Archive of Our Own ^beta

Turns out, gnomes do exist. 

But instead of being a suburban granny’s garden protector, they’re more like the cross between a Chucky doll and a feral rat on steroids: evil incarnate, and incredibly hard to kill. 

Dean’s ankle still smarts from where one of them decided to latch on. He only shook it loose after pulverizing its head into the outside wall of Mrs. Lemberger’s house. He won’t need stitches, but the teeth marks where it gnawed him half to death will be sore for a few days.

After they find a spell to unfreakify the horrid little creatures, Sam insists on apologizing for the damage to Mrs. Lemberger’s many flower beds and side-paneling, as well as the bruising to her weenie-dog Ollie, who got in the way just as Dean swatted one of the Gnomes. Personally, Dean thinks it's unnecessary, because that’s just what you get when you think it’s a good idea to keep creepy heirloom gnomes from your crazy, “likely-a-witch,” great aunt Myrtle. 

Turns out the ass-kissing is worth it, though, because Mrs. Lemberger is grateful enough to gift them with not only an army’s worth of leftover deep-dish casserole, but also one of the best apple pies Dean’s ever eaten. 

Seriously—sex on a fork.

She says it’s called an “apfelkuchen,” which, ok—to Dean it honestly sounds like she’s saying something dirty, but when he catches a whiff of it from the kitchen, he’s immediately on board. Funky name or no funky name. 

They say their thank yous and adios, but not before seventy-eight-year-old Mrs. Lemberger cozies right on up to Sam, gooses him, pulls him down to her five-foot-nothing level, and whispers sweet nothings into his ear. Dean sees scarlet travel all the way to the top of Sam’s hairline as he frees himself from her clutches and practically sprints to the car.

Dean can’t help but laugh at him when they finally slide into the Impala. 

“Dude. She so wanted to jump your bones,” he jokes, starting up the ignition.

“Don’t even start, Dean,” Sam retorts with an indignant huff. Dean can feel the glower Sam throws his way as he eases the car onto the dirt driveway. A hound dog and four cats lounge outside, lazy written all over them. Their heads swivel in sync as they watch the Impala make its way down the rocky road.

“Is there a female version of Viagra?” Dean cheekily muses. “If so, I’ll bet you she’s poppin’ those bad boys on the daily. She was geared up and ready to go.”

“Nope. I am not having this conversation with you,” Sam says sternly.

Dean just grins and waggles his eyebrows, revving Baby’s engine as he pulls out onto the highway and starts their trip back to the Bunker.

They’ve got a long way to go till they call it quits for the day, so Dean thumbs a tape into the cassette player and finishes off Steve Miller Band’s Take the Money and Run. Time passes in a blur, smooth rhythms and steady beats filling the Impala as they head home.

A few hours later, they finally cross into Missouri. Dean doesn’t see the state's welcome sign, but he does see a billboard that reads “Repent Now!” and another a few miles down that ironically advertises an adult store and "gentleman's" lounge. 

He has no qualms about where they are on a U.S. map.

But for all of Missouri's obvious contradictions, it’s still a beautiful state. Dean watches the sun as it seeps low into the horizon, its rays of light shining on the dew from the warm summer evening. The road and surrounding pastures appear as if an iridescent coat is gently laid atop them. Lighting bugs flit past, each minuscule insect twinkling in and out of existence against the backdrop of a hazy blue sky. 

On evenings like these, when the Midwest air isn’t a sweltering hellfire (unfortunately, he intimately knows what that’s like) and the evening blues and pinks of the sky blend in a warm wash of color, Dean can’t help but be content. 

Sure, his ankle hurts like hell. Heck—his whole body aches—but he’s definitely had worse. And while he won’t admit this to anyone else but Sam, he knows most of his aches and pains are because he’s getting older. 

But in a way that he wouldn’t have been able to comprehend even a few years ago, he’s optimistic.

Not only has he survived past the age of thirty, but his kid brother has too. Even better, they’re both pushing their mid to late forties.

He and Sam have never been more relaxed in their entire lives.

Ever since the Endtm four years ago, they’ve both had more time to just…be: a lack of world-ending events, only the occasional no-fuss hunt, has given them all the time in the world. 

Dean’s started gardening (although what he thought were tomatoes have turned out to be bell peppers). He’s even been able to hold a “normal” job for the past couple of years as a mechanic at Dally’s garage, making money through something other than credit card fraud and pool hustling. 

As for Sam? 

Dean snuck a peek at a stack of papers that Sam attempted to hide from him in embarrassment. Turns out, Sammy got a job as a substitute teacher at a school a few towns over. He’s been the go-to liaison of all things monsters and spell work for the hunting community, but Dean could tell Sam wanted something else to do. Sure, Dean may have ribbed him a little for being so nerdy, but that's just his nature: Dean’s still happy for him, because teaching is a perfect fit for his skill sets.

So, now both he and his not-so-young (nor small) little brother have firmly shot out their domestic roots. 

Huh. 

Too many hurts ago, he might have been worried Sam was getting ready to leave him: pull out the rug from under his feet with the words “I’m done” forever etched across his mind, but not any longer. 

A more relaxed life and finally being able to not live on the knife's edge all the time will do that to a man.  

Dean shifts in Baby’s seat, adjusting his feet to keep the circulation flowing and avoid saying something sappy. He throws a questioning look at Sam.

