As the bunker faded away into the distance, a nagging thought stayed with you, saying that you were making the wrong move, that you needed to stay back and help Sam, and then Dean, when the cure worked. Fighting that nagging thought was the reminders of everything you had been through. Hadn't you been through enough? Who's to say if you stayed, that something else wouldn't happen.

You knew this was the cowards way out, but you couldn't imagine seeing the guilt on Dean's face once he was back to his normal self. It was that, on top of everything else, that had you pushing your mustang past the speed limit, trees whipping by as you tried to leave your pain, your memories, your heart, behind you.

You wiped away the tears as they continued to fall, dangerously blurring your vision as you drove, the light slowly fading into dusk. You knew the best thing to do would be to find the closest motel, and crash for the night. Things would have to look better in the morning. 

Ignoring your instinct, you kept on, willing yourself to stop the tears, as you white knuckled the car through the deserted streets. Your knuckles growing tighter as you imagined what torture Dean had to be going through, and if he was anywhere close to being cured by now.

Hours passed, and it was only when the empty light for your gas came on, that you decided to pull over for the night. Finding a gas station, you quickly fueled up, before making your way inside, grabbing some munchies to keep you full during your motel stay, including a bottle of whiskey.

The gas station attendant was an older woman who had seen better days. Her face was full of lines, either from too much sun, fun, or cigarettes, you weren't sure. Her hair was frizzy, a bottle blonde for sure, and her teeth with stained a deep yellow. However, her eyes held a hint of kindness and compassion, something you hadn't been expecting to see.

"We sure don't get a lot of visitors in this little town." She told you as you set down your items, her voice high pitched. "You sure look pretty roughed up."

You knew what she said was true, your hair was probably ratted to your head, while your bruises and cuts hadn't quite faded away yet, along with the new ones Dean had just given you. Then, your eyes were probably red from all the crying you did on the drive here.

"Yeah, it's been a rough couple of months." You replied, pulling a twenty from what little cash you carried. 

"Well, I sure hope that if it was a man that did that to you, you left that bastard." She told you, staring at your battered face.

You nodded, your voice clogging from emotion, before grabbing your items and high tailing it out to your car. Throwing them in your bag, you turned down main street, trying to find a reasonable motel to stay for the night. At the end of the dimly lit street, you saw a flashing neon sign, reading the Redbird Inn. At least that's what you thought it read, with a couple of letters missing it was hard to tell. 

You pulled into the graveled parking lot, eyeing the few cars that were parked in front of doors, each one a rust bucket. The paint was peeling, and the windows looked like they had never seen a cleaner. Grabbing your bag, you headed through the lobby's graying door, surprised to see a teenage boy running the desk.

"Excuse me. I need a room for the night." You told him, hoping he would go get whoever was in charge so you could get a room, and become drunk enough that you fell into a deep, dreamless slumber.

However, the boy stayed, pressing some buttons on the ancient keyboard. "A single or two queens?" He asked you.

"You work here? And a single." You asked.

"Yeah, I help my mom out while she's in school." He said, taking your credit card and running it through the machine before handing it back to you, along with a key.

Signing the reciept you handed it back to him. "Must be hard."

He shrugged, before leaning against the counter. A lock of his shaggy sandy blonde hair slipping over his eye, and for a moment he reminded you a lot of Sam, with his long hair, hazel eyes, and lanky build. "Nah, it keeps me busy, and Mom gives me a little bit of her paycheck. And I can keep Ben over there busy and with me." He said, pointing to a younger child who sat coloring at one of the tables nearby.

You nodded, thanking him, before leaving and heading to your motel room. He had given you one farthest away from the lobby, the very last room on the bottom floor. Opening the door, you took in the faded tan carpet, the wood paneled walls, the orange and brown plaid comforter, and the small tv and fridge that sat at the end of the counter. It wasn't much, but you didn't need much. Right now, more than anything, you needed a place to stay, and to figure out your next move.

Grabbing the bottle of whiskey, you took a long sip, before turning to your cell phone. At first you had been reluctant to bring it with you, you really didn't want anything tying you back to the boys. But you didn't want to travel without some form of communication, so you kept it, figuring you could ditch it once you got a new one.

Changing into a pair of sweatpants, and an old t-shirt, you grimaced at the blood seeping through your bandage. Promising to yourself that you would check the wound and change the bandage later, you turned your phone on, the same time you turned the tv on to take away some of the silence.

As you expected, you had multiple missed calls from Sam, along with a few texts. Ignoring the voice mails he had left, you opened up his latest text, noticing it was only an hour old.

Y/N, I understand why you ran, I really do. But we need you here, and you need to be here. Your stitches need checked,and Dean, well. Just call me, Please.

You contemplated calling him, you really did. But you knew as soon as you called him, he would beg you to come back, and you weren't sure you were strong enough to fight it. Instead, you typed out a quick message, telling him you were okay, and to stop worrying, before you moved onto the bathroom, where you gingerly stripped your shirt and bandage off.

The wound was red and angry looking, blood seeping through the stitches, but at least no stitches had busted. Wiping it off, you poured a generous amount of whiskey over it, about fainting from the burn, before placing another bandage on it.

Stumbling out into the room, you collapsed on the bed, exhausted from the tide of emotions running through you, and from being in so much pain. Throwing the covers over you, you laid on your back, trying not to twinge your injury, the same time as you tried to keep the tears at bay.