Dean hasn't been called by his own name in what feels like an eternity. Pre-series. Stanford Era. One-shot. Characters: Dean, Bobby, Sam, John.

Random Notes: I am purging my computer, dragging out random stuff I wrote but never posted—organizing, deleting, and posting ;). This bit comes from somewhere in 2007, but as stated above, is set pre-series. It's not very fancy, and the characterization and tone are a little different, neither of which ever felt quite right for me, which is why I never posted it, but it's here for those who'd like to indulge. Read at your own risk, no lifeguard on duty.

And nope, the characters are not mine, and I'm still not making any money from them.

Empty Motel Rooms

Four salt-and-burns in three weeks.

Overgrown graveyards. Forgotten headstones.

Rock-strewn.

Heavy dirt.

Dig-jobs just outside small towns that all looked too much like too many others. A main drag and a farming co-op. Bored diners and tired bars. Lonely legends and sad ghosts. Jobs too straightforward with too much time in between to think. Every day ending in another empty motel room. All of them familiar in ways that made Dean wonder if he'd ever been there before. All of them familiar in ways that made it hard to remember where, exactly, he was in the first place.

He rubbed his face, rubbed his hand over his head and felt his sleeve catch on the caked dirt and dried blood in his eyebrow. He picked at it, chafing some of it loose.

Dropping his hand, he turned off the Impala's engine and sat, breathing silently in the quiet dark. There were four other cars in the parking lot, none of which had been there that morning. Three trucks and a Winnebago. Strangers' cars. All sagging a little too close to the ground.

One of the trucks looked like Dad's. Same model, same color, but with a stripe down the flank that didn't belong.

Dean popped his door open, stepping out to the cool air. He felt heavy. The creak from his closing door sounded too loud to his ears. He locked the car carefully and dug for his key card.

His current residence was an aged motor lodge with new red doors and a broken ice machine. He stopped in the vending alcove anyway, shoved the keycard back in his pocket, exchanging it for a five dollar bill. He got crackers, a couple of candy bars, and a coke, before going inside.

Every other place that sold food was closed.

It was Thursday, and November, and also Thanksgiving, which he'd known in the back of his mind, but hadn't wanted to remember.

He tossed his goods onto the nearest of his two empty beds and shrugged his muddy jacket off, sucking in his lip when his shoulder groaned. The last ghost had managed to toss him twice before he got the bones lit. He shouldn't have let it. He'd grown complacent in the supposed simplicity of what he was doing. In the routine. The anonymity.

He was tired.

His skin felt loose, and tight. Itchy. Like it belonged to a stranger.

Free from his jacket, he ran his fingers over his arms, pulling slightly at the short hairs as he sat on the bed. The room was warm, but smelled stale. He reached for the remote, clicked on the tiny TV and watched Paul Newman fade in and out of snow.

He rifled through his pockets and pulled out his cell phone, staring blankly at the blank face. No incoming calls had been logged in nine days. He had no messages from anyone. Nothing since Dad had checked in from Dayton two weeks ago with gruff absence in his voice and Dean's next assignment.

They weren't supposed to meet up again until December 12th.

He hadn't spoken to Sammy in over a year.

He breathed, rubbed his fingers over the number pad, dropped the phone next to his hip.

High-pitched laughing sounded through the walls from the room next door. Laughter sounding like Sammy had at age four, clear as a bell in Dean's mind. Deep voices rumbled after it, and the laughing continued. Dean felt a pang beat between his lungs. He grabbed the phone again, scrolling over Dad's number, over the last one he'd had for Sam. If he called them…if he tried to call them, chances were he'd get nothing and end up feeling worse than he already did.

A road and a motel room. Sometimes it felt like maybe he'd been the one who left, left without knowing and somehow disappeared.

He grunted, stood, walked over to the TV and gave it a bang with his good arm. It blinked lazily back to life. When it seemed the picture would stay, he walked back to the bed, slumped down against the flat pillows and dragged his knees up. He popped his Coke one-handed, sipped carefully, then set it on the nightstand.

He peeled the first candy bar one-handed also, tearing the wrapper with his teeth. For a moment, he pictured the image of his brother, Sammy there, across from him, scowling and rolling his eyes like the control freak he was. Dude, that's not what your teeth are for. Give me that. He nearly felt Sam setting a hand on his arm, yanking the candy from his mouth, shoving down on his chest a little harder than necessary, jostling him, watching him wince. If your shoulder's worse than you're saying, I'm telling Dad.

Dean blinked and watched Paul Newman fade back to snow, no fuzzing sound with his loss, just a stumble back to silence. He hadn't even figured out which movie it was. I had only two things on my mind: Paul Newman and a ride home. Dean swallowed back the urgent desire to locate a copy of The Outsiders.