“You got anything else in particular you want me to plant in the garden this year?” Dean asks. “You know, aside from the standard veggies? Maybe some garlic and other herbs? I know you can always use them for spell work.” 

He scratches the edge of his chin. Dang—he’ll have to shave again when they get home. 

Sam turns a contemplative look his way. “Actually, yeah. Now that you mention it, I’ve been meaning to try and find some more Blackthorn, which, according to the lore, is supposed to help with protection and exorcism spells.” 

He yawns and stretches a little, canting his body more towards Dean’s general direction, resting his head against the window. “Had a hunter… well, more of a kid really—couldn’t have been older than twenty-four—come in by himself for advice. He seemed tough enough, but he’s hunting alone and needs something to help him out.”

Dean can’t resist the urge to tease. “Man, you really are getting old. You sound like a grampa.” 

Sam scoffs. “Uh-huh, sure. You care just as much as I do, don’t try to deny it.” His voice is laced with a smirk when he continues“And besides, you’re older. If I’m a grampa,” he points at himself, then turns his finger at Dean, “you’re ancient.”

Dean feigns offense, glaring at Sam. “Hey! I am seasoned, thank you very much. I just happen to…creak and groan a little more.” 

Sam’s voice echoes with mirth. “You just keep telling yourself that.” 

There's the creak of leather. “Man, even I’m getting a little rusty in the joints, though,” Sam says as he shifts, cracks his knuckles, and then groans when he can’t quite pop his back without hurting.

“See?” Dean says, leveling his forefinger at Sam. “Old.”

”Yeah, yeah. Whatever.” 

“But seriously, though,” Dean continues, by now looking more at Sam than the road. (A hazardous occupation, but one he’s done for years and isn’t about to stop doing now). “What you’re doing for these people: helping them out and basically being the friggin’ Nick Fury and McGonagall love child of the hunting community? Pretty stinkin’ awesome.” 

They pull up to a light, and Dean waits for it to turn green, tapping his fingers against the top of the steering wheel. Sam looks at him, and when Dean holds his gaze, he sees in Sam’s eyes an earnestness he’s come to appreciate after all the years of being pointedly not open with each other, apocalypses aside.

“Thank you, Dean.” Sam clears his throat. “That…really means a lot.”

“Yeah, yeah.” 

So much for not letting estrogen get the better of him. Surprised by his own forwardness and now edging on the side of too girly, Dean accepts the thanks and guides the conversation back to the topic at hand as green flashes and the two cars on the deserted road, Baby and a Tahoe, ease on the gas. 

“So, you wanna stop by that farmers’ market a couple of hours from here tomorrow? We can look for your whatchamacallit voodoo stuff.” 

“It’s called Blackthorn, Dean. And yes—I would like that.” 

Fond exasperation laces Sam’s tone. He shifts in his seat, releasing a yawn, girly bangs hanging in his eyes as he cants his head against the window. 

Even in his forties, the kid still needs a haircut.

They continue driving, heading towards an open-24-hours diner and then hopefully somewhere to sleep. Dean finds his mind drifting once again, tiredness settling on his shoulders after a long day.

To be honest, Dean is surprised at himself for how relaxed he is with this whole “Witch Sam” thing his brother has got going on. Years ago, he would have been ok with it only in extreme cases, such as saving the world from total destruction (again), and only with extreme caution. 

Now though? 

Well, he’s gotten used to Sam using it for small things here and there, like boosting their garden's production rate with Dill, and even utilizing Nettle to help mend their clothing when it’s torn up during a hunt. 

It’s the safe stuff: hasn’t hurt anybody and doesn’t have any long-lasting ill effects, so Dean doesn’t see why they shouldn’t. 

(Of course, that was only after Sam convinced him it was kosher by explaining to him how much money it was going to save them and by ensuring its safety with a test run in the spell room).

So, as long as they don’t go full on voodoo and no one's turned into an E.T., Dean considers it a win-win. 

What he also considers a bonus, though, is the carpentry shop they found in a secluded part of the bunker about a year ago. Sam had gone looking for some book or another for a hunt and stumbled upon the room somewhere near the dungeon. 

It was awesome. 

In return for his allowance of regular spellwork, Sam agreed to let Dean purchase more modern and upgraded items for the shop; most recently, he bought a Dremel set and a lathe (which had cost a crap ton of his savings, but was worth it). 

While Sam’s hobby has been reinventing himself into a more hairy, sasquatch version of Sabrina the Teenage Witch, Dean has been practicing his This Old House skills. 

Not to brag or anything, but he’s kind of a natural at it. He's always been good with his hands, and carpentry is something he’s enjoyed ever since his Dad had found them a hunt in the sawmill town of Clayton, Oklahoma, back in ’94. 

He had to take a woodworking class at the incredibly small school in town and wound up loving every minute of it: it was the one class, aside from machine shop, Dean can recall actually putting forth an effort to get A’s in. 

It was actually quite beautiful up there, now that he thinks about it. Most people think Oklahoma is all flat, bare nothingness, but the Southeastern portion is covered in lush forests, fertile farm land, and picturesque vistas. Distantly, he can remember his shop instructor, an old Choctaw man with a stern brow but easy going attitude, explaining the layout of the Kiamichi mountains and their connections to the Ozarks. He’d told him how it was once Indian Territory back in the 1800s; the area was quite literally an outlaw-infested region. 

For a sixteen-year-old kid, even one as cynical and preoccupied with otherworldly things as himself, Dean had liked Mr.Frazier and was enraptured by the potential for exploration and discovery. 

