#ret-gone

You were essentially trapped in the moving vehicle with no hope of escaping. The car was moving way too fast for you to even attempt to open the door and roll safely away. Even though you hated to admit it, you realised you had been safer with Officer Tubby at the police station all along.

“Sorry for lying to you back there,” Dean spoke with a half grin. He sure didn’t look sorry. “But it was the only way for me to get in there to talk to you.”

You stared at him, dumbfounded. Saying anything seemed way too risky given the situation. You had no idea what this guy was capable of. He’d already lied to the local law enforcement.

You looked over at the odometer on the car’s dash, but the numbers were lower than you expected. ‘Right, America uses miles,’ you thought. So you tried to calculate in your head how fast you might be going. ‘There’s about two kilometres in a mile—’

“Look. I’m not gonna hurt you. I’m the best chance you’ve got of making your way back home.” He raised his hand and pointed his thumb like he was hitching a ride. “The officers back there, they can’t do jack. Same with the other guys that were coming for you. They have no clue what they’re dealing with.”

“And you do?” you asked, the sarcasm clear in your voice.

“Yup.” His eyes moved back to the road once again.

“Okay,” you started, trying to choose your next words carefully, “Look. I really appreciate you getting me out of there and all, but I’m good now. You can just—drop me off somewhere and I’ll figure it out by myself and—”

“Yeah, I can’t do that.” The grin that had lined his face vanished and his green eyes narrowed. “Someone’s gone through a lot of trouble to bring you here, and it’s my job to find out why.”

“Your job? You’re clearly not any kind of law-officer-person, so what exactly is your job?”

A slight chuckle escaped his lips as he heard you stutter through your American legal terminology. You barely had any knowledge of the cops back home, having never done anything remotely criminal. Well, maybe a speeding ticket or two, but you’d never set foot in a police station and definitely never been contained as you had been back there.

As for things in the United States, that was a whole other ball game. You knew nothing except what you’d seen in movies and TV, but that was all fiction. This definitely wasn’t. Law and Order SVU wasn’t going to help you here.

Country hopping in your sleep. International fraud. The stint back at the police station and this ‘little joy ride’ you were now experiencing in Dean’s car (assuming it was his and not stolen), was the most adventure you’d probably had in your life to date and you weren’t even the one driving. You were wearing the handcuffs though and in that moment you were reminded of the metal rings giving you more cuts. Your attempt to readjust them up your arms and away from the raw skin didn’t go unnoticed by Dean.

“I’m a hunter,” he said while you played with the cuffs. You just needed to get out of them, then you could consider your other options. “When we’re a safe distance away, I’ll help you get them off.”

Wait. A hunter?

It took a while, but when the word finally registered in your brain, it brought on questions.

Lots of them.

“A hunter? Like ‘wascally wabbits’ and ducks? Or are you America’s answer to Dundee?” The jeer was probably a bad idea, but you couldn’t help it. Why would he bring up his hobby of all things?

“No.” Dean’s demeanour was no longer playful if you could have ever really called it that to begin with. “You know Twilight? Vampires, werewolves, it’s all real. Just—less sparkles, more blood. A lot more blood.”

Your mouth dropped open. You quickly shut it before Dean noticed.

“Me and my brother, we hunt them, all of them. Not just Dracula. Demons, ghosts, pretty much everything except Big Foot and Godzilla all exist. And angels, too. Those cuts on your skin, the Enochian, some angels and demons still speak it. I know a guy who can probably tell you what it says. Might be your ticket home,” Dean finished matter-of-factly.

“You’re serious?” was all you managed to spit out. Not only was Dean dangerous, but he also clearly needed therapy.

“It’s a lot to take in, okay? Believe me, I know. This ain’t my first monster talk.” A slight grin had returned to his face, his tone a little more relaxed. “Normally I have to give the talk to people after they’ve seen something. So I get it. You’re sceptical. But it’s the truth. Just give it time. Hanging out with me, whatever’s going on with you there, you’re bound to see it for yourself sooner or later.”

“And what makes you think I want to ‘hang out’ with you?” your sarcasm returned.

“Right now. You don’t have much of a choice.” He was quick. Witty almost, and damn irritating. “You’re technically a fugitive.” He smirked.

The sun was setting as Dean walked back to you, waiting in the car out front of the shady-looking motel. You’d been on the road for about two hours now and were relieved to know that you were finally going to be given the chance to get out and stretch your legs.

You had discovered on your journey that the black beast of a car did, in fact, belong to Dean. It had previously belonged to his father, who had started him on his path to what Dean called ‘the family business’. He’d also told you briefly about his brother, Sam, who had recently stopped talking to him over ‘something stupid’.

Man, it was odd to be making friends with a guy who was potentially your captor, but small talk was better than awkward silence.

Dean had asked you more of what you remembered during your night out in the city. Had you noticed anyone following you? Had you met or talked to anyone new? Had you felt or seen anything unusual? Cold spots? The smell of eggs? His questions were strange, but you humoured him, anyway.

The car was moved to a parking spot in front of the room the two of you were going to be staying in for the night. You walked inside ahead of him as he went to retrieve his belongings from the boot of the car.

As you didn’t feel like sitting down again but were also at a loss for what to do while you waited, you poked around the tiny room. Checking it all out, only there wasn’t much to look at. Two beds, a table and chairs, a mini fridge and ageing yellow walls that reminded you of piss...

At least there was a bed for you - with stained sheets and a scratchy blanket. A vast improvement from your cell cot back at the police station.

Dean entered the room and locked the door diligently behind him, making certain to apply the little chain that was supposed to add security. You were starting to believe him, at least in his sincerity p that he thought monsters and such existed. He was definitely putting on a show for you, but you were a firm seeing-is-believing type. If anything it humoured you to see the grown man acting so cautiously.

