Chapter Text
The Impala's wheels crunched over Bobby's drive. John didn't kill the engine.
"Bye, Dad." Sam rushed out of the car with his backpack slung over one shoulder.
Dean didn’t move.
"Watch out for Sammy," John said. "And stay outta trouble."
Dean stared out the windshield. His fingers curled against his thigh. Sure. That’s what he’s for—babysitting.
"Dean? You got somethin’ to say, boy?"
Dean swallowed. That rising heat in his chest. The knot sitting hard behind his ribs.
"I just don’t get why I can’t come with you." He felt pathetic for saying that but couldn’t help himself. "I’ve been hunting since I was nine. And now I’m supposed to sit on my ass? I can handle myself!"
"I already told you: this one’s not for you."
"But—"
"I said no! Now get outta the car! Move!"
Dean reached for his duffel, climbed out, and slammed the door hard enough to rattle the frame. The Impala idled for a moment, then shot down the drive, gravel rattling off the undercarriage.
Dean turned away and looked at Bobby, who stood on the porch, wiping his hands on a rag that looked like it hadn’t been washed since Reagan.
"’Bout time, you idjits," he said. "Thought you’d be here this morning."
"Yeah, well," Dean muttered, slinging the duffel over his shoulder, "somebody ate three bags of Funyuns and a Big Gulp."
Sam's face went red. "You said I could have whatever I wanted for breakfast."
Dean shook his head. The Impala's engine faded into the distance, lost under the cicadas.
"C’mon, boys," Bobby said. "I’ll fix you something that won't kill ya and there might still be some pie sittin' on the counter."
Dean gave him a single nod. Pie was good. But it didn’t fix shit.
***
The sun was slipping behind the cornfields by the time Dean found the bridge. Same rusted beams, same peeling paint, same stupid graffiti. "LaYzErGaS" was still there. Local legend said someone jumped off this bridge on a dare once. Broke both legs.
Dean heard voices. He climbed the gravel slope and jumped up onto the rail. Two guys he knew from the last time he’d been stuck in Sioux Falls sat by a rusty pickup.
"Look what the cat dragged back," Mark called, grinning.
Travis kicked his boots out over the edge, his wild blond hair catching what was left of the sunlight. "Winchester. I can’t believe my eyes! Thought you fell off the goddamn planet."
Dean shrugged. "Been on tour."
Mark opened the cooler and threw him a wet can of Mountain Dew. Dean cracked it open and took a swig that tasted like sweet ogre’s piss.
"So what’s the deal?" Mark asked. "Here for the summer?"
"Couple weeks," Dean said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Usual."
"Still got that junker you rebuilt last time?" Travis asked. "The Duster?"
Dean shook his head. "Sold it. Needed the cash."
"Damn. Was actually a good car."
"Bobby’s got the ‘70 Challenger sitting around."
Travis let out a low whistle.
Dean gave a half-smile. "I’ll get her running again, just needs some love—fuel line, brakes, maybe a prayer or two. I’ll be back on wheels in a couple days. If I’m stuck here, I’m not doin’ it without a decent ride."
They lapsed into silence for a second. Travis lit a cigarette. Mark cracked another can open. The sun dipped lower behind the trees.
Dean stretched his legs out, boot tapping the rusted railing. "So," he said, aiming for casual, "how’s Amber?"
Mark snorted. "Knew it."
Dean narrowed his eyes. "Knew what?"
Travis grinned. "And I hoped you’d wait at least ten minutes, man. We should’ve made it a bet, Marco."
Dean rolled his eyes. "Yeah, hilarious."
Mark raised his can in a mock toast. "Some things don’t change."
Truth was, Amber had been a hell of a time. Sticky heat, the taste of cherry lip gloss, drives to nowhere with her long legs on the dash. She’d known how to rile him up and shut him down, usually at the same time. He didn’t hate the idea of picking that back up.
Before the guys could keep giving him shit, a green Thunderbird rumbled up the dirt road. A dark-haired girl leaned out the window, snapping her gum.
"You idiots gonna get that pizza, or just stand around blowing each other?"
Dean smirked. "Don't threaten me with a good time, Jenna."
