a happy place to dream about (slice of life horror, multi-chaptered)
Dean's rudderless when he limps ashore in West Cibola. 23, with nobody and nothing but a couple bucks and a broken-down old car to his name. It's October. Nothing's been right for a long time.
He turns 24 in a rundown long-stay motel room with an under the table turned actual job at an washed-up dive barā the only place that'd take him without a real job history or a permanent address. Itās way off the tourist strip and the moneyās terrible, but itās steady.
Two years and some change later, just as the restlessness really starts to seep in, he meets Chuck Shurley for the first time.
That he knows of.
[Read on AO3]
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CHP 8 UP!
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April. The airās humid, heavy on the skin, on and off rain thick enough to taste.
Dean's crouched down awkwardly at the lowest shelf behind the bar, clipboard under one arm and pen jammed between his teeth as he rustles at the back, counting and recounting bottles of triple sec and sour mixā he keeps losing track halfway, headache kneading at his skull. The dead out nap thatād eaten his lunch break between one blink and the next barely dented it.
Still, he feels the eyes on his back like a target.
He works his jaw, staying put. Makes a few purposeful-looking marks that donāt mean anything before he heaves up to his feet, tossing the clipboard on the shelf. He tilts against the counter, plastering on a smile at the vaguely familiar man across the bar ā infrequent repeat customer, tall, intense, radiatesĀ copĀ in a way that makes Dean twitchyā but they get those sometimes, off-duty guys just after a drink.
Off-dutyĀ isnāt heās clocking from him right now, though.
Alarm bells rattle his back molars but Dean keeps smiling, plastic. Wishes heād held onto the clunky metal clipboard. Thereās an empty beer bottle to his left. Mostly useless plastic trays of lime wedges and violent red maraschino cherries to his right. Capped marker in his pocketā
āWhatās your poison?ā
āIām more interested in you, Dean Harrison,ā the cop says, sliding a gleaming badge across the counter.
Deanā
not Dean Harrison, he hasnāt been Dean fucking Harrison in yearsā
stalls out.
Andā no, not cop, agent.Ā FederalĀ agent.Ā What the fuck?
Outwardly, Dean just raises a brow.
āI wasnāt gonna card you, but sure.ā He makes a show of glancing over the badge, āGood news is, youāre legal for that drink youāre not after, but other than thatā¦ā Pressing two fingers against the badge, he slides it right back over to him crisply. āKinda feel like you got the wrong idea here, Mister Henderson.ā
āItās Henriksen.ā
āOh, I figured getting your name wrong was part of the game.ā
āIām sure I got yours rightā didnāt I, Harrison?ā
āItās Winchester,ā Dean corrects shortly.
Henriksen just laughs, low and surprisingly real.
āYeah, I heard thatā itās cute, ācause Iāve gotĀ Dean Winchesterās death certificate on my wall.ā He leans forward on an elbow, waving a hand, āBut heyā nobodyās looking for a kid that died way back in ā95, right? Pretty clever for a corpse.ā
Dean stares at him, flat. The fed crooks a smug grin at him. Deanās not even sure either of them has blinked.
āSo. John Winchesterās poor dead kid who aināt dead. Iāve got the feeling you can fill in some blanks for me.ā
