Outlaws? Adventure? Sign him up.

Now that he thinks about it, maybe one day he and Sam can find a hunt in that region. Bigfoot is weirdly popular down there; Dean wouldn’t be surprised if they actually did find a hairy, three-hundred-pound boogie man.

Hey. Maybe he could even cut down some cedar posts while they're down there. Carve something nice-looking, yet practical.

Dean yawns, stretching his neck. Then he frowns, thinking a bit more critically. 

What exactly should he make?

So far, he’s made a few cups and bowls that they use in the kitchen. He even put together a few rolling pins made of maple and pine. But he’s been itching to make bigger, better things—see how well all his practice will pay off. Really get his money’s worth, because just one piece of oak costs like five dollars. 

If he’s going to spend an arm and a leg on a larger project, he wants to make something special and take his time with it.

As he contemplates, Dean's eyes track a billboard which, in glaringly bold, off-kilter font that makes him want to blink, shouts, “Why repair when you can replace!” for some bathroom shower or something. 

Suddenly, Dean knows exactly what he wants to make. 

The Men of Letters may have left them a cool-ass facility and all, but some of the furniture in the rooms is…than desirable. Sam’s been complaining about his desk in his room for the past few years now. Not only is it unstable, but Dean went in there one time to retrieve a book for Sam on The Mating Rituals of the Strigta (Seriously, Sam. What the hell?) and damn near took its leg off when he leaned on it. The woods’ chipping, the varnish is fading, and there are multiple stains and scuffs on the table top. Plus, there’s not a whole lot of room to place all the items Sam has collected: most of his books and trinkets are haphazardly stacked on the floor by the desk.

To say Sam needs a new desk is an understatement.

Which is why the idea Dean has is perfect. Not only will he make Sam a new table, he’ll make him an extra special, big-brother-tested and approved table.

It’s a worthwhile project for his hobby: it’s something that will make his kid brother happy.

As far as he’s concerned, it’s a worthy pursuit (and worth every penny he’ll have to spend).

To fill the silence of the car and keep things interesting, he makes a loud popping noise with a snap of his fingers. 

Sam jumps, startled by the break in silence.

“Hey! Maybe we can find you some type of witchy Viagra at the farmer’s market. Ain’t there like, a dozen different herbs that help with fertility?” He smacks a hand on the seat of the cab in mock excitement. “Boosted sex drive, Sammy!”

“Oh my God. ”

Over the next few weeks, Dean slowly and methodically draws up his plans.

In a small, leather-bound journal he got as a just-because gift from Sam, he keeps all his notes, figuring in money, time, and materials. It will take him weeks, if not several months, to build, so he decides to make a running list.

In between a poltergeist in Wyoming and a Rougarou in Maine, he manages to draw up the dimensions, making it as spacious as possible on account of Sam’s long legs and many books. 

As for the type of wood—it’s no contest. In one of his rolling pins, he’d included a strip of Black Walnut that Sam seemed quite keen on, requesting that he make more with an earnest please, Dean?

Like he would say no. 

On a sunny Friday morning in early June, he hatches a scheme to go and get the materials without Sam getting suspicious. He wakes up early enough to get breakfast started and finished before Sam gets back from his run: eggs are scrambled with just enough moisture to keep them fresh, and sausage is fried up alongside bacon, since someone he knows is picky (and frankly downright sacrilegious).

He's pouring them both some orange juice and setting their food down on the table when he hears the door to the bunker creak open and then closed, the sound of metal bouncing and echoing off the bunker walls.

“Oh. Morning,” he hears a slightly out-of-breath voice say. 

In the doorway to the kitchen, Sam stands, clad in sweatpants and a jacket. His chest heaves slightly post-run, breath still not fully under control. There’s sweat on his brow, under his armpits, and staining his t-shirt collar. 

Dean hmms in response as he fills two glasses with orange juice, watches as Sam eyes him, and then the table.

“You’re up early,” Sam questions, clearly confused as to why, especially since Dean doesn’t have to work at the shop today. But Dean watches him eye the food again with hunger in his eyes just before deciding it's more important. 

Sam’s chowing down on sausage and simultaneously layering his toast with butter before Dean can even open his mouth to answer him.

Kid always did have a bottomless pit for a stomach: keeping clothes on him from the ages of thirteen to eighteen was practically impossible. Especially since the terms ”new clothes” and “afford” were nowhere near a Winchester's vicinity. 

“Yep. I got some errands to run in town today,” Dean finally says. “There’s several projects I have going, so I wanted to get an early start.” 

“What kind of projects?”

“Oh, you know.” Dean's glad he’s a good liar. “Just some more stuff for around the bunker. Even thought about working on those lap desks you’ve been asking after.”

He stabs another forkful of eggs, shovels it in, and watches Sam’s face light up. “Really? That’d be nice,” Sam says before taking a sip of his orange juice. “I would go with you, but I got a call from the school this morning. Apparently, Mrs. Habernitch came down with the Flu, so I’ve gotta fill in today. Likely for the rest of next week, too.”

Dean shudders internally. How Sam has the patience to deal with eighth graders, he’ll never know. Sure, kids are great, and all, but that many hormonal teens? All day long? 

No, thank you. 

“You have fun with that,” Dean says, letting playful skepticism color his voice. “Just don’t bring back whatever Mrs. Whatserface has. It'll damage my good looks.” He flashes Sam his best grin.

