The Highway Man

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Friday was routine, except that Dean's aunt hadn't smothered him with hugs and kisses that morning. Though he reminded her how much he disliked the affection, the absence of it made his chest ache. Dean started home a little later than he was used to. No one stood at the cross walk, making him wait alone for the buses to disperse like yellow soldiers before he could continue home. The hefty hyenas and their teasing never occurred on Fridays, Dean always assumed they were in an alley drinking from paper bags on the weekend. Even though they spat slurs and cackled at him, Dean appreciated their company when Friday came around. The 14th of March especially. He hadn't noticed before that a dark Sudan had been following him closely. It wasn't until hunks of gravel had begun to pop under the vehicle's wheels that he took note of the pursuer. Dean's head popped up and he stared, eyes bright with surprise.
Has that fucker been following me? Dean turned back around and continued walking, his head bowed and his eyes flickering about. The car rolled closer, slinking next to the sidewalk like a panther. Dean audibly swallowed and smacked his feet against the sidewalk a little louder, as if it would scare the beast off. The car purred, humored by his foolish attempt. When he processed the potential danger he forced himself to shamble a bit faster.
The car drew closer.
A bit faster.
Closer.
Faster.
Closer.
Faster!
The car roared with life as its defiant prey sprinted down the street. Humming and growling it charged after him. It was so close to him he could practically feel its hot breath on the back of his neck. Dean swung around the corner, looking back at the car then at his feet. When trying to get a glimpse of the driver he missed a step and tripped, flopping on to the sidewalk and grunting out of frustration. As he collected himself he spotted his house and then staggered back into a run. Eyes darting around he found Wenet's car in the driveway. So, sliding to the left he darted into a backyard across the street. The car shrieked behind him, before growling and peeling off in the opposite direction. It was going to where the yard would empty him out. Dean stopped and circled back around, practically flying through his front door and slamming it behind him. Swinging around he locked it and pressed himself against the wood, shaking with adrenaline. Wenet yowled in disapproval from the kitchen, but Dean was too busy sliding on to the floor to be bothered with her nagging.

That night at the dinner table Dean was quivering with emotion, describing the scene to his aunt and waving his hands about his head as if swatting at flies.
"Honey, did you maybe catch the licence pl-"
"No! I was too busy running for my fucking life-"
"Dean. Language."
Dean dropped his face into his hands and exhaled a pained sigh.
"Mo- Wenet, what if it's another Sam."
"Honey, I don't know."
"Yes you do. Of course it's another Sam they were chasing me down the fu-freaking street!"
"Please lower your voice."
"What am I going to do?" He made a sound as if he meant to sob, and although his chest retracted to prepare for tears, his eyes remained dry. Wenet frowned and put a hand on his.
"Honey, you don't need to do anything. I don't want you worrying about this, okay? Are you done with your food?"
"Yeah."
"Alright, go get ready for bed."
Dean stood from the table and set his dish in the sink. While exiting the room he hugged his arms to his thin chest, feeling as if his ribs would collapse in on him when ascending the stairs.
"And no reading, I can tell when you do that you always look so tired." Wenet called after him.

Dean fell back onto his bed, huffing when it creaked under his weight. He draped one of his skinny arms across his forehead and stared at the window. He watched it, waiting for eyes to burn holes in the glass, imaging that the shadow of a tree was a hand waiting to wring out his throat, and expecting his door to fling open with the dark Sudan's driver standing in the threshold. He moaned and rubbed at his eyes, willing himself to think of anything else.

How long had it been again? It felt like it happened yesterday, but it was two years. Dean ached to turn on his side and hug the wound growing in his stomach, but the vigilant watch on the window and door told him otherwise.
Remember when you could have called Angela about your day?
Dean hugged his stomach a little tighter.
Or when Elliot would offer you a snack if you weren't smiling?
He groaned, stuffing his face into a pillow.
How about when they decorated your locker for your birthday?
He struggled to hold both the pillow and his abdomen.
That was a pretty shitty way for me to say thanks to them, huh? Never speaking to them again.
Dean ripped the pillow away and stared up at the ceiling, knitting his fingers into his hair and twisting them about.
They didn't do anything wrong you know, they don't know that you would just rather die alone.
Dean rolled onto his side, putting his back to the door and allowing a few tears to stain his pillow. He wanted nothing more than to confide in his old friends, express the pain that blackened his chest and ate away at his heart. Though, the thought of them seeing his vulnerability overpowered the pain that had been clawing at him for two years.

That night Dean was a little greatful for the hard slumber that his short cry brought.