Coming Home (Part II)

[madimpossibledreamer]

Main Points:
Continuation of Lucky Strike 'verse, the Supernatural/Shadowed Suspicions (Buffy/Jojo's Bizarre Adventure fanfic) Crossover AU.
Summary: Dean tries to out-brood Angel, and sadly, it's working.
Word Count: 646
Notes: Angst! Continuing with the drabble thing for this, because it is and it isn't.  Also, I finally figured out part of what Wayward Son (Dean's Stand) looks like, even though I still have no idea what he does.
It being Dean, of course it's at least partly a cowboy, appearance wise.  Of course.
Rating: T

            Dean takes out one of his small collection of cassette tapes, cranks up the music, and drives off into the desert.

            He’s coming back.  Maybe.

            “I don’t know what to do,” he confesses to the Impala, voice sounding loud and desperate despite the soothing music filling the space.

            In response, there’s a reassuring feeling in his mind, and whether it’s Wayward Son or Baby doesn’t particularly matter.  He feels safer here.

            But even here, he can’t escape from the memories.  Xander buying him the Impala, just because he’d missed it so much, just because he’d never see it again if John had anything to say about it.  That he’d never see John or Sammy or the Impala again, because his dad wanted him dead.

            Xander assuring him that he didn’t deserve to die, that he wasn’t…evil or tainted or anything.

            Their first time together, in the back seat.  Carefree kids bowling.  Fighting the latest baddie of the week, which almost, almost was something he’d been doing long enough it was second nature.

            Except they laughed.  They smiled.  They’d go dancing and complain about assignments or the latest lecture.  They didn’t drink themselves into oblivion or lose themselves in one night stands.

            Well…they didn’t, anyway.  He did.  He hadn’t, then, but as he’d grown older it’d become a siren song.  This isolation he was feeling, this being an outsider, that was all crap, wasn’t it?  He’d done that to himself, made himself believe that they couldn’t understand him and threw himself into acting like his dad, just, what?  To justify what his life looked like?  The fact that he was so much of a scaredy little sissy to man up and deal with the fact that he had feelings, that he’d gotten close, that he had a family again?

            He’d hurt Xander so much.  Every time they broke up, a little of that happy, bright light left those brown eyes, though he’d smile and joke and act like everything was fine.

            Was there something wrong with him, no matter what the Scoobies said?  Was he cursed to just bring pain to anyone he ever let get close?  Was he better off just taking off, letting Xander get over him, too?

            He could do it.  He could drive off, be a Hunter, as much as the thought is repulsive.  He doesn’t want to be like the others, bigoted, in some cases even murderers.  He’s not a normal human, so as long as they’re not hurting anybody, why should they suffer?

            Still, he could manage it.  Now that he thinks about it, he knows Sophie’s right.  If he drives away now, his heart will forever be bleeding.  But he could lock that aside.  Do his job.  The next hunt, then the next.  No home, if you didn’t count the Impala.  No backup, because he couldn’t keep his Stand a secret from Hunters.  If there’s anything he’d learned from John, it was that they were born and bred suspicious bastards.

            Alcohol.  Women. Men sometimes.  It wouldn’t fill the hole, wouldn’t fix anything, wouldn’t heal him, but it’d dull the ache now and then.  It’d let him be lonely, just not on his own.

            He’d probably live longer than the other Hunters, though, with the not looking for fights from things that just want to live, with Wayward Son.  It might not really be living, but if it’d make Xander better, happier, he’d sacrifice his own happiness in a second.

            “I really am doomed, aren’t I?” he asks, tears in his eyes, and for a moment he expects his audience of Stand and Impala to answer.

            As if in response, his cell phone begins to ring.  He glances over and bites his lip.  All that thinking, and he still hadn’t made a decision.  He’s not ready.  But really, here’s the choice.  He pulls over and answers, or he just keeps driving.