She scoffed. "Well, well. Dean freaking Winchester. What asshole let you back in town?"
"Good to see you too."
"Said he came to see us," Mark said, "but turns out he's just snooping around for Amber."
Dean shot him a look.
Jenna’s smile dropped. "Mess with that girl again, Winchester, and they’ll be picking you up in pieces all over downtown."
"Mess with her? It wasn’t like that."
"She’s got enough goin’ on, alright? Enough assholes around already."
Dean frowned. "What happened? Is it Brad?"
"Dude is like a goddamn stray," Mark muttered.
Dean rolled his tongue across his teeth. Brad was a dick, all puffed-up jealousy and cheap beer bravado.
"That bastard’s the least of her problems," Jenna said. "Her Dad lost his job back in winter, her Mom’s waitin’ on knee surgery. Amber’s been pulling doubles at Earlene’s just to help cover the bills."
Dean glanced over. For some reason, the news landed heavier than it should’ve.
"Just don’t be an asshole," Jenna added. "Alright?"
Dean raised his hand to his head in mock salute. "Never."
Jenna rolled her eyes and threw the Thunderbird into reverse.
"Yeah, right," she called. "Later!"
Dean watched her taillights blur in the twilight haze, then turned back to Mark and Travis.
"Well," he said, finishing his Mountain Dew in one long gulp. "Guess I’m goin’ out for a burger."
***
The Challenger coughed once, then caught.
Dean let out a low breath, half a laugh. The girl was running smooth—not perfect, but good enough to make his fingers itch for the wheel. He'd been at it since yesterday morning. Finally she was ready.
"Well, I’ll be damned," Bobby said, coming from behind. "Didn’t think you’d actually get it runnin’."
"Of course I would, I’m awesome."
Bobby scoffed.
Dean closed the hood and ran a hand along the dust-scratched paint.
"Gonna take her out," he said. "See how she handles."
"You got engine oil on your damn face, Romeo."
Dean wiped his cheek and jumped into the driver’s seat. "Don’t wait up."
"I never do." Bobby headed back toward the house, muttering something about dumbass genes.
Dean turned the radio up just loud enough to fill the silence and pulled away, letting the tires spit a little dust on the way out.
The road out of Singer Salvage cut through open fields. Dean chose the longer way and eased into the gas. It was a hot day and his shirt stuck to his back, but he felt like he was finally breathing again.
***
The bell over the door jingled as Dean stepped into the diner. He looked around. The place hadn't changed since Bobby brought them there on Dean's eleventh birthday: same cracked vinyl, same smell of grease and burnt coffee.
His eyes landed on Amber right away. Her curly blond ponytail swung as she wiped down one of the booths near the window. She was a little thinner than he remembered, but still hot.
Dean slid into the booth and flashed her a grin. "Hey, sweetheart. Miss me?"
Amber froze mid-wipe, glanced up.
"Dean."
"That’s me. Heard you were workin’ here now. Figured I’d stop by, grab a bite… catch up."
Amber took out her notepad. "What’ll it be? Kids’ menu?"
Dean let out a laugh and pressed a hand to his chest. "Ouch. This is how you treat a friend?"
Amber looked at him and didn’t even blink. "A friend? You’re just some guy I hung out with for two weeks."
"Best two weeks of your life, though. Don’t lie."
She huffed and turned toward the counter. Dean followed.
"As for me, I only remember the good parts," he said.
Before he could say anything else, the door slammed open. He didn’t need to look. The change was in Amber’s face.
"This guy bothering you, Amber?"
Dean didn’t glance back. "Hello, Brad."
Brad stepped up behind him—close enough that Dean could smell the cheap cologne.
"Didn’t figure you’d come slinking back, Winchester," he said. "You’d better get lost."
Dean turned to face him. "Or what? You gonna cry on your jersey?"
Brad was still the same thuggish meathead with a busted nose and the varsity jacket he dragged around everywhere. He stepped even closer.
"You’ll lose some teeth."
Dean snorted. "Relax, cowboy. I’m here for a burger."
Brad’s fists curled at his sides. "I said, get lost!" he growled.