Partial amusement lines Sam's features. “Sure, Dean. Just tell yourself that when you don’t have egg on your face. Here, have a napkin.” Sam grabs one from the table and passes it to him. 

Oops. Dean snatches the napkin and roughly wipes his chin. Whatever—Dean’s still very good looking, thankyouverymuch.

Eventually, they finish their breakfast and clean up (but not before he sneaks Miracle some bacon under the table). Dean may keep a dirty room, but Sam demanded early on that Dean pick up after himself outside of his personal space because it isn't healthy, Dean. Don’t leave your underwear on the floor, blah blah blah.

Sam stretches, letting his arms hold his weight as he hangs from the kitchen doorway arch. His shirt rides up his stomach, and his long legs bend at the knees. 

Sasquatch. 

“Alright. I’m gonna get ready and head out,” Sam announces. “I’ll probably see you around four?” 

“Yep. I should be back way before then,” Dean answers. “We need anything from the grocery store?”

Sam considers for a moment, brow crinkling in thought. “Can’t think of anything right now. If I do, I’ll text you.”

“Sounds good. Have fun with the rowdy teenagers,” Dean replies. But he can’t resist teasing him a little more. “Don’t let Mrs. Abernathy get on your case today. Wouldn’t want you to have to file an inappropriate conduct report again.” 

“That was one time, Dean! And she wouldn’t leave me alone! You try avoiding a horny seventy-six-year-old!” 

Sam's exasperated voice fills the kitchen, and Dean has just enough time to narrowly avoid the spatula thrown his way as he ducks around a corner, laughing his ass off.

Town is busy today: it’s the end of the month, which means most have money to spend. There’s a fair number of people wandering the sidewalks and streets. Old Man Clark sits in his usual spot outside the Cenex gas station on Elm St., dirty cap pulled low across his face as he watches people pass. There’s potential for an obvious reference, but when you live near a town with a population just under two hundred, you’d know it if Freddy Kruger showed up to play. 

Which he hadn’t—Dean checked, and was highly disappointed.

The lack of anything in this town is weirdly comforting to Dean. Normally, he would prefer to fade into the background, go unnoticed. But aside from Baby, he’s lived here longer than he’s lived anywhere, and he’s gotten somewhat fond of the place. 

Don't get him wrong: he’s always watchful, will forever keep a sharp eye out, and be ready for anything at the drop of a hat. But even though he won't ever truly be an average Joe, the normalcy of it all seeps into his thought processes and habits. 

It's not as strange as it used to be to routinely recognize people (i.e, not hunters), and to be comfortable with reciprocal recognition. Easy, friendly smiles and casual greetings aren't something he runs from anymore, so he finds himself returning them more often. 

He fills the truck up with gas, nods a greeting to Old Man Clark, and then heads to McCray’s Lumber on the South side of town. Since he can’t exactly use the Impala to haul lumber—and frankly, won’t scratch up his Baby—he commandeered a Chevy truck from the Men of Letters’ stash. 

He rolls into a large gravel lot and parks the car near the front of the store. It’s pretty much just a glorified sheet-metal shed, not very fancy or anything, but it’s also the only lumber store in town. 

He turns the truck off, steps out, stretches—and is promptly assaulted. 

He stumbles backwards against the door and struggles to stand straight. Two sets of large, dirty paws push on his chest, weighing him down. 

He grunts, letting out a rough puff of air. Both the Great Dane and the German Shepherd's tails wag furiously as they lean their full weight against him.

“Hey girls! Guess you missed me, huh?” 

He pets them for a moment behind their ears and spines, enough to satisfy their eagerness. They finally hop down, tails wagging and bodies wiggling with excited energy.

He’s straightening up, brushing the dog fur off his clothes, when he hears the chime of a bell and the shuffle of boots on dirt. 

“Sorry ’bout that, Dean! Those girls sure do love when you come by. Can’t help themselves.” 

Gill, the owner of McCrays, walks towards him, hand shading a tanned face against the glare of the sun on his wire-rimmed glasses. A tall, burly man with thick, ropy arms, he intimidated Dean the first time they met. And since Dean isn’t spooked easily, that's saying something. 

But then the man opened his mouth, and Dean quickly realized that he’s just a big softy with a lot of love for his family (of which there are eight—eight!—children) and a fierce protectiveness over them. 

Dean felt an immediate kinship with the man and struck up an acquaintance. It wound up working pretty well for both parties. After Dean took out a werewolf that was stalking his children, Gill promised to help him with whatever he needed. 

Hence, a sweet 30% discount on wood and tools.

He meets Gill halfway and shakes the hand offered to him with a firm grip. “No worries, man. They aren’t harming anybody. Besides, I don’t mind so much. Better than some of the greetings I’ve had.”

“Can’t imagine those were too pleasant,” Gill says with a laugh. “Here, come on in.” 

He opens the door to the store, the bars across the front glinting silver in the sunlight, and gestures Dean in. The smell of years-worn linoleum and stale disinfectant mixed with a hint of metal hit his nose. 

While it may not be a pleasant smell, it's so familiar he can't help but enjoy it. It always reminds him of whiskey and gun oil wrapped hugs (rare though they were). 

”What can I do for you today?” Gill asks as the door closes behind them. “More oak? You’ve been ordering a lot lately.”

