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Meet me in the darkest place, and I'll teach you how to call an angel.
***
January 1st, 1996 Detroit, Michigan
Dean Winchester left the motel, ostensibly to grab some snacks from the lobby. In reality, he'd left because the tension between Sam and their dad was just too much. Sam wanted to settle down for a while—not in Detroit, but somewhere—and John didn't. So, they were mid-yelling match. Dean tried to sort it out... or just get them to stop for a while... but he'd been steamrolled.
It was cold outside, and in the distance, he could hear sirens. They were in a bad part of town—or maybe all of Detroit was the bad part... He wasn't sure. But Dean wasn't too worried about that. They'd taken care of the Ghoul, and they were rolling out of town tomorrow. Sam would be grouchy, and Dad would be worse... but they'd eventually let it go, and things would be normal—for a while.
Once in the parking lot, Dean headed toward the Impala. He leaned against the sleek black hood and sighed. Hot breath rose like a cloud before him. Sometimes it felt like his life was crumbling around him, and he was trying to glue it together with bits of his soul. Actually... come to think of it, it reminded him of a gingerbread house he'd built with Sam when they were younger. The roof kept slipping off, and the sides caved in a bit. Bobby said to keep it away from strong winds, but at least they'd had fun making it.
"Hey kid..."
Dean looked up, suddenly alert. He should've been paying attention to his surroundings, but he'd been thinking about the "family feud". "You must be looking for someone else." Dean shot back, giving the stranger a quirky smirk.
"Nah, don't think so..." The man—hood pulled low over his head—pulled a gun from the back of his jeans. Unfortunately, he was more than a yard away... so hitting him, or knocking his gun away would be hard.
Dean cursed himself for leaving his gun inside. Granted, he had a few knives, and there were guns in the trunk... and in the glove compartment. Dean figured he'd play the scared teen now... Get the element of surprise later. "Wh-what'd you want?"
"Oh? What happened to all that cockiness?"
"You've got a gun... I'm not an idiot!" That last bit was true. "L-look, you want my car? I'll unlock it and toss you the keys..." Yeah, not happening. He'd sooner let the man shoot him. But he needed to get inside.
"Go ahead..." The gun twitched toward the car door. "Hurry up."
Dean did. He "fumbled" with the keys, pretending to be concerned. He got them, and started unlocking the door. Once he'd unlocked it, he felt the barrel of the gun on his head.
"Open it nice and slow."
Dean did. He didn't want to give the man a reason to shoot him... at least, not before he'd grabbed his gun. Then something happened that he hadn't planned for. The second the door was open, the man shoved him forward. Dean felt a dull ache as his skull slammed into the metal door frame. His vision blurred.
The man pushed him inside the car.
"I'll take your car... But I can’t have witnesses."
Dean felt a spike of panic. Slowly, he moved a hand toward the glove compartment. No way was he letting this freak kill him. Or take his car. His head swam, and black dots appeared before his eyes, but he was determined to stay conscious.
A second later, he heard a rustling sound. Someone appeared behind his attacker... a blurry figure in a tan coat.
First Dean thought it was over for him. The guy had brought backup...
But then, the newcomer put a hand on the first man's shoulder and hauled him back. Evidently, the car-thief had no idea he was there, because he let out a surprised yelp. He turned his gun on the man in the tan coat and fired.
He must've missed, because the man didn't even flinch.
"Wh-what are you?"
Dean frowned... his vision still swam, and he must be hearing things too.
Tan-coat didn't reply. He grabbed the gun, and jerked it out of the criminal’s hands. In return, the idiot punched him, and let out a pained gasp. Tan-coat grabbed him and.... *threw* him. The man soared through the air like a rag-doll and slammed into an SUV a few yards away. The vehicle's alarm blared, killing the silence.
The man in the tan coat turned toward Dean. "Are you hurt?"
Dean blinked up at his apparent ally. He must've been hit in the head really hard... it was like watching a cartoon fight.
"Are you injured?" the man asked again.
"Head hurts..." That car horn wasn't helping.