Dean stepped in, just enough to make him flinch.
"I’m not gonna start shit," he said, "but you’re wasting your time, buddy, and you know that."
Dean looked at Amber. She met his gaze. She wasn’t flattered, wasn’t scared or annoyed—just tired. Like she was sick of the whole scene. Everyone in the diner was staring.
Dean held Amber's gaze a second longer, then gave her a short nod and walked out.
He pulled the Challenger into the darkest corner of the diner’s lot, killed the headlights, and let the engine idle a moment before cutting it too.
Brad stormed out about five minutes later, climbed into his rustbucket and peeled off with way too much noise for the hour.
Dean reached for the ignition, but his hand froze on the key. He rubbed his face and leaned back in the seat. He watched people come and go—truck drivers, high school kids, a few couples in their early twenties—until the lights inside the diner finally went out.
Amber came out with two other girls. The others headed for their cars; Amber walked to the bike rack near the wall and started unlocking her chain.
Dean got out of the car, easing the door shut.
When he approached, Amber didn’t look up. "You stalking me now too, Winchester?"
"No, I just wanted—" Dean stopped.
"What?"
He hesitated. "Wanted to make sure you got out okay."
Amber straightened. "I was fine until you showed up. Brad's annoying but harmless—unlike you."
Dean scratched the back of his neck. "Come on, it wasn’t—"
"You just left," she said, throwing the chain into the basket. "Not even a goodbye. And now you show up with the same damn smirk like I’m supposed to fall for it!"
"Well, I didn’t think a postcard from the road would do the trick."
Amber shook her head. "What is it you want, Dean? One more roll on the back seat before you disappear again? There's plenty of girls around here dumber than me. Go find one."
Dean looked down at the pavement. Scuffed his boot along a crack in the asphalt.
"Let me give you a ride," he said.
"My bike doesn’t fit in that metal dinosaur of yours."
Dean tilted his head toward the Challenger. "I’ll take the front wheel of your bike off and put it back on."
Amber watched him for a long beat. Then, without a word, she walked to the car and opened the passenger door. Dean wrestled the bike into the trunk, trying not to think about what it was doing to the upholstery.
He didn’t drive fast. The Challenger hummed beneath him, wind brushing through the open window. A couple moths caught the headlights and spun out into the dark. Amber didn’t speak. Neither did he.
Ahead, the houses started back up—single-story places with peeling paint and porches that leaned a little. Yard flamingos, chain-link fences, somebody’s busted grill sitting next to a kiddie pool.
Halfway there, Dean spoke. "When I said I only remember the good parts… I meant it. I thought about you."
Amber stared out the window. "So why'd you leave without even calling?"
Dean swallowed. "Dad wanted to hit the road fast. Besides, I suck at goodbyes."
Amber didn’t answer right away.
"You’re leaving again soon, aren’t you?"
Dean caught the shift in her voice and realized that he had a chance to lie. Could’ve told her what she wanted to hear, just long enough to get what he came for.
"I don’t know when," he said. "But probably. Yeah."
They pulled up in front of her house. Amber unclipped her seatbelt.
"Maybe we could be friends," she said.
Dean nodded. "Yeah. Friends."
Amber reached for the door handle, paused. "You going to the party Friday?"
Dean had no clue what party she meant, but played it cool. "Wasn’t planning to. Should I?"
"Up to you," she said. "Lock the bike up on the porch when you’re done."
She got out and shut the door softly behind her.
***
They sat on the porch of Mark’s house, killing time before the party—half-bored, half-cracking each other up. The place was one of those single-story numbers, white paint with blue trim, same as every other house on the block. Mark’s was second to last before the road dead-ended across from the old church.
A light breeze moved through the street, barely enough to stir the leaves. Not a single cloud anywhere. The crescent moon hung up there already—faint, waiting for the sun to finish its shift. Somewhere down the street, a lawnmower buzzed. Cut grass and gasoline mixed with the fake grape of Travis’s soda and whatever perfume Jenna had doused herself in.
Dean sat with one boot up on the railing.