Dean leans his arm on a shelf nearby and faces Gill. “Actually, I need some black walnut, if you’ve got it. I’m working on several large projects and need quite a bit for what I’ve got in mind.”

“Hmm. Sounds like a worthy pursuit.” Gill scratches his copper-toned beard and furrows his brow. “Tell you what. I think we just got a shipment a few weeks ago. Let me go check the back and see what we have.” 

“Awesome,” Dean says. “‘Preciate it. I'll wait up here.” 

Gill nods and sets towards the end of the building.

Momentarily bored, Dean decides to wander down the aisles near the front while he waits. He grabs a few items: carpenter’s pencils, a new tape measure, and an extra carpenter’s square. While he's at it, he snags a few bags of candy off the snack rack near the checkout area: a bag of peanut M&Ms for him and a bag of Claeys lemon drops for Sam. 

While he may complain about all the sugar Dean eats and doesn't eat much himself, lemon drops are Sam’s weakness. Besides—the kid needs more meat on his bones. 

Speaking of. 

Dean's phone buzzes in his back pocket. He unceremoniously drops his items on the counter and checks it: Sam wants him to get ten Lunchables, six cans of Spaghettios, and a pack of Hamburger Helper. 

Huh? Dean wonders why on earth he would need to buy all of this since they already went shopping last Sunday, but he gets a second text.

Sam: I’ll explain later. Could you bring it to the school? I’ll be in room 307, like last time. 

Well, alright then. Dean has no idea what this is all about, but Gill comes back to the front, so Dean pushes school to the side for the moment. 

“Hey, Dean,” Gill states. “We’ve got plenty of Black Walnut. Won’t be running out anytime soon.”

Thank God. Dean was hoping he wouldn't have to wait to get a shipment in, because sometimes it takes a month just to get maple delivered. 

“Awesome,” Dean replies enthusiastically. “Could I maybe get seven slabs of it? I got the truck and can pull her around back.”

“Sure thing,” Gill acquiesces, pulling out a pen and paper to mark the amount. “Let me go get the boys on that wood, and then we’ll get you checked out.”

After thirty or so minutes, Dean is set and ready to go, loaded up to his eyeballs with lumber. Straps and tarps secure over the wood, he makes sure to thank Gill, who only shakes his offered hand and says, “Anything for the guy who saved my girls’ lives.” 

Dean makes sure to return Sam’s message before he pulls out from McCrays and heads to Ladow’s Market. It's not exactly his favorite place in the world to go, especially in Podunk, Kansas. However, living in the middle of nowhere means the people are that much more entertaining. 

After he retrieves Sam’s odd list of items, he meanders his way to a small rack of movies in the back, dodging two crackheads and a very…scantily clad woman in four-inch stiletto heels. 

Now that they have more downtime, he and Sam try to have more movie nights. Over one snowed-in, five-day weekend (which, for Kansas, that's a LOT of snow), they managed to marathon Lord of the Rings and all of Star Wars. And over the course of several weeks, they watched anything from Stargate to Perry Mason to Ben Hur.  

After one particularly rough week of hunting, which left them wounded and bunker-bound, they even watched Manchester by the Sea.  

He definitely did not cry. 

(No matter what Sam says).

Pilfering through the five-dollar rack, Dean manages to find The Patriot, and ooh! Near Dark ! Score! (It may have terrible vampire lore, but hell, if Bill Paxton doesn't deliver ). 

The last time he remembers watching it was…actually before The Apocalypse (the first one anyway), and he wonders if Sam has ever seen it. 

If not, he calls dibs on the agenda for their next movie night.

Overall, he's quite pleased with his finds. Tossing his items onto the register at the front, he patiently waits for the check-out lady to scan his items, unable to resist flirting with her a bit. 

Because hey—she’s a pretty gal.

He winks at her in lieu of a greeting, and a blush travels up her neck into her cheeks. They chit-chat for a bit while she bags his items, and when her register stalls for ten minutes, it gives him an excuse to flirt and talk some more. 

It‘s just a casual flirtation, a way of interacting with people settled deep into his bones, but sometimes it comes in handy; he gets her number.

Dean grabs his bags, stuffs his receipt in his pocket, and heads out, proverbial pep in his step, because— score.

Smith Center school, located in—you guessed it—Smith county, is the only one available to Lebanon residents, and even then, it's a very small building situated on the outskirts of town.

It’s also diagonal from the hospital and within walking distance of Creekside Liquor.

Dean drove the twenty-five minutes it takes to get there and now strides semi-confidently into the building, bags of Lunchables and whatnot clutched in his hands.

It takes a moment for the short, middle-aged woman to catalogue his features, but thankfully, her blue eyes light up in recognition. 

“Hello, Mr. Winchester! What can I help you with today?”

“Hello, ma’am. Clara wasn’t it?” She nods yes, and he flashes a smile while gesturing to the bags in his hands. “I’m just here to see Sam. He’s subbing in room 307 today. Wanted me to stop by and take some water and whatnot to him.” 

“Oh, of course! No problem at all,” she replies. “You know where it is, so you’re good to go.” 

Security apparently isn’t really a thing in this small of a town, but it works well to his advantage. She gives him one last nod before adjusting her glasses and resuming typing on her computer.

With a thank you, Dean heads towards the back of the building. He’s soon in the right corridor and steadily makes his way to 307. Once there, he knocks for courtesy, then quietly pushes open the door and enters. It closes with a gentle click behind him.

