Chapter Text
My head was foggy, and my eyes wouldn't focus on anything past a smear of light and shadow. It was the kind of dizzy that comes from either cheap tequila or a solid knock to the head. The one clear thought that cut through the noise was run. My arms and legs felt like they belonged to someone else. Heavy and clumsy that I had to force to move.
I hit a wall, shoulder-first. The impact was a dull thud I felt more than heard. Fine. I could use it to stay upright. A quick mental inventory came up empty: no idea where I was, how I got here, or who I was running from. The only thing I knew for sure was that standing still was a good way to get killed.
'You don't belong here.'
The voice wasn't a sound. It hit my brain directly, a loud, layered mixture of words, like something I'd already heard once and couldn't shake loose.
'Angels... Winchesters... Magic...'
My face was wet. Great. Crying. Just what I needed. A glance down confirmed the obvious: blood. A lot of it, soaking the front of my shirt and jeans. The pain was just a background hum, drowned out by the adrenaline keeping me on my feet but probably not for long.
"Who are you?" I yelled, my voice cracking. "What do you want?!"
The only answer was the ringing in my own ears.
The floor came up to meet me, fast. I threw out my left hand to break the fall and earned a spike of white-hot agony for my trouble. Bad move. The floor was gritty, and it ground into the cuts already on my palm. Son of a bitch.
Get up... The words surfaced again, followed by a low mumble I couldn't catch.
Okay, anger. I could use anger. Anger was a tool, solid to hold onto when everything else was spinning. I let it push back the fog. My vision swam, but I locked my knees, found the wall with my good hand, and forced myself upright.
I shuffled along, my hand tracing the surface, searching for a door, a corner, anything. A new smell cut through the metallic tang of blood, something sharp and strangely clean. I know that smell. Soap...and gunpowder.
That was my last thought before the world went black.
—
"Really, Dean? Two whole pies?"
Sam sighed, rubbing a hand over his face like he didn't have the energy to fight about it. He held the passenger door of the Impala open, watching as Dean carefully arranged the cardboard boxes on the back seat like they were priceless artifacts. They'd just finished a greasy-spoon meal, and somehow Dean had still managed to score dessert.
"You do realize you can probably feel your arteries hardening in real time, right?"
Dean rolled his eyes, giving the boxes one last pat before sliding behind the wheel. "Dude, it's got fruit in it. It's practically a salad." He turned the key. The '67 Chevy Impala roared to life, vibrating through the worn leather seats. He let out a slow breath, shoulders easing as he pulled out of the lot.
"That's my Baby," he murmured, brushing a hand over the dashboard as he headed towards the freeway. The engine's low rumble kept him grounded. It was his dad's car, still doing what it always had.
"Dude, you try wrestling those monsters on an empty stomach," Dean said. "This is a job perk. End of story."
Sam shook his head, a smile slipping through as he glanced back a the boxes. One of them had a name scrawled across the top in looping cursive, followed by a phone number.
"Looks like Ilana the waitress felt compelled to pay you personally." He lifted his fingers in air quotes.
A slow smirk spread across Dean's face. "What can I say? I'm adorable." He stole a glance at the rearview mirror and adjusted it anyway.
Sam didn't bother responding. He leaned his head against the cool glass of the window, the rumble of the engine settling into something almost soothing. It had been a long week, a salt-and-burn in a forgotten cemetery, and all he wanted was a real bed and a roof that didn't come with a checkout time.
"See, this is your problem, Sammy," Dean started. "You don't appreciate the fine art of the hustle. Reminds me of this one time in Flagstaff... there were these twins---"
He trailed off. Sam was already out, his long frame folded awkwardly in the passenger seat.
"Bitch," Dean muttered.
The road was dark and empty. He was beat, but the thought of what was waiting for him kept him moving. Home. Beer. Pie. In that order. He grinned and jabbed the button on the radio. Highway to Hell blared through the car as he cranked the volume.
He had no clue what he was actually driving home to.