The man knelt before him. Even this close, he was just a dark, blurry figure. The man put a hand on his head. "You appear to have a mild concussion. You'll be fine." With that, the man stood up, and turned away.
Dean staggered to his feet—almost hitting his head on the door again—to follow the stranger. "Hey..."
The man paused, glancing back at him.
"Who are you?"
A long pause followed the words. He put a hand on Dean's head again, and Dean swore he heard him say, "I was never here. The man attacked you, and you subdued him, alone and unaided."
***SPNSPNSPN***
The commotion had drawn a crowd. John and Sam came racing out moments later, as well as a few others. Dean stood over the freak, keeping him at gunpoint.
"Hey, what's going..." John started, but paused when he saw Dean's face.
Fourteen-year-old Sam, on the other hand, didn't hesitate to speak his mind. "Dean, what happened to you?"
Blood trailed from a gash on his forehead. The car had fared better than he had.
John stormed over, glaring at the man on the ground, then giving Dean an appraising look. "You okay, son?"
Dean nodded. "No thanks to this freak. I was getting some fresh air and he attacked me."
"Did he do that?" Sam asked, eyeing the cut, then shooting a rather menacing glower at the fellow on the ground.
"Yeah, but look at him." Dean beamed. He didn't remember much of the fight... only snatches. But obviously, he'd won.
"Good job. Looks like we're headin' out tonight boys. I'm sure someone's already called the police. Get in the car, I'll grab the gear."
Obviously, Sam was no longer in an arguing mood, as both he and Dean barked, "Yes, sir," and moved to obey.
***SPNSPNSPN***
They were on the road again. John drove, and Sam and Dean sat in the back. "Dad, it looks pretty bad—maybe we should take him to the hospital."
"Sammy, stop it," Dean muttered. "I'm fine."
"Dad?"
John glanced in the rear-view mirror. "We'll stop somewhere outside of Detroit and I'll check it out. Head wounds bleed a lot, Sam."
"I know that," Sam snapped. And he did—it had been drilled into their heads by this point.
"Really Sam, I'm fine. Stop fussing like a girl."
Sam rolled his eyes, but his lips quirked up a bit. "Whatever, Jerk."
"Don't 'whatever' me, B!t*h."
Sam huffed.
***SPNSPNSPN***
They'd stopped at a tiny motel outside Detroit. John cleaned the head wound—which really did look worse that it was—and guessed Dean had suffered a mild concussion. For some reason, Dean felt a strange sense of Déjà vu. John said Dean could sleep, but either he or Sam would wake him every hour, just to be sure he was all right.
So, with that, Dean let himself drift off, knowing he'd have a massive headache the next day.
***SPNSPNSPN***
He dreamed of nothing—for the most part. But sometimes, he was sure someone was there. It wasn't a malicious entity. More like... Like his father—like someone was watching out for him.
***SPNSPNSPN***
Sam woke him up an hour later. Shaking his shoulder lightly, Sam whispered, "Dean? Wake up."
He blinked, then groaned. "Feels like a gun went off in my brain."
"Now who's being girly?"
Dean rolled his eyes and smacked Sam upside the head.
"Okay—you're fine. Go back to sleep." Sam grinned, and his hair fell into his eyes.
"Thanks, Doc," he kidded, letting his eyes slide shut. He yawned, then slipped back into his dreams.
***SPNSPNSPN***
This time, he dreamed of the parking lot. It was cartoon-ified though. The man who'd attacked him was in an orange prison outfit, and he was being thrown around by the wind... by nothing. It was actually pretty funny.
***SPNSPNSPN***
"Dean, hey..."
"Hmm?"
"You good?"
"Oh..." Dean snorted. "Yeah. Think so."
"M’kay. Go back to sleep."
***SPNSPNSPN***
Something just outside his vision moved around... a sound like rustling echoed around him.
"Are you feeling better?"
That voice sounded so familiar... somehow. "Yes."
"Good. Rest."
***SPNSPNSPN***
He remembered all of his dreams. All but one. It was frustrating feeling; like he could remember it if he tried a little bit harder. Still, no matter what he tried, one dream just stayed out of his grasp.