Six Weeks of Memories

By Tidia, January 2006

Words: 1.065

Thanks to Mog and Ridley C. James


Dean’s eyelids felt heavy, laden with weariness. But the quietness in the room made him wonder. He opened his eyes and stretched, trying to bring himself to immediate alertness. His brother, Sam, was hunched over the desk, with the glow of the laptop illuminating his features. The rustling of the sheets and Dean’s attempt to place one foot on the ground, alerted his brother.

“Hey, hey, you were out of it for awhile. . .” The younger Winchester got up and placed a hand on his older brother’s chest. “Don’t get up too fast.”

Dean smiled, and swatted the hand away. He moved himself to a seated position on the bed, feet on the floor. The movement brought with it tiredness and a stab of pain in his shoulder. “How long?”

Sam went back to his chair, shaking his head at his brother’s stubbornness. “Three days,”

“What?” Dean snapped his head up. “What the hell?”

“You didn’t want to go to the hospital, and that bolt I removed was covered with rust so of course you got an infection. . .” Sam studied his brother again.

Dean found it unnerving. “What?”

“Do you feel like you have a fever, or anything? I used the antibiotics, but . . .”

“I’m fine.” Dean noted the glass of water on the nightstand. He drank it tepid liquid, holding the cool glass between his hands even after he had finished it. “Remind me never to go into a tool shed with a poltergeist with has a thing for woodworking.”

Sam thought about it for a moment. "Jesus was a carpenter."

The older Winchester laughed. "Yeah, and Moses was a sheep herder - should I stay away from ghosts with sheep?” Dean scratched the stubble on his chin. “Puts a whole new spin on Mary had a Little Lamb."

Sam noticed his brother was not rushing to charge the day. “You know we can take a break.” He closed his laptop. “Not hunting for a couple a days wouldn’t be a bad thing – it isn’t like we’re on a time schedule.”

The older Winchester brother stood up, placing a hand on the nightstand for assistance. “I’ll be ready in thirty minutes.” He headed for the shower with a slow but determined gait.

“What was I thinking?” Sam replied. “The hunt is all you know.”

Dean didn’t acknowledge the accusation; just shut the door to the bathroom. He didn’t have the energy to tell his brother he was wrong. Instead he turned the shower on and waited for the mirror to fog.


Dean stayed under the hot shower, tolerating the tendrils of heat in order to wash away vestiges of soreness in his body. He closed his eyes, and dropped his neck forward so that the water would work its way into his neck and shoulders. He wished he could tell his brother of the time he decided to leave the hunt. Six weeks of living that ‘something different’ before his father found him, and he took up the mantle once more.

It wasn’t a special place, just some town in the middle of nowhere with one main street running through it. But, it was special to him-anyplace where an hour of sitting at Molly’s Diner led him to the best apple pie and a job. The Impala was his résumé and Tom was looking for a mechanic.

Tom, in his overalls, had wandered into Molly’s and asked who owned the car out front. Over a cup of coffee, and Dean’s second helping of pie, the garage owner told him about his situation. “No telling when Vic’s coming back, and if you need a job . . .”

Molly, cleaned the plates, and placed the check on the counter. “He’s saying he needs the help,” she added with a wink.

“I need the work,” Dean replied, and he found himself following Tom to the Main Street Garage. There was a room over the garage that Dean could have for as long as he wanted. It was better than any motel, even with its sparseness. Within a week Dean found himself becoming comfortable in his new surroundings. He found a picture at the pharmacy of Vitruvian Man and bought it, tacking it up in his room.

After three weeks, Dean began to believe in the possibilities. He could call Sam, maybe go to school, settle down. . .have a future. Saturday nights were spent at Collie’s Tavern, hanging out with the people his own age – the locals. And he was one of them. There were no monsters, guns, knives or violence in this Dean Winchester’s life.

He went quietly when his father found him. He sensed when John Winchester hit the town limits. He finished working on the brakes on Joe’s Jeep Cherokee, topping off the windshield fluid and water. He put the tools away meticulously, wiping some of the grease off with a rag. In five minutes, his stuff was packed into his duffle bag, except for the poster. He wouldn’t be needing it. It wouldn’t fit in this Dean Winchester’s life. He looked out the window, and his father was waiting outside. He went down the wooden steps with trepidation. It was lunch time, and Tom was cooking chili. It was chili on Wednesdays.

“Tom, I’m sorry. It’s time for me to leave.” He kept his head low, looking at his duffle bag, studying the frays.

Tom shut the flame on the propane stove, wiping his hands on his mechanic’s overalls. “Is the law after you, Dean?”

“No sir, just it’s time. But, I appreciate all you’ve done for me.” Dean studied the little kitchen, with its two mismatching chairs and manmade tables. He would miss the lunchtime conversations.

“You’re a hard worker, Dean.” Tom placed his hand on Dean’s shoulder. “You come back when you can. There’s always a place for you here.”

The young man looked out the window at his father, knowing John Winchester would disapprove of his display of emotions. Dean dropped his bag and hugged Tom. The older man was taken aback, but returned the embrace. “You take care of yourself.”

Dean left with a curt nod, back into the hunt, into the life he could never leave.

The knocking on the door brought him back from his reverie. He shut off the water.

“The car is all packed up.”

“Be out in a minute,” he yelled back. It was time for the hunt.



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