Spreading Roots

Dean rolled his Impala up to one of the only bars in town; a tiny, homely joint called Weggy’s. It would almost have been better to buy something from the liquor store and retire to his hotel room for the rest of the night, but that was all the way across town.

Weggy’s, on the other hand, was just two blocks away from Marilyn’s place.

So he ignored the peanut shells on the floor and simply trudged over them with his boots, grimacing at the crunch each one of them made. He didn’t know what he was trying to accomplish staying close to Marilyn’s house. He may have promised to stay away from Devon, but was that really possible now?

He sat down at the bar, not bothering to eye the waitresses or the bartender like he normally might have. If he wanted to admit it, he shouldn’t have even been in the place anyway. Staying sharp was his game at that moment, and all that he really had. Drinking himself into a stupor was going to make the opposite out of him.

Don’t ask why Dean felt anything for this kid, or why he was still on this hunt when he could have been living a normal life with an actual freaking family. He didn’t know the answer himself. All he had to go on was a crazy woman’s word, and now what happened to Devon down in that basement. It seemed like she’d been telling the truth, the glazed, terrified look in her eyes as she explained what happened couldn’t have been fake. To her she’d been stuck back in that basement, reliving the experience.

Besides, as far as he could tell she didn’t have any reason to lie.

“What can I get for you, sweets?” The bartender’s sweet as honey voice just barely brought him out of his trance, and only long enough to at least try and form a reply.

“Whatever’s on tap.”

It was a lot more to go on, at least from what he had before. He felt sure in the fact that Devon didn’t take after her mom in the crazy department, so he was in the clear there. He wasn’t wasting his time.

A minute later, a frothy glass of beer was set in front of him. He pursed his lips, staring at the drink with intensity, as if he could make it melt away. No, he wasn’t really in any mood to drink. But what else did he have to do?

Dean’s next thought had him feeling queasy, and he leaned forward to rest his elbows against the edge of the bar, running a tired hand down the side of his face.

Now he knew that this haunting—or whatever it was—had it out for Devon, too. He didn’t want to see anything happen to the kid; that was the last thing he would ever want. Right next to keeping his brother in Hell. He also didn’t like how she was being kept in the dark about all of this. He’d seen the way Frank made sure she didn’t hear anything in relation to the things that went bump in the night. And, in his humble opinion if Devon was in danger, she at least deserved to know what she was up against.

Damn it, he didn’t know what he was going to do to fix all this crap, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to sit around and wait for Christmas. After throwing down some money and finally giving the bartender a once over—he wouldn’t be Dean Winchester if he didn’t—Dean left both the bar and his still-full glass of beer. He didn’t even notice the put off looked the bartender gave him when he turned to leave.

His game was definitely off. For once he didn’t even want to get drunk. When the hell did this hunt become so important to him?

Maybe when he had to physically restrain Devon upon meeting her, or maybe when he saw how her mother acted towards her. How Marilyn barely even acknowledged the fact that Devon had been going blue in the face from lack of air.

When he felt he could actually relate to the kid.

Goddamnit.

Never let your heart get tangled up in the hunt. It was a rule that was sometimes bent for the sake of the job and hunters’ sanity, but Dean just figuratively smashed that rule and tossed it out the window.

Autumn’s brisk air momentarily woke Dean up from his one-tracked thought process, and he looked over at the Impala with a sigh. Sam should have been inside it, ready and waiting in the passenger seat either to bitch at him for drinking, or spill some new info about the job.

Unfortunately, Sam wasn’t. Would never be ever again. And Dean still didn’t have that ever so important information, the one piece of the puzzle he needed.

Acting on impulse, he started his beloved car up and headed back toward Marilyn’s house. Not like he had anywhere else to go, aside from the motel. And that wasn’t saying very much. He didn’t much like the thought of actually have a conversation with the woman, but hey, at that point… whatever got the job done.

The streets blurred into a flurry of golden browns of falling leaves and people bundled up in their Fall jackets, raking lawns, preparing for Halloween. Just as he was about to turn down the street toward Marilyn’s house, Dean caught a familiar flash of blue behind a thicket of trees. He let off on the gas, nearly idling as he searched through the trees again on the side of the road.

