Last Call

Last Call

A Supernatural story by Jennie @DeanIsntFine
Featuring Dean Winchester @DWImpala67

This is the third of my VBF stories, featuring my best fictional friend. It is set in the winter hiatus of Season 14, after "The Spear." To read the others, click:
Part 1: "VBF"
Part 2: "Welcome to Rocky's"
Part 4: "Nourished"

Bells rang overhead as I walked back into Rocky’s Bar.

It looked like little had changed since I left. Over a week ago.

“Well, well, well!” Dean boomed. “If it isn't Jennie from St. Louis! Come on in, my friend. What brings you by on this cold and stormy night?”

“Dean, buddy,” I said, shaking the snow from my hair, “there's nowhere else I'd rather be. Today is my birthday.”

“Seriously?! Well, then. No Cosmic Cowboy for you.” He dumped the beer he had started pouring for me and reached down into a small fridge under the bar.

He came up with a green and gold bottle, complete with foil-covered cork.

“Champagne?” I said, stunned. “At Rocky's?”

“Trust me,” Dean said. “Rocky doesn't often have cause to celebrate. He likes to take a win where he can get one.”

He popped the cork, expertly, and poured the amber bubbles into two flutes that had appeared from… somewhere.

“So, Jennie, have a glass of moderately priced, domestic sparkling wine, and let's toast.” He raised his glass as I sat down and took mine. “To another year of living, as the song says.”

“I think it’s another day of living,” I said.

“Hmm?”

“The song.”

“Welp, day, year, it’s all the same here at Rocky’s,” Dean said, waving an arm to indicate the mostly empty bar -- empty again, except for the man in the hoodie slumped over a few stools down from mine.

“I’m beginning to get that, yes,” I said, and took a healthy gulp of the bubbly. It tasted a damn sight better than the three glasses of Cosmic Cowboy I’d tossed back last time.

“So, Jennie, how did you spend your birthday?”

“Honestly?” I said, draining the rest of my sparkling wine, and signaling for a refill. “I rented this cute little chick flick and watched it like two and a half times. Eye candy. Set in a sandwich shop. The misunderstood guy with the beautiful soul -- the soul he was too afraid to let anybody see -- gets the hot girl in the end. It was awesome.”

Dean’s eyes widened with interest as he sipped his champagne. “Can I tell you something?” He leaned toward me, in confidence. “Don't laugh. I friggin' love chick flicks.”

His smile was like the sun to me. My eyes misted over as he tilted his head back and drained the rest of his drink.

Then a puzzled look crossed his face, and he stared at the door of the bar.

“That’s weird. I don't think I ever told anyone that, about the chick flicks. Have I?” he asked, more of himself than of me. “I don't know... seems like something I used to not want to talk about. Huh.” He poured himself another.

I wasn’t sure why I’d come back. I guess I’d gotten that melancholy feeling that sometimes comes with birthdays… and, in that fragile emotional state, the thought of him trapped in here was more than I could bear.

I had to see how he was doing. I had one more card to play.

Last call.

“Are you close with your family, Dean?” I asked.

Again, his eyes clouded, as if his memories were dancing just out of reach.

“Used to be, I think. I guess we must have just drifted apart. That happens, right?” he asked, and again -- like the last time I’d been there -- he looked almost desperate for confirmation from me.

“Yeah, it happens,” I said, sadly. “Birthdays should be a time for family, right? But here I am… at Rocky’s, all alone…”

He eyed me carefully, concern playing across his face. “Hey, hey, hey… you’re not alone,” he said, firmly. “You’ve got me!” He reached out, and we clinked glasses.

“That I do,” I said, and took a small sip. “You like taking care of people, don’t you, my friend?”

“That’s the job,” he said, downing the last of his bubbly. He picked up a clean, white rag and started buffing the bar top.

“And you’re just a guy,” I said. “No one special, right?”

“Now you’ve got it.” He smiled and winked, shooting out with a single finger gun.

I upended my drink, for courage. Then I hit him with everything I had.

“I think your family misses you, Dean,” I said. “I think they’d move heaven and Earth to see you again. In fact, I think they’re on their way.”

His jaw slackened as he looked at me, stunned. Fear crept into his green eyes, still hooded by the red lights overhead.

It was the second time that something I’d said had frightened him, and I absolutely hated myself for it.

“They shouldn’t…” Dean stammered, eyes darting wildly. “They shouldn’t try to come here. It’s not safe.”

“Oh, they’re coming, pal,” I said, bluntly, and again, my stomach roiled as I fought every instinct I had to protect him, to keep him sheathed in this cocoon, this pleasant fantasy.

“They’re coming,” I repeated. “They’re coming to save you. The question is: When they get here, will you be ready? Will you fight?”

I reached out and grabbed his hand. His knuckles were as white as the bar rag he clutched.

“When they get here,” I said, “you fight.”

He looked down at our hands, then up at me. My throat caught as recognition finally dawned in my best friend’s eyes.

“Jennie?” he said, in a voice that was too much like a child’s.

“Hard truths, remember?” I said, as my composure cracked at last, and tears spilled down my cheeks.

“That’s what VBFs are for,” Dean finished automatically, distractedly, as his eyes traveled around the bar. His gaze landed on the door, the windows, the back room -- tactically, I thought,  as if he was seeing it all for the first time.

He realized I was still clutching his hand, and he reached out to grab both of mine.

“Jennie, you’ve gotta get out of here. You’ve got to get out now.” Still holding my hands, reaching across the bar, he pulled me up from the stool and led me toward the door.

“I know, I know,” I said, breaking his grip and reaching out to turn him to face me. “I know I can’t stay for what's coming next. But I’m always with you.” I laid one hand over his heart. “I’ve always got your back. You know that, right?”

He placed his hand, tentatively, on the side of my face. Maybe he was trying to make sure I was real.

A quick, action-hero grin danced across his lips, and I knew at last that he was back.

“I know,” he said. His eyes shifted again to the door, and he nudged me in that direction. “Now get the hell outta here.” He caught himself -- thinking that too impolite? -- and added, “please.”

I crossed the scarred plank floor in a couple of strides and looked back. His body and arms were tense, already steeled for battle. “Just Dean” the bartender was gone. The warrior stood in his place.

Relief mixed with a jumble of other emotions as I grabbed the nicked brass doorknob.

The bells sounded, and I was halfway across the threshold when he called after me: “Jennie?”

I looked back over my shoulder once more.

“I’ll fight,” he said. “And thank you.”

I held my breath, nodded, and stepped out into the snow.