Chapter Text
At night, we ride through mansions of glory
In suicide machines
Sprung from cages out on Highway 9
Chrome wheeled, fuel injected and steppin' out over the line
Oh, baby this town rips the bones from your back
It's a death trap, it's a suicide rap
We gotta get out while we're young
`Cause tramps like us, baby we were born to run
Born to run – Bruce Springsteen (1975)
Sam took one last look at what used to be the family home, and closed the door. Steps heavy, he contemplated the house, but no tears were left to cry. The air was getting colder as the sun was setting down.
“I still think you’re making a mistake boy.” Bobby said, unable to take his eyes off of the closed blinds. The white house seemed unnatural like that, too quiet, haunted by ghosts from the past. The weeds had grown wild around it, and the lack of light inside almost made it look two dimensional, a weird cardboard cut out of a house. It wasn’t right.
“Dad is dead. And Dean... I know you don’t wanna hear it, but face it... so is Dean.” Sam said almost defensively, “He must be.” And with these words, he handed the keys over to Bobby. “Because if he is not... Then it simply means he wants nothing to do with us anymore right? And Dean would never...” The tall man replaced his hair behind his ear and dropped his arms in defeat.“The new owner is coming tomorrow, just give him the keys, and... that’s it Bobby. It’s done.” Sam got into his car, and without even looking back, drove away. It felt like he was running away. Escaping something as quick as he could, and never come back. Never again. Lawrence, Kansas, shall just be a random name on map from now on.
“Idjit.” Bobby pocketed the keys. From the back of his own truck, he grabbed a bottle of whiskey and sat on the porch. He poured some on the grass before helping himself. “You don't even deserve it John.” It took him almost ten years, but he could not hold it in anymore, and there was not enough whiskey in the world to drown his sobs. God, he hated the man. He had drunk himself to death, a years long suicide, but Bobby could never forgive him. Not in life, and definitely not in death. Through gritted tears, he mumbled one last “You bastard!” before pushing himself back on his feet.
And just as planned, the next day Bobby was there. Sam had texted him the prior night, apologising for leaving like he did, and to let him know he was back safe and sound in Wichita. He was truly proud of Sam for becoming a lawyer, and apparently there was a new woman in his life, Eileen, and the kid seemed happy. Truly happy. So who could blame him for wanting to leave the past behind? And Sam had the chance to not know. And sometimes, some truths were better buried with a dead body. He just wished he could let go of the past as well. Instead, he just wished this key exchanged would be over so he could hit the counter before heading back to work at his garage. It took him years, but he had found the car he had been looking for, and he was restoring it at his own pace, not able to work on cars full time now that his back was killing him after a few minutes of being head deep in the bonnet. The 1968 Ford Mustang was one hell of a car, and he believed than within the next year, he would be able to drive it around. He had nothing left to do anyway... Karen had passed away eight years ago, now John was dead, Sam was all grown up making a life for himself in the big city and Dean... Dean.
Right at eleven on the dot, a car pulled by the house. Bobby rose an eyebrow at the sight of the Continental. Not a bad car. Just lacking finesse...And in desperate need for some maintenance as the car was almost wheezing in pain. A man got out. He looked overdressed for Lawrence, Kansas, and Bobby tried his best to hide a frown. Balancing a trench coat on his right arm, the man walked up to him. Bobby would have had imagined a new home owner would look more...enthusiastic but this guy looked plain miserable. Hair uncombed, three day stubble and than most empty blue eyes he had ever seen.
“Mr. Singer?” The man offered him his hand.
“Indeed.” Bobby stated blankly, leaving the man hanging there. “Well, I believe these are yours.” He gave him the keys, ready to jump back into his truck, when the man stopped him at the last minute.
“Thank you.”
Bobby shrugged and grumbled at the same time. “Just... take good care of...” He hid his emotions behind a fake cough, gesturing towards the house. The man tilted his head, and nodded compassionately. Bobby left, the air between them strangely heavy.
Castiel Novak, renowned English Literature professor, was now the proud owner of a shit hole, in Lawrence, Kansas.