The rough, yet warmly pitched tone of Sam’s voice greets his ears. It sounds like Sam’s teaching some type of boring, girly poetry based on the glazed eyes of most students in the room. Some are laid across their desks, trying to stay awake by absentmindedly writing down notes, but most have clocked out, daydreaming or just outright sleeping. 

Considering how pretty it is outside and how boring English is to this particular crowd (himself included), Dean’s not surprised. 

Which means he’s also not surprised when most of the students lift their heads and turn to look at him as soon as he sets foot in the room. 

He ignores them, because what else is he supposed to do? Say hi? 

But then he feels a stab of pity. Poor kids are in summer school: it can’t be all that great a time. 

Thankfully, Sam spots him and gives the kids the break they’ve obviously been needing.

“Alright, everyone. I’m not gonna pretend that most of you are interested in what I’ve been saying right now,” he says. 

A chuckle goes up through the room. At least Sam wasn’t oblivious. 

“You get ten minutes to wake up and clear your heads. Just don’t get too rowdy, okay?” 

The students need no other instruction; soon, the sounds of teenage chatter fill the room. Sam slips through them to come stand by his side near the back. 

“Hey. Thanks for grabbing those,” he says, voice pitched low. “I’d go get them myself, but I can’t leave.”

Dean shrugs. “Eh. No problem. I already ran my errands anyway. But uh, where do you want these?” He hefts the bags higher, and Sam reaches out to take a few.

“In the mini fridge,” Sam says, guiding him to a sizable mini-fridge shoved in a corner. Sam opens it, they quickly fill it, and then Dean feels a brief swish of ice-cool air as Sam closes the door. 

“So…can I ask what these are for?” Dean asks, trying to keep his voice low since Sam seemed to not want to draw attention. “Are you planning a party or something? These are eighth graders, you know: you're gonna need more than that to feed them all.”

“Sure. Totally,” Sam says sarcastically, scoffing and swiping his hair out of his face. 

Hmm, funny. Dean doesn’t remember there being this much gray in Sam’s hair. He absentmindedly catalogues Sam’s appearance in a general way, but this close, he can see where gray and silver are starting to slip through. It’s honestly a very…dignified look for his brother. 

Not that he’d say so out loud, though.

“There’s no way I would have enough to fund that,” Sam continues. “Like you said—kids are bottomless pits. Plus, that’s not in my pay grade.” 

Sam slightly turns his back to the students to hide his next words, motioning for Dean to do the same. “I am looking to feed a few of them, however. You see those two girls sitting over there? The ones huddled close together, trying to disappear?”

At Sam’s minuscule nod over his shoulder, Dean tries his best to look similarly inconspicuous as he seeks them out with his eyes. It takes a minute, but in the far corner, on the other side of the room, two girls slouch in their seats, talking quietly amongst themselves. From this distance, Dean notes the unkept hair, the gaunt cheeks, and the scuffed-up sneakers tucked up under their desks. 

He also doesn't miss the obvious way they hunch close together in an attempt to minimize their presence.

“They uh…don’t have much food at home,” Sam quietly informs him. 

Dean catches Sam’s eye, immediately knowing why Sam chose Spaghettios and Hamburger Helper. He supports a burdened, weary look. 

“I did some digging, and according to some of their other teachers, it’s been that way for a while.” A sigh of disappointment and the slouch of large, flannel-lined shoulders. “They’re living with their grandparents, mom and dad apparently not in the picture for a while now. Social security is all they have to live on, but it’s just—“ Sam sighs. “It’s not enough.”

Sam seems so deflated. Dean knows this has weighed on him because that used to be them: peanut butter and bread only stretched so far sometimes.

Real, raw hunger would climb up from the back wall of the stomach to gnaw and bite at what seemed like their entire bodies, leaving them painfully aware of how deeply screwed they were until Dad got back. One time, he and Sam went for three days before they even got a taste of Cheerios.

…not exactly a kosher dill memory. 

So, yeah—Dean has a better idea than most of what those girls are going through. 

He feels a wave of sadness and pity rise up within him. It’s no surprise Sam had him buy what he could: pre-packaged and easy-to-fix foods can stretch a long way when needed. 

“I’ll find some way to get it to them,” Sam whispers, sticking his hands in his pockets and letting a small smile lift his face. “Figured it’s the least we can do.”

Dean wholeheartedly agrees, but he can’t suppress the underlying feeling of melancholy he gets when thinking about that particular branch of their childhood. 

“Well, just let me know when they need more,” he says. “We still have a few strings to pull. Maybe we can come up with something a little more permanent.”

Dean wouldn’t exactly consider himself an upstanding citizen (because—laughable), but occasionally, he finds something that pricks his curiosity or consciousness or whatever you wanna call it, and he decides to do something about it. 

Case in point: two starving girls who remind him way too much of him and Sam. I’ll fitting clothes, too-thin frames, and wary gazes that are meant to keep people at bay. A closeness that alarms others, yet keeps them safe—secure.

(Not alone).

“Good idea,” Sam replies, pulling him back to the present. 

Mission accomplished, he figures it's time to head back to the Bunker and let Sam return to the hellions. He stands up to leave, but a voice cuts through the general chatter, completely out of left field, startling both him and Sam.

“Are ya’ll married?” 

Huh?

The frumpy kid, because that’s what he is, stares at them from a few desks away. He’s got a look on his face that smugly conveys: it’s a rhetorical question.

