#but it is funny!

[tragidean]

Last Ride [6.1k] (ao3)

Somewhere between Mount Hope and Oak Hill, lost in the winding stretch of West Virginia Route 16 and surrounded by pines and clear-cut granite, Dean sees a man walking along the side of the road. No car in sight, no thumb out signaling for assistance, just a man, with the sunlight glancing off his white suit and hat, the black of his shirt abysmally dark. He lifts his gaunt face, his cheeks hollowed and angled, and Dean catches a glimpse of dark brown eyes right before he slams on the brakes, sending the Impala into a skid. Sam flies forward, throwing his cellphone into the footwell. Castiel braces a hand against the back of Dean’s seat, managing to not fall into the floorboards. “Dude,” Sam hisses. The moment the Impala careens to a stop, Dean wrenches around to look through the rear window, only to find nothing. Just more trees and rocks, the cracking asphalt of the highway, and a white cinderblock-walled building reading the Skyline Drive-In. A worn hangs from a pole, advertising burgers, barbeque and hot dogs—and Hank’s Last Stop. “Did you see something in the road?” Castiel asks, torn between Dean’s face and the spot where for a split second, a man stood. “Did—No one else saw that,” Dean says, eventually, once his higher brain functions return and the adrenaline unclenches his throat. “There was a—a guy.” “A guy?” Sam fishes his phone from the floor. “Dude, we’ve seen plenty of hitchhikers out here, and you’ve never tried to send me through the windshield for any of them.” Good thing I taught you to wear a seatbelt. “Just—Jesus.” Headlights flash from over the hill; Dean shifts back into gear and applies pressure to the accelerator, getting back up to speed. Skid marks paint the roadway, the only proof that he isn’t hallucinating. “I’m not crazy, alright?” “I’m not saying you are.” Sam straightens up and checks his lap belt. “I mean, it wouldn't be the first ghost we’ve seen on the side of the road, right?” Ghost. That’s what it was—a ghost. Just an ordinary, run-of-the-mill ghost in the middle of West Virginia, just out for a leisurely stroll and trying to give Dean a coronary. But he looked familiar, in a haunting way, like he might visit his dreams later tonight, wondering aloud why Dean never stopped to help him. Technically, he did stop, but ferrying the dead has never been part of his job description. It’s nothing, he thinks, scrubbing his face. Over the bench, Castiel pats his shoulder, giving him a light squeeze. The endless blue sky hangs overhead, the shadows growing longer and thinner through the trees as the sun begins to make its descent for the evening. “Just tired,” he mutters. “How far are we?” “We’re almost there,” Sam says. He pulls up the article he was reading and hands it over to Castiel. “Oak Hill, couple of teenagers reported seeing a nine-foot-tall man in the woods.” “Bigfoot,” Dean scoffs and rubs his eyes. “Really, we’re hunting bigfoot?”

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