He exhaled loudly and pushed the door open. In all fairness, it could have been worse : it was still four walls with a roof, but compared to what he had been used to, it was...rundown to be polite. He hanged his trench coat on the banister and let out a sigh. Running a hand through his already overly messing dark hair, he contemplated the empty space. A few rays of sunshine were piercing through the closed blinds, and he dropped his body on the stairs, burying his face in his hands. How the almighty had fallen, he bitterly laughed to himself. Once he was able to regain his composure, he finally texted Gabriel.
Got the keys. I guess I’m officially home.
How can you sound so miserable even via text?!
Castiel ignored the remark.
My stuff should be here by noon. I’ll call you once I’m settled.
Alrighty! Talk to ya later
Castiel smiled slightly. His brother would never say it to his face, but he cared. They cared about each others, in a their own way.
Truth be told, Castiel did not know what was wrong with him. Everything was just... nothing. He who once could spend three days debating about a Shakespearian classic, felt nothing. He had been unable to work on a thesis in more than a year, had not read a book in almost two, and he could not stand to be in a classroom anymore. It was almost as if had woken up in a world where he did not belong anymore. “Major depression", his psychiatrist had called it. And maybe that was it. But instead of getting help, or more precisely refusing for others to help him, he took on Gabriel's advice. His brother had said it as joke though. “Go get lost in the middle of nowhere, and meditate or some crap like that. Or go on a bender!” Gabriel had told him. But the idea kept twirling in Castiel's mind, so here he was. From his inside pocket, he grabbed the pill bottle, popped two and let the bottle roll next to him. It rolled down two steps before laying still on the floor.
He finally opened the blinds and ventilated the front room. The kitchen was useable, so that was that. The bathroom would need to be refreshed but at least, he had hot water. Upstairs, two out of the three bedrooms were decent, only needing a new layer of paint on the walls. The furthest bedroom was different however. At first sight, it was alright, but a quick glance at the door, and you could see a hole left by someone's fist. He stepped in, and stood in the middle of the room. The walls were full of nails where torn pieces of paper were still attached to them. Judging by the numbers of them, the room must have been filled with posters, before being stripped away in a fit of rage. In the right corner, markings could be seen where a metal bed frame had forever scratched the walls. Castiel squinted his eyes and took a step closer. Right above the markings, his fingers reached out to touch what looked like bullet holes. Tiny holes unmistakably made by lead shot. He took a deep breath, and opened the window. Two letters carved on the frame caught his eyes: DW.
A honk in street startled him. His heart strangely heavy, he left the bedroom, and felt the need to close the door behind him. The truck was waiting for him outside, and a few men started to bring boxes inside. There was no turning back.
Most of the boxes went upstairs in the first bedroom, which he hoped to convert into his office. Apart from a worn out sofa, a stained mattress and a few boxes of clothes, he only owned books. A lot of them. It was his life, and his job after all. Any white goods and other furniture belonged to the flat he had rented, and it’s only upon seeing the big empty house being just as empty with his things inside that he realised he was missing something. Something bigger than nice upholstery.
His stomach gave him the answer, a quick fix in his life. He needed something to eat. Taking his meds on an empty stomach was never a good idea, but it was not like he cared anyway. At least it made him feel something. He grabbed his trench coat and the keys to his Lincoln Continental. He had been told his car was a head turner, proper American classic but to him, it had just been four wheels still rolling. He almost hated that car actually. It never felt like him, or didn’t feel like him anymore. It was a gift though, and you are meant to keep those. So here he was, thirty five years old and still driving the same car he used to at sixteen. The problem with gifts however, is that they are a forever reminder of who gave them to you.
He followed the road signs for a few kilometres, and settled for the first diner he encountered, which seemed to be the only one around. He just wanted food, and couldn’t afford to be picky when he was this hungry any way, so he would explore the area an other day. He parked and entered, finding himself a nice table in the corner. When the waitress came over, he was lost in thoughts however, and she had to repeat the specials of the day. He went for the first she said, not completely aware of what he had just ordered.
“Anything to drink?”
“Yeah er... A beer will do, thanks.” He was not meant to mix his meds with booze, but one could easily argue that just the one beer was just flavoured fizzy water. The waitress nodded, the customer friendly smile fading away as she turned around. Castiel tapped his foot a few times, before letting his curiosity overtook him.
