AN: You guys, long time no see. You can kick my ass if you want because I post something but not an update for my stories, but starting another new one. 8 months since my last post was too long for you, even for me. But I want to write a few chapters first before starting to update the stories again so you don't have to wait months between updates. Unfortunately, I just have one new chapter for each of my other stories. So, before I manage to write at least three new chapters for the stories, just enjoy this one for the time being. I already have 5 chapters in betaed process and another 5 chapters queuing after that.
Beta'ed: From a nice friend I have on the net, Green Witch 2. She's always nice with me and my works. Thanks for this, cookies for you girl!
Summary: On certain circumstances that keep happening, he thinks that everybody hates him. Dad hates him. Sammy hates him. So what's the point of living? WARNING Self-destruction Dean. Pre-series. Mostly John and Dean. Major Dean's angst.
Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to Kripke and CW. This is just for fun. Title was from The Jamestown Story's song, Distant and Faded.
Distant and Faded
"Hey! Move that crap out already, you moron!!" John Winchester hollered out to the old truck driver in front of him. That guy just starting to get on his nerves as he kept eating in his seat, never looking up to the green light in front of them.
His hand pushed down the horn, honking the guy up from his food. An annoyed glare shot to him in the rearview mirror as the dusty green truck started to make its move. As soon as he had the room to take over, he nearly knocked the vehicle into the side of the road as his big black four wheel drive cut its way through.
John didn't bother to think about the guy anymore, he grabbed his phone from the dashboard, hitting the same speed dial for a thousand times that week. His jaws clenched hard as he let out an impatient sigh.
"Damn it, Dean!" He cursed under his breath as he reached the voicemail.
John tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. Gripping the steering wheel hard, he hit the gas as much as he could. He should be able to arrive at Bobby's in an hour. The old friend might know something since the hunter's house was in the middle of Dean's way to his last hunt.
He sent that kid to Nebraska two weeks ago for a simple hunting job. A series of unusual deaths was discovered and fitted the pattern for a possible supernatural attachment. They should have gone together but he'd found another job just outside California, so they split up. They made an agreement to meet up at a motel in Nebraska, four days ago.
But Dean never showed up.
He searched for the boy three days in a row, he was worried sick but mostly angry at the same time. He checked up all motels and hospitals in Nebraska, asking for a Jimmy Monroe or any John Doe but he ended up with nothing. There was no trace of his son except for a small hint of his appearance in the small town where he sent the kid before.
But the job was done, leaving him again back to square one.
His mind was chanting a lot of 'maybes' about what was going on with Dean, but most of them were bad guessing. And he didn't like that. There must be a really concrete reason why Dean hadn't shown up or contacted him, or even answered his calls these past few days. Dean was always sharp, always knew what was the best thing to do and he would never ever do something stupid such as purposely leaving his father worrying without any explanation. He knew that.
Or did he? Was he possibly doing this on purpose? Did he want to leave too?
John shook his head, knowing that he started to cross the line. There was no way Dean would do the same mistake his brother did. He knew his son. He knew him good. He just seemed different recently but it didn't mean that Dean would betray him too.
His son just missed his brother.
Since Sam left six months ago, Dean was different. He was quiet and sometimes, he was practically mute. John remembered that there were a few times he barely heard the kid's voice in days except from 'Yes Sir'. And he even stumbled over Dean having nightmares for a couple of times. Something he'd not seen since Dean was seven, except when he had fever. And deep down he knew, it was not just that two times. In his sleep, Dean kept saying that he was sorry and it broke his heart into pieces. He tried to calm his son down by touching the boy's head, stroking the hair down and apparently it was working.
But what made him feel ashamed to himself was, his hand was trembling all the way as he soothed his son from the nightmare. It made him realize that he couldn't even remember when the last time he ever did that, touching his son like that. Maybe after all, Sam was right.
He was a bad father.
Sam left them, he felt betrayed and angry but he still could move on. But Dean, he was struggling by himself, he could see that. He knew that Dean had a tough time to accept that his brother - his own baby brother - left him, choosing a strange life over the family. The kid was broken. But what did he do? Nothing, except making things worse. He kept sending his son on solo hunts. It wasn't that he didn't want to be with Dean, but looking at the face just made him feel guilty over and over again. And unconsciously, he split the family apart.
And now, he didn't know how to fix it.
He'd screwed everything up.
A big wave of wind was taking over his thoughts, brushing his face with a few drops of water. He sighed, looking up at the already dark night sky. His eyes chased the rain drops that could be seen with the help of the road light. He closed the window before turning his head back to the road, knowing that it was going to be a longer ride than he thought.
John strolled from the parked truck, trying to steer clear of a couple of puddles of mud which were all over the yard of Bobby's place. If there were any possibility to have a standard code for a hunter's house, this place was the winner. The yard was always muddy, with a black dog up front, lazily sleeping but always alert of its surrounding. It was always dark even on a bright afternoon. Actually, it was just the feeling but it seemed real. Dean always said that the place was cursed or something. The house looked more like an old barn from some angle but the funny thing was it was the only place John could call home. And he knew, it was for his sons too.
They moved too much to feel attached to any place, sometimes even spending their days in the hospital more than a motel room. His sons never had a home, well maybe they had once but not anymore. Thanks to him for that.
As he stepped on the wooden double steps, the welcome feeling stroked his heart for a moment. He didn't know if his old friend was home. Bobby's truck could be anywhere in his back yard that full of metal scraps but he didn't bother to check out. And besides, a small sound could be heard from the living room, maybe coming from whatever movie the hunter was watching.
Exchanging his duffel bag to his right shoulder, he brought up his fist to knock the door. After knocking twice, he waited, glancing a little to the dormant black dog behind him.
John cleared his throat, ready to knock the door again when he heard a few steps approaching the front door. He put his half-way-knocking hand into his jean's pocket, waiting to greet the older hunter. As the door unfolded, John put a friendly smile to his face at the glimpse of the person in front of him.
"Hey Bobb…" John frowned.
The person stood still before him was not Bobby…
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