He placed a duffle on the bed closest to the door and a first aid kit on the small table that sat in front of the only window in the room. He then reached into the back pocket of his suit pants and pulled out a small metal cylinder, using one hand to take the lid off, revealing a lock pick.

“Let’s get those cuffs off,” Dean said as he motioned for you to come sit down at the table with him.

Your eyes followed his hands as he worked to pick the tiny lock holes and within a couple of minutes, you were released from the silver rings. It was such a relief to be free again, and you pulled back the cuff on both arms of the jacket you were wearing to inspect the injured skin they left behind.

But regret hit you as Dean grabbed your arms and he too examined the cuts and old bruises along with them. “They were really rough with you at the station.” It was a statement, not a question, and one filled with pity.

A small sound of agreement escaped your lips.

“Let me clean up these fresh cuts and then I’m sure you’d appreciate a hot shower.”

He was right.

“You hungry? I bet they didn’t feed you much in that cell either?”

You were hungry. Tired, too. And that shower, although smelling a little funky at the back of the room, sounded amazing, and you practically jumped at the chance to wash away the metaphorical filth of your ordeal.

There were no clean clothes to change into though and the thought crossed your mind to use one of the robes the motel had provided in the room. However, knowing that you were going to be sharing a room with Dean for the night made you cautious. You were warming to him, at least less on your guard than you were when you’d first met, but he was still a stranger and you felt uncomfortable wearing nothing more around him.

So you put on the same clothes you’d been wearing since you’d last left your apartment back home in Sydney, and stepped out of the bathroom, feeling somewhat refreshed.

As you entered the main part of the room once again, the smell of burgers and fries filled the air and you looked over to see Dean with a cheeseburger in one hand and a beer in the other. He had been out while you showered. “Burger?” he mumbled through his mouthful and pointed to an unopened package sitting on the table.

He pulled a second beer out of the six-pack sitting on the table and offered it to you as you sat down. “You drink beer?” His mouth was finally empty of food.

“Sometimes,” you said, taking it from his hand. “Thanks.”

You wiped the top of the bottle over with your shirt, trying to remove the condensation from its tip, and then twisted the lid off with your hand, the fizz of the air escaping the thin neck.

“I’ll take you to a mall or something tomorrow and you can pick up anything you think you might need.” Dean began in between swigs of his beer. “I’m sure you’re sick of those clothes.”

“Yeah. Didn’t exactly pack real well for my night out, did I?” You laughed at your small joke. “But my credit card is fake, remember, and I doubt anywhere around here takes my dollarydoos. I’ve got no way of paying for anything.”

“Just leave that to me,” Dean replied with a smile.

“I couldn’t. You’ve done enough for me already.” You hated being in debt to your friends, let alone someone you’d just met.

“No, really. My cards fake too…” Dean said with his now trademark grin. “But unlike yours, mine works.” He winked at you.

You woke up the next morning, your mind refreshed, but feeling not so clean as you still wore the same clothes you’d put on almost a week ago. Your eyes soon adjusted to the morning light, and you sat up to see Dean sitting at the small table by the window. He was fidgeting with a large metal object in his hands. The metal clinked and clacked together as he moved the mechanical pieces of what you now realised was a gun.

You’d never seen a gun in real life before. Hell, most people you knew in Australia probably hadn’t up close. They were objects only seen on the belts of street police, or a farm maybe, or on TV of course.

You knew there were biker gangs that probably used them too, but all you knew of that was what you’d heard on the news. Yet here you were in this dingy motel room, somewhere in the middle of the US with your new found companion Dean, a self proclaimed monster hunter who helped you escape the American police barely twelve hours ago.

The small cuts still stung on your body when you moved wrong or grazed too hard against a surface were the only evidence you had that proved this wasn’t a dream. Everything you saw before you was very real.

“Morning,” Dean grunted. His lips curving in an attempt at a warm smile. He had changed his clothes sometime during the night, no longer donning the black FBI suit, but jeans, a chequered flannel shirt, military-style jacket, and boots. His appearance was definitely more rough around the edges than the day before.

You’d call him handsome, except the real gun he held in his hands threw any thought of that out the window. A small amount of fear bubbled once again, deep in your gut.

“Hi,” you breathed out, trying not to alert him to how you really felt in the moment. Unfortunately for you, though, he read you like a book.

Dean looked down at the gun in his hands, and in quick movements, clacked the moving parts back into their usual positions and then reached around and slid the gun into the makeshift pocket, made by his back and his jeans.

“You guys banned ‘em, right?” He was right, but he didn’t give you the chance to answer him.

“You’d best get used to it.” He chuckled, tilting his head to the side. “Don’t worry. I already told you, I’m not gonna hurt you. I’m just… Always prepared. Y’know? For the things that go bump in the night.”

He stood up and started packing them away. “I thought we’d leave in about ten minutes. Get some food, get you some essentials, and then I can figure out what I’m going to do with you,” he continued.

And geez, that sounded promising.

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Ahhh - the first few chapter were so short. They get longer. I wrote this on the notes app on my phone before I considered really thinking about my word choices. I’m going to try uploading the next two on Sunday (16th) and Tuesday (18th) because they’re shorter.

The aussism’s are rather tame in this one, but they will become more obscure. For the Aussies playing along, I’ve wanted to slide in Rhonda and Ketut and “Charter boat? What charter boat?” in here for the longest time, but haven’t managed it yet.

Expect gems like, “We’re not here to fuck spiders,” and “It’s a long way to the shop if you wanna sausage roll,” to come ☺️

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