“Mr Singer!” The man drinking a cold one at the counter turned around and raised an eyebrow. Castiel pointed at the seat opposite him and invited him to his table. Reluctantly, the old man joined him.
“You’re the fellow who bought John's house right?”
“Castiel Novak...yes.” Cas thanked the waitress as she brought the beer over. “I take it John was a friend of yours then?” He took a sip.
“Yeah... acquaintance really. Man was a bastard. Not used to be though, but his wife got killed in a car crash decades ago... never was the same ever since. Raised two boys on his own. It was tough. Not an excuse to be a dick though.” Bobby downed his own drink, and signalled the woman behind the bar for an other.
“Sam is the one that sold me the house. Never heard anything from his brother.”
The woman – who was not wearing a uniform, so Cas assumed she must have been the owner - placed a bottle near Bobby and gave him a heart-warming smile.
“Boy over here wanna talk about Dean... so keep the beers coming Pam!” Bobby tried to laugh and Pam nodded, her bright smile morphing into a sad one. She eyed Cas for a second and waved at him before going back behind the bar.
“Dean?” Cas asked.
“Dean Winchester. A great kid. Hell, I say kid.... He would be thirty two now.”
“Would be?” Castiel thanked the waitress again when she placed a cheeseburger before him. But he was too captivated by the old man to even remember eating.
“Yeah...” Bobby cackled, aborting any other reaction by bringing his beer up and downing it almost instantly. “Disappeared ten years ago. Stole his old man's car... a '67 Chevrolet Impala...the kind of car you can't miss but no-one...no-one has heard about him since. Presumed dead. Sam’s sure he is.” Pam did not wait for a sign, and replaced the empty bottle by a new one.
“But not you.” Bobby nodded at that. He pushed the plate right in front of Cas and ordered him to dig in before it gets cold. Cas laughed at that. He never knew his dad, but he imagined it was what it felt like to have one.
“Nah. The kid is still out there. Probably settled down somewhere and happy. He gotta be. He must be. That’s good stuff right!” Bobby smiled as he saw Cas widening his eyes after biting into the burger. It really was good.
“I was starving.” He confessed, before grabbing a few handful of fries. He offered some to the old man who just took an other sip instead.
“Dean loved that place. Used to say they nailed the meat/salad ratio in the burger.” Castiel frowned.
“There’s no...salad.”
“Exactly.” And Bobby laughed. Not one of these sad empty one, but a true joyful one, and Cas joined him. “First thing I’ll do when I’’ll see him again : bring him down here, get a burger, some pie, and enough booze to kill us both.” Bobby’s voice dropped down, becoming a faint rumble. After a few second of silence, Castiel felt like asking.
“Is this... is this why it was hard to say goodbye to the house ... in case Dean comes back?”
“Sam... when John died, Dean did not show up at the funeral. So Sam took it as the final proof that Dean was... but I think that now that John is gone, he would come back. He has to. He has nothing to run away from right? Kid can come home.”
“If... you don’t know if Dean is still ali-...out there, how can you be sure he knows his father has passed away? Who would have told him?” Cas tilted his head once more, cleaning his fingers in a paper napkin.
“Ah. You see. It’s all about having hope. The kid will be alive until I see a dead body. And if I gotta die believing he is out there and happy, then so be it. Even with no proof of it, so be it. I’ll keep making excuses for him. There’s hope. There’s always hope.” He cleared his throat.” Gotta go back to the garage. Don’t worry about your food buddy, it’s on me. And you take care of that house alright. If not for Dean, do it for an old hopeful man.” Bobby grabbed his cap from the counter and left a few bucks to Pam who gave him a pat on the shoulder.
Castiel waved him goodbye. Plate almost empty, he was making a mental list of what he had to do. He would need to furnish his new home, buy a fridge at least. Potentially a desk. He might ask Mr. Singer for some addresses he could check out, or he could probably ask Pam.
Finishing his beer tough, Castiel only had one remaining thought : Dean Winchester, the man who left, to never come back.