Dean starts forward in a half-aborted step, opening his mouth to berate the little weirdo, but Sam gets to him first.

“What? No!” Sam firmly states, looking at the kid like he’s crazy. 

Which—yeah. Dean‘s on board with that. 

How are these kids nosy and weird enough to somehow think that a couple of hick lumberjacks (Dean knows he and Sam look this way) are gay? 

Because that’s what he really has a problem with. How many times does he have to tell people he’s straight, has literally slept with over three hundred women, and will continue to increase that number, before they get that? He still doesn’t understand how people possibly put two and two together and come out with (no pun intended) Bert and Ernie.

“Because you like, literally live together?” The voice comes from a red-headed girl in the back. “And you give off, like, extreme married couple vibes.” 

Dean narrows his eyes at the chick, annoyance building as he watches her pick at her sharp, hot-cheeto lookin’ nails.

“I’ve seen you guys grocery shop together like, a gajillion times. There’s also, like, a lack of personal space.” 

Her incredibly fake, wanna-be Cali-girl voice grates against his ears. Dean thinks the word ‘like’ should be thrown out of the English language, given how much she butchers it. 

He also has the thought that Sam does not get paid nearly enough for this. 

“Look,” he says, annoyance lining each syllable as they roll off his tongue. He rolls his eyes at all of them, letting them know he certainly doesn’t have to put up with this. “We’re not gay. We’re brothers.” 

There’s a brief moment of cricket chirping silence: if a pin dropped, you’d know it. Then he hears snickering and a yeah, suuurreee as it echoes throughout the room. 

Dean rolls his eyes again. He’s not getting anywhere with these kids. Unfortunately, they’re gonna think what they want, because that’s just how teenagers are. 

…freaks. 

Maybe he does live with his brother—so what? He’s happy with the way his life is. Both he and Sam get a healthy dose of women every now and then, and they continue to hunt and work on a regular basis. And they have friends: Jody, Donna, heck—even Claire’s fun to hunt with (though the kid needs an attitude check).

Truth is, Lisa and Ben just…didn’t work out for Dean all those years ago. After that failed experience, he has no more desire to live the standard apple pie, two-and-a-half kids, and a mortgage lifestyle. 

His happiest? Right here with Sam. It took him a long time for that fact to solidify in his heart and mind, but now that he’s come to that point, he doesn't ever want to lose it and let what these pre-pubescent twats say affect him. 

He and Sam are good with each other, which is all he cares about.

He shares a look with Sam and is pleased to see the same thoughts reflected back at him through steadfast, hazel eyes. 

“Alright, whatever,” Sam finally says, rolling his eyes at the gremlins. He pats Dean on the shoulder, then starts up the aisle towards the front of the class, boots scuffing the linoleum floor. “Time to get back to work.”

Desk feet scrape against the ground, and fifteen or so kids groan in unison as they sit and face forward in their seats. Dean heads towards the door and is just placing his palm on the handle when he glances one last time at the sisters in the corner. 

He’s taken aback when twin pairs of piercing, green eyes framed by greasy bangs meet his gaze head-on. 

If he were bold enough, he'd say they're peering at him with a rare and deep understanding most people couldn't comprehend. Instead, he observes their closeness, the way their bodies are angled towards each other. 

Always within reach. Always in tune with the other. 

Marching to a rhythm all their own.

Hmm. Well, maybe not all of these kids are hopeless. 

Dean sends them a soft, quick upturn of the lips and closes the door on his way out.

The next week comes and goes. He and Sam hit up Pooche’s (he still wanders how they chose that name) in Smith Center on Sunday night, throw some darts, shoot some pool, and almost-but-not-quite get into a bar fight with two yuppie yahoos who try and sleaze up on some women who are clearly not interested. They can’t take a hint, though, so he and Sam get a little…rough with them. Thankfully, they're regular enough: Veta just sighs and makes them take it outside before they break my store, jackasses.

(They get a free round for running the creeps off.)

On movie night, he and Sam get a bit tipsy on Jack Daniels, bodies lax and laughter flowing freely. Sam winds up loving Near Dark, to Dean's personal enjoyment, but they both crack up at its terribly inaccurate way of curing vampirism. 

That is so not the way vampires operate.

If they wind up passed out on Dean’s bed by the end of The Patriot, Miracle nestled between them, legs haphazardly tangled together and bodies draped on opposite ends—well. 

That’s for them to know. 

The following Saturday, he's almost ready to begin work on Sam’s desk when he realizes he forgot something crucial: a replacement cog for his lathe. 

There’s no way he can finish the desk without it: it would take ages longer and essentially have to be done by hand. 

He ain’t about that, so off to Grizzly it is. 

Springfield, Missouri, is roughly eight hours from Lebanon, but Dean manages to convince Sam over dinner that it’s a worthy pursuit. But only after he promises to let Sam spend as much time as he wants at Relics Antique mall, which is just right next door to Grizzly, Dean. Come on. Just this once?

Which— not helping their we’re not antiquers’ defense. 

But…Sam pulls this look and—. 

Oh, well. There are worse ways to be manipulated.

They take backroads most of the way to avoid the interstate, which only adds about thirty minutes to their trip. Along the way, they stop at an army surplus store in El Dorado to stock up on ammunition, and then Sam manages to find them a nice diner in Walnut Grove to eat some excellent pie. Even Sam eats a piece, which means it’s really good.

After a while, they find a motel near Willard for the night and decide to make their way into Springfield the next morning. 