"I’m just sayin’." Travis pushed his shaggy hair back. "The military’s got tech, man. Like, mind-control frequency stuff. They’ve been testing it on small towns since, like, ‘91. You ever get a nosebleed outta nowhere? That’s not weather. That’s waves."
Mark choked. "You’re getting nosebleeds because of that shitty weed you smoke."
Travis didn’t even blink. "Microwave towers, man. They scramble your calcium uptake. Frogs go first. Then us. Open your third eye!"
Mark laughed out loud. Jenna shot him a look, then kissed Travis on the temple.
"Don’t worry, babe," she said. "If it worked, they’d use it on New York or L.A. No one’s testing high-tech brainwaves on Sioux Falls."
"They are if they think we’re too dumb to notice."
"Oh, man." Mark was still laughing. "You’ve got one brain cell and it’s floating in an expired Tab. And somehow, all you get are the damn straight A’s. It’s offensive."
Dean smirked and didn’t add anything. He took a sip of his Coke, wishing it was whiskey. His mind drifted to something that might’ve been a case: four high-school girls messed with a Ouija board. Nothing special, but working this case, any case, would sure do him good. Bobby shut it down.
Dean got it. Bobby actually gave a shit whether he and Sammy were safe. Besides, no one wanted to risk John Winchester showing up on their doorstep with a loaded .45. Still, as nice as it was not having orders barked at him every five minutes, Dean missed the road. Missed doing something that felt like it mattered.
"So, Dean," Jenna said, bringing him back to reality, "why the sudden interest in the party tonight?"
Dean took another slow sip. "What do you mean? I love parties."
"Last year you said they were all dumb," Mark said.
Dean shrugged. "Because it was dumb. This one might be fine."
Travis leaned in with a grin. "If Amber’s gonna be there, you better wear your good jeans."
"You’re lucky your girlfriend’s sitting right here, Trav."
Jenna scoffed. "Morons."
Dean was about to shoot something back when movement across the street pulled his focus. At the church lot, a red-haired girl and a guy Dean didn’t recognize loaded wooden crates into the back of a pickup.
They both looked like they'd stepped straight out of a church camp brochure—eternal damnation and vegetable canning included. The guy was lean, broad-shouldered, with dark hair that never met a comb.
"Travis, put it away!"
Dean turned. Travis had a lighter in one hand and a beer bottle in the other.
Mark shook his head. "Dude. Seriously?"
Travis rolled his eyes. "Alright, alright, mommy and daddy. You win. I’ll save it for the party."
The pickup’s engine rumbled to life across the street. The redhead swung it around clean and fast—and they were gone.
***
The cabin sat about thirty minutes outside of Sioux Falls, tucked behind a stretch of farmland and a road with more potholes than pavement. Dean followed Mark’s pickup, taillights tapping Morse code at every new dip. They stopped once at a gas station so Travis could flash his shitty fake ID and grab even more beer. Like they didn’t already have enough to drown a horse.
The place looked like it’d been abandoned since ‘78—unpainted wooden one-story, wraparound porch sagging on one side. The string lights hung wherever they'd stick. Half of them flickered, half didn’t work at all. But the music was loud. Somebody had brought speakers and a scratched-up CD of radio hits. Sounded like Matchbox Twenty on repeat.
Dean pulled in behind the other cars, parked under a tree that might’ve been poison sumac, and stepped out. He saw a lot of familiar faces, but none he could put names to. Couples leaned on tailgates. Two guys played beer pong on a fold-out table that looked one wobble away from collapse. Someone was burning hot dogs over the fire pit, already too drunk to notice they were charring on one side and raw on the other.
"Damn," Travis said, grabbing Jenna’s hand and practically bouncing. "Let’s go make some questionable decisions, darling."
"Stick to minor ones this time, alright?" Jenna said, and kissed his cheek.
Mark cracked two beers open and handed one to Dean as they walked toward the house.
"You see her yet?" he asked.
Dean shook his head. "Nah."
"She’s here, I saw Samantha’s car."
"Who?"
Mark smirked. "Amber’s best friend."
Dean nodded. "Ah, that one. The brunette."
The air stank of clove cigarettes and fire smoke. Dean’s beer tasted like soap. Still better than Sam’s smoothie sludge. He leaned back against a porch post, watching the crowd.