Of course, it could have been just anyone behind there. But Dean had that Winchester gut feeling, and he couldn’t just ignore it. Now that he could hear over the roar of the Impala’s engine, Dean successfully made out the high-pitched sound of a two stroke engine. Nearly straight afterward, he caught another flash of blue and a head of brunette hair sticking out from under a helmet.

Sure then that it was the spitfire of a kid he met not days before, Dean sped up and tried his hardest to keep an eye on the kid with the dirt bike, just beyond the road and through the trees, and the other on the road. Damn, if he continued to act on his impulses he might really off himself.

He tried not to dwell on the fact he’d been reduced to stalking a teenager. Again, whatever got the job done. And whatever kept the kid safe.

Dean followed her up East Humphrey Street and all the way onto North Murphy. It may have been slow goings, but Dean was impressed at the ground Devon was making, especially on a dirt bike on a crappy path next to the road. Soon they would be nearing route sixty, the state highway that passed right through town.

Then? Then he freaking lost her. The streak of blue he managed to follow just seemed to disappear, but then Dean saw the one turn off from the highway.

Cemetery Road.

Funny, his hunts always lead him to a cemetery. What a gig.

That good old Winchester gut feeling led him down that road, and once again was proven right. In front of the gates sat Devon’s bike, the same one she pretended to be working on earlier that day. Dean wanted to believe he lucked out for once, that maybe he had another lead for himself. But he only managed to wonder which of her family was buried here.

Because he knew the feeling all too well.

He pulled over a ways from the entrance of the cemetery so she could neither see him nor hear the rumble of the Impala, but could still see Devon from inside the car.

She walked along through the rows of headstones until she stopped and planted herself down next to one that didn’t look a whole lot different from the rest. Empathy rolled off of Dean in waves, the first thing he felt apart from self-pity, guilt and misery since Sammy.

Devon tucked her legs underneath her, and it wasn’t two minutes of a staring contest with the headstone before she started swiping at her eyes, trying her best not to cry. It was a shock. The few times he’d been around her, Devon was tough as nails. To him, it was almost unnatural to see her in such a vulnerable state.

Somewhere along the line, he forgot that she most likely wasn’t as hard as she made herself out to be. It was just a ruse, one he knew all too well. He reminded himself that Devon was just a kid, and that he would have to go easier on her from then on. Suddenly Dean felt like shit for spying on Devon. There he was, hid away in his car like a regular peeping tom. He wished he knew why this time felt different than any other, because watching people was pretty much in the job description.

When Devon suddenly punched the ground and with it, let all of her emotions go through the tears on her cheeks, was right where Dean couldn’t bring himself to watch anymore. He knew where the grave was. Watching Devon any further would just be an invasion of privacy.

… Was he turning into one big chick flick moment or what?

If it were a year ago he wouldn’t have flinched if he saw a shape shifter change into himself. Hell, he still wouldn’t… but when this kid sheds a few tears he gets all mushy?

He couldn’t even answer his own questions. The answers were just as confusing as his thoughts were.

A minute later, Dean gathered the guts to look up, and what he saw left him surprised. Devon wasn’t crying anymore. Quite the contrary—she held her cell phone to her ear with force, and the way her jaw clenched led Dean to believe that Devon didn’t like what she was hearing on the other end. He quickly pieced things together, recalling the one person who made her go livid in just a moment’s notice. It wasn’t much of a challenge to guess.

Marilyn. It was always Marilyn. Dean then had just one more reason to hate her.

“Whatever, I’m on my way!” Devon’s yell could be heard even in the car. Dean thought he might’ve even seen a few birds fly out of the trees in fright. The kid had a temper.

With heavy feet she walked back to her bike, and Dean subconsciously sunk in his seat as she unknowingly passed by him. It wasn’t even minutes later that he was out and stalking into the cemetery, straight to the grave Devon just visited.

Preparing himself for what he was about to see was lost to Dean. All he could do was look. And look. He read the epitaph, over and over, mind suddenly reeling. The ornate, traditional script swirled until he couldn’t even look at it anymore. But even when he closed his eyes, he could still see it. It was still there.

KARA ELIZABETH BAKER

1979-2005

“Son of a bitch.”