The candy bar's wrapper left an aluminum taste in his mouth. The chocolate tasted like chalk.

He swallowed another bite without chewing. He sat in the silent dim, listening again to the laughter next door, trying to differentiate the voices. A mom. A dad. Maybe two kids. The owners of the Winnebago. Making due with whatever circumstance had led them to this hole for Thanksgiving.

Unexpectedly, a flood of blood rushed up to Dean's head. He weighed the TV remote in his right hand, standing up, he readied to hurl it into the wall.

The ring of his cell phone stopped his throw.

For a minute, he thought he was hallucinating.

It sounded again. He moved over to where he'd left it, breathing heavy. Bobby calling stood out on the screen in boldface. Something grabbed at his chest. He dropped the TV remote and picked up the phone, fingers feeling stiff as he punched the answer button. "Bobby?"

"Dean." The voice was deep, rumbling, familiar.

A lump rose in Dean's throat. He swallowed thickly and ran a finger down his nose. "Hey."

"That all you got to say to me, boy? It's been four months since I heard from you."

"Dad's not around, right now… you, ah, you need something?"

Bobby's grunt was audible through the phone. "Just checkin' up on you. Knew your dad was incommunicado up in Vermont, but I wasn't sure what he had you working on and I hadn't heard from you in a while. Guess I was worried."

Dean breathed. For several seconds, he couldn't speak.

"You on a job?" Bobby asked casually.

"I was. Finished now. Dad's had me on some salt-and-burns. Nothing big."

"You come out okay?"

"Few bumps," Dean answered. "The usual."

"Ghost got the drop on you, huh?"

Dean closed his mouth. He waited for the reprimand.

"You sure you're okay?"

Dean breathed out again. He almost laughed. He didn't feel okay. "Yeah." He could picture Bobby's wry expression, his stance, the cap on his head, suddenly so starkly familiar it was like he was standing right in front of him.

"Biggest aggravation of the basic salt-and-burn is the smell of lighter fluid. Sticks on my clothes no matter how much I wash 'em. Then, gotta worry about grass stains if the ghost gets you running and ducking."

Dean coughed. "That's because you're using the wrong kind."

"Of lighter fluid?"

"Of detergent." He swallowed again, felt his throat loosen, felt his blood settle. "It can't be the liquid kind for lighter fluid. Add an extra scoop of the powder stuff, run the rinse twice. Squeeze lemon juice in with the whites."

Bobby laughed. "No one would know that but you."

Dean felt his ears burn, but he laughed also. "Yeah, well, with Sam and Dad you gotta learn to think creatively, and girls tend to think you're an ax-murderer if you smell like you've been out burning stuff."

"Ain't that the truth."

"Besides, if I wasn't the expert before, I would be now. Dad's been sending me off on salt-and-burns since the beginning of summer. Gettin' kinda old actually."

"You're working solo, boy. He's being cautious. Not going to throw you into any rough gigs without…" Bobby didn't finish.

Without Sammy? There were a hundred ways Dean could fill in that blank, but Sam was the first he always thought of. The biggest blank of all.

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to think what to say to fill up the blank spot, the empty space.

He didn't have to. Over the phone, Bobby grunted again and just started talking. About nothing. And everything. College football. Cars.

Dirty jokes. Ones that made Dean both grimace and laugh. "I'm going to have to scrub my ears out with steel wool."

Bobby laughed louder. He didn't talk anymore about Dad. And he didn't try to bring up Sam, except to say, "Wherever that kid's spending his holiday, I'm sure he's okay."

Dean rubbed another hand over his head, knocking flakes of dried dirt onto the bedspread. Sam's voice sounded in his head again. Seriously, Dean, normal people shower when they're dirty.

"Yeah," Dean agreed and his lungs didn't seize when he said it.

In the end, Bobby finished up with the basics, telling him about some books that came in, and telling him to get some sleep.

"I am kinda tired," Dean answered.

"When you meetin' up with John?"

"The twelfth. Iowa."

"Good. And, Dean? Pastor Jim might also appreciate a call."

Dean nodded though he knew Bobby couldn't see it. "Yes, sir," he said.

"Take care of yourself, boy."

"I will."

The family next door had stopped laughing. The sounds coming through the wall were low and smooth, like the hum of a TV. The Twix and the rest of his Coke were looking more appealing.

"Hey, Bobby," Dean said, before Bobby could hang up.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you." He closed his mouth, then opened it again. "Just… thanks."

"Anytime, kid. Anytime."

End