all duct tape and safety pins inside

Title: Always Thought That I'd See You Again (Part 1)
Summary: Sam is at Stanford when he gets the call that he's been dreading his entire life. Dean is dead... or is he? Pre-series.
Rating: T
Word Count: 1500
Characters/Pairings: Dean and Sam, Gen
Warnings: Language
Genre: Hurt/Comfort
A/N: For all of you hurt!Sam junkies, Sam is not in this chapter but this story is about him too :)

Chapter 1: http://gluisa88.livejournal.com/2658.html

Earlier..

Dean hated working alone. Hated not having someone there to bounce ideas off of when researching and investigating a hunt.

Hated not having someone to crack a joke at or like when he was told by a state representative that the ghost of Joe DiMaggio was haunting him because he had slept with Marilyn Monroe, he hated not having someone to nudge and smirk, "Shit sure gets crazy!"

And now here he was in Decatur Illinois, sore and exhausted from desecrating graves and now he had another reason to hate ghost hunting alone: The sore muscles that came after having to dig a seven by three by six foot hole in the ground by himself.

The record breaking rain fall hadn't helped. The rain made his grip on the shovel slippery and the dirt heavier than normal.

John had sent him to exterminate a ghost which had been bothering a small church in Illinois. Killing random parishioners with seemingly no connection other than all attending the same services. The spirit had been that of the fifty year old church secretary who had offed herself right in the middle of the reverend's sermon. Apparently she hadn't liked the new church carpeting. Or at least that's what the young assistant pastor had irreverently joked.

Predictably, the bones had been buried in the church cemetery, right in the back of the church. Though supposedly that had been controversial- many parishioners had been offended that she be allowed to be laid to rest with the good Christians who had died before her.

The Reverend had been grateful for Dean's services but had said he didn't know how he'd explain to the church board any moneys for services rendered. Dean understood, hadn't expected payment. Never did.

The reverend felt guilty, saying that Dean was doing "the Lord's work" and so in the end he had handed Dean a fifty from his own pocket.

The job had been frustratingly easy. Dean had finished in two days that which Dad had given him a week to do. Frustrating because Dean knew that he could do more than just salt and burns. Frustrated that John wouldn't trust him with more.

John had been annoyed that Dean was done so quickly.

Which confused Dean to no end.

When pressed, he reluctantly confessed that he had wanted Dean out of the way for a while. He had a lead on the Demon. "I just don't want you getting hurt. I don't know if the lead is anything but it looks kinda like it might be big." He admitted.

Hurt, his ass. Dean could not remember a time in his life when he was not in harm's way. Dean was hunting monsters that could rip his head off with their bare hands before he even knew how to drive. And he had known how to drive a car before most kids had even reached highschool.

This had stung. He'd been hunting his mom's killer since he was a child. He'd spent his entire life helping his father find revenge. Dad had lost his wife but Dean had lost his mother and his entire childhood to this demon. This was his fight too. "Dad, don't shut me out of this." He had pleaded, "Let me help."

And as he had said it, he wished he could take it back. He didn't think he wanted to hear his dad's response- he was pretty sure he knew what it would be. John may try to put it diplomatically but no matter how he dressed it up, it would come down to: "Dean, you're a liability on the hunt. I can't worry about the demon if I have to worry about you screwing things up. Do you need to be reminded of Paducah?"

And no, he didn't.

"Dean." John sighed. "You-"

"You know what?" Dean had interrupted, "Never mind. Though I'd prefer not to hang around here, just cooling my heels."

"Hustle some pool. We could use the money."

"Isn't there a job I could do? I mean, hustling pool is not exactly a full time job."

"Look, wherever this lead takes me, I honestly think I'm gonna be done in a coupla days... I don't think you'll have time to get involved in a hunt down there."

"Whatever." Dean said, perhaps a little more sharply than he had intended, "So I'll just... I dunno. Cool my heels for awhile." Dean wasn't sure if he had been able to keep the petulance from his tone.

John sighed heavily, "Dean. It's not that I don't trust you- it's just-"

"Yeah. I get it." He'd interrupted, "Gotta go. I got some important stuff goin' down so-"

He could almost hear his dad roll his eyes, "Alright. Call me if you need anything."

"Yeah. Sure." He'd said, flipping the phone shut.

...

He found a local cafe which the locals said had the best coffee in the area. He grabbed a quiet booth in the back and ordered a coffee and a newspaper. Told the waitress to keep the coffee coming.

He had decided that for the sake of his own sanity, he would find himself a hunt. Something to do with himself so that he wouldn't go batshit crazy.

He found something on the fifth page, buried in the left hand corner of the local newspaper.

The med student, whose name was being withheld from the public, had been brutally tortured. Had died from a loss of blood.

The authorities were being cagey in their answers to the press. All that could be said was that the victim was most likely killed by someone she trusted.

Damn, that sucked.

What had intrigued Dean was that the murder had sounded almost ritualistic. Not that the paper had held many details but Dean knew what to look for.

"Dean? What are you doing here?" Dean hated nothing more than being sneaked up on.

He looked up, "Bri."

She grinned as she took the seat across from his.

"Yeah. Sure. Have a seat." He said, rubbing the back of his neck and returning a weak smile.

"Holy hell! What are the chances of us meeting up again in a random cafe?"

"Like, one in a million." He replied wearily.

...

He took a deep breath of the chill Chicago air, hoping to clear his head.

He had managed to put up with nearly ten minutes of her inane chatter. Her constant pestering him to tell her all about himself- asking questions that not even Sam would have gotten away with quickly pushed him to the edge of his endurance.

He had thrown back the rest of his coffee, tossed a couple Lincolns on the table, stuffed his newspaper in his pocket and with a tight smile, made his excuses and fled.

But not quickly enough to avoid the lipstick stained napkin with her number written on it that she thrust into his hands.

The walk back to his car was more exhausting than it should be. He felt nauseated.

Pausing for a moment, he leaned a shoulder up against the brick wall to steady himself until the wave of dizziness passed.

The rain hadn't let up much and his chest felt heavy and constricted. Every step he took felt like he had lead tied to his feet. He was bone weary and several times he was tempted to set himself down in the middle of the sidewalk and let himself fall asleep.

The only thing keeping him moving forward was a need to get out of the rain, out of his wet, cold clothing and into a warm, dry bed.

He didn't think he'd be able to drive back to the motel like this. Maybe he would just lay himself out on the back seat of the Impala and sleep it off.

He shivered violently and hoped he wasn't coming down with something.

...

Several times he had almost given up and hailed a taxi. He figured he could be driven back to the motel and then return for his car the next day.

But just as he was about to do so, he spotted his Impala about two blocks up the road. He figured he could finish the walk that far.

His hands were shaking making it difficult to unlock the car door. The loud noise that came from behind didn't register until he felt an the intense, sharp pain spreading through his chest. Stumbling forward, his head slammed against his car, he could feel the blood as it trickled down his forehead.

"Shit." He choked.

He threw an arm onto the roof of the car, trying to gain some purchase, the rain water making it impossible.

His body slid against the side of the car, gray beginning to blur the edges of his vision.

His head hit the ground with a sickening crack just as everything went dark.

TBC