A slower, twangy song came up. People started pairing off, moving into loose two-steps across the grass and the porch. Dean caught Travis trying to waltz with Jenna. She kept saying something and Dean could bet she was swearing, but still didn’t walk away. He watched them for a second. The two had been together since middle school. Never made sense to him. But what did?
A voice cut through the noise behind him. "Watch this!"
Dean turned. Some guy was crouched low, beer can punched at the bottom, thumb ready. He popped the tab and chugged it fast. The crowd roared. The guy raised his arms like a goddamn champ.
Someone giggled nearby. A girl with eyeliner smeared all over her face leaned in close to Dean, saying something about his car, or maybe his arms—he wasn’t paying attention. Another girl joined them, touching his shoulder, mumbling something about ‘shrooms he should try.
Across the yard, he caught sight of Amber, walking by herself with a cup in her hand. She glanced up, met his eyes for a moment, and looked away.
Dean peeled himself off the post and headed toward her. By the time he reached the far end of the porch, she'd settled onto the swing, watching the crowd. She didn’t flinch when he slid in beside her and didn’t look back at him.
Here, away from the speakers, the noise dulled to a steady thump—music and voices bleeding together into background static. Someone lit another fire pit, and the shadows swung around.
"Thanks for the ride and the bike," Amber said after a while.
"Anytime." Dean took a long pull from his warm beer.
Amber tapped her boot against the floorboards to keep the motion going.
"Everyone’s still exactly the same," she said.
Dean shrugged, not sure what she was talking about. He followed her gaze—Travis, already half naked, was trying to climb onto the roof. Mark and Jenna egged him on, some girl laughed so hard she wheezed.
"Yeah, maybe."
Amber took a sip from her cup. "We’re moving away in July when the lease is up. Dad found a job in Minnesota."
Dean looked at her but she kept her eyes on the yard.
"I think I understand now what you meant about not being good at goodbyes," she went on. "I don't even know where to start. How to tell them."
Dean didn’t do emotional speeches. Lucky for him, Amber didn’t seem to need one.
"Wanna get outta here?" he asked.
Amber looked over. Her expression didn’t change much. But she nodded.
They slipped off the porch. Amber walked a step ahead. Dean kept pace beside her, close enough to feel the brush of her arm, the warmth of it. For a second, everything felt strangely still. She gave him a tired little smile, and he smiled back before he could stop himself.
"Where do you think you’re going with this clown?"
Brad stood in the driveway, flanked by his usual hangers-on. One of the losers cracked his knuckles.
Dean stepped in front of Amber.
"Well hey, princess," he said. "What’s up?"
Brad looked wrecked. Red-eyed, two drinks past stupid.
"You slumming it with him?" he sneered. "Jesus, Amber."
Amber tried to go around Dean and get to the Challenger, but Brad grabbed her arm.
Dean didn’t think. The first punch landed square across Brad’s jaw. He staggered back, spitting something out. One of the goons stepped forward, but Mark appeared from nowhere and hit him, sending the guy into the side of a parked car. Travis shoved the second guy off balance, dragging him with the fierceness of a hunter in a bar fight.
Brad managed to stand up, but Dean was on him again. Fist to cheek. Rib. Gut. When Brad crashed to the ground, Dean stepped aside and nudged him with his boot.
"Get up," he said. "C’mon. Get the hell up, you son of a bitch!"
Brad lifted his face, blood in his teeth. "You slut, Amber, you fucking slut!"
That did it. The world narrowed to red and noise.
"Dean!" Amber’s voice cut through like a live wire. "Dean, stop! I said stop!"
He froze, breath hard in his chest. Amber grabbed his shoulders and yanked him back. Brad didn’t move—just lay there in the gravel.
"Enough," Amber said and he heard panic in her voice. "Let’s go!" She hauled him up by the arm. "Give me your keys!"
Dean fumbled in his pocket, but his fingers barely worked. Amber grabbed the keys from him and pulled Dean toward the car.
They didn’t speak. Not when she started the engine. Not when she peeled out onto the road. Not when the party disappeared behind them.