could go through his contacts. The recently called list showed John and Sam at the top.

Was he going to do it? Was he really going to dive back in with John? After all this?

Anger slowly bubbled to the surface. The car swerved to the left and jerked to a stop on the shoulder of the road, gravel and dust spraying up into the air and getting into Dean's eyes.

Dean still couldn't believe how easily his father abandoned him, leaving him for dead in that motel room with a visible head wound. Did he really mean that little to his father? Dean sacrificed everything to appease his father, and still, in the end, he was nothing more than scum on the bottom of his dad's shoes. He dropped out of high school despite the several higher education scholarships available to him. Dean threw himself into hunting. He managed and almost always successfully stopped Sam's tantrums since he was a baby. He became a mother to his little brother because no one else was going to take care of him. It was Dean who taught Sam how to walk, talk, and read, while their father drank himself into oblivion and ignored their presence until he needed someone to yell at.

He did everything for everyone, and this was the thanks he got?

Dean wiped at his way, not even realizing he was crying until his hand came back wet.

This is what I've been reduced to, he thought bitterly. Crying by myself on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere.

He couldn't go back. He wouldn't.

A rush of adrenaline rushed through his veins as he settled on his rebellion. No longer would he go crawling back to his father every time he was left behind. He refused to be that person anymore, and why would he be that person, when he could be literally anything else? The time spent in Missouri made him realize that he didn't need his father or Sam to matter. And, without those two holding him down, he didn't have to shape his life around them.

With a grin, Dean tossed his phone out the window onto the road in front of him and stomped on the gas, the phone crunching under his tires.

He had the whole world in front of him!

Well, maybe not the whole world; he wasn't very fond of planes. If people were meant to fly, humans would have wings. But there was still the entirety of the United States. He had been to a lot of states due to the hunting lifestyle, but he'd never really experienced everything those different states had to offer. When he had been in up north on the east coast, he hadn't been to any of the tourist sights that New York held, even though they were close enough to swing by. Sam had wanted to go to a broadway show, and Dean knew that if he and their father hustled enough pool, they definitely could have taken him. But John wouldn't hear of it. And after John's cruel rebuke towards Sam, Dean sure as hell wasn't going to tell his father that he wanted to go to the very top of the Empire State Building.

What's stopping you now? Dean asked himself.

The answer was nothing. Nothing was holding him back now. He didn't have a kid to take care of, no guns to clean, no monsters to kill. He could go to New York right now, and no one would be able to stop him. He could go anywhere. Everywhere.

"Jesus," Dean laughed. "Is that what freedom feels like?"