At about 9:00am, they pull into Grizzly. Once inside, Dean can’t help but gape. The place is massive and so freaking cool, Sam. Oh my god, I’m in heaven. 

Sam laughs and follows Dean around the store while he oohs and ahhs. Dean truly feels like he’s in another realm, though: the place takes up several blocks, and the ground floor is covered in tools, machinery, and all other kinds of manly-looking equipment. 

There’s even a demo room! He excitedly watches the workers demonstrate the different techniques of various items from a large window.

After the demo, with a little direction from a disgruntled employee who looks like he has a hangover, he manages to find the tool he needs in the discounted section. 

Once they're done and he's satisfied with his purchases, Dean is actually semi-okay with going over to the antique store. 

He still teases Sam for it, though.

“You do know this makes you a bona fide grandmother, right? This is where old ladies send their doilies and dishcloths when they die. It’s like a granny graveyard.” 

They walk side by side on the asphalt towards the mall, shoulders occasionally brushing, so he can’t see Sam’s expression. But he can certainly sense the eye roll rebounding in Sam’s head like a pinball. 

“Asshat,” Sam retorts. “You’re going in with me! You know what that makes you? Also a bona fide grandmother, Mr. ‘Let’s garden and cook all the time.’” 

Dean opens his mouth to deny any such thing, but they reach the main entrance and he quickly closes it. Sam shoots him a cocky grin. 

“Besides. You love trinkets and old junk. Don't even try to deny it.”

He won’t, because Sam is right. But it’s still hella gay. 

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever,” Dean lamely replies, leveling Sam with a very purposeful glower and a finger to the chest. “But just know that if someone so much as looks at us sideways, it’s your fault we’re officially gay in Missouri.” 

Sam grins and grabs a basket.

Now that they're in, Dean marvels, yet again, at the size of some of these places. This mall stretches for several thousand square feet and is absolutely covered in junk. It’s never-ending, and Dean belatedly thinks that Sam's idea to come here was a really good one. He’s already itching to look around.

Which is exactly what they do. For hours, they browse the aisles, going from one section of automobile parts (where Dean spends a considerable amount of time), all the way to an area with shelves upon shelves of records and movies. A significant portion of their time is spent in this area: Sam finds some Pearl Jam classics (gag) while Dean scores big on some MegaDeth cassettes. 

There’s a section of really old jewelry in long rows of glass cabinets towards the front. Further back, there’s a whole area for furniture, with some pieces as old as 1789. Dean stays there as long as possible, because— awesome. 

Near a group of chattering moms, they come upon a rack of flannels. One quick, shared look of mutual agreement later, their basket is considerably fuller.

To be honest, Dean is having more fun than he thought he would. Especially when Sam finds something he likes. He lights up like a Christmas tree with childlike delight when he finds something useful and practically vibrates with excitement when he happens upon a book of spells and herbal magic hiding under a basket of old postcards. 

How he manages to spot it in all this stuff, Dean will never know.

Springfield is in the rearview by five, and they set out for Kansas, winding up at a Village Inn motel in Saline for the night. Sam books a room, and they both get showers and kick back for the evening. The water pressure isn't too bad, and the beds have magic fingers, much to his delight. With a sigh of contentment, Dean settles onto one, resting the top of his shoulders against mildly soft pillows and stretching out his long, short-clad legs. He flexes his foot and thinks that maybe he should start stretching more often. 

Overall, Dean is satisfied with their trip: he got what he needed for his project without hassle, and Sam seemed to enjoy his time. They even wound up with some doodads for around the bunker, which is always a plus.

Dean sticks a quarter in the machine, and the Magic Fingers whirs and rumbles as it starts. Completely at ease and receiving a semi-decent massage, his mind drifts.

For most of his adult life, relaxation and “fun” involved a bottle of whiskey and one-off hookups in seedy bars with women who couldn’t care less who he was. Mind you—the feeling was mutual, but it was largely impersonal, and to be honest, downright depressing. 

Settling down after Jack fixed the world is honestly the best decision he and Sam ever made. Wonder of all wonders, “fun” now consists of gardening, movie nights, and shopping trips with his brother to hardware stores and antique malls. 

Wiggling his hips a little, he sinks further into the pillows. Turns the dial on the magic fingers up to five.

Without a doubt, it‘s not the type of life he thought he'd be living. If someone had told him just a few years ago that this would be reality, he’d have laughed and thrown himself back into a spiral of drunkenness and depression. A never-ending cycle of one crisis after another: a fight to keep the already frayed cord of his relationship with his brother from snapping and sending them both to early, yet still long-overdue, graves. 

If his even younger self, so broken and desperate for clear answers and the loyalty of a wayward brother, were to see them now, Dean doesn't think he'd survive it. It would seem like some far-off, intangible dream. 

His little brother? With his do-as-I-please and damn-the-consequences attitude willingly living and hunting with him for the rest of his life? No longer running from him, but instead embracing him with open, eager arms? 

Laughable.

Now, though? It's actually real and physically tangible. Dean sees himself reaching out a fist, grasping the seemingly formless and hazy mist of life and wrapping it around his hand like a rope, stamping down its edges to make it stay put.

Sure, maybe this strange reality is far from perfect: he still houses mounds of unresolved issues, some of them more…complicated than most. But while he’ll likely (most assuredly) never forgive himself for the things he's done, even if others have already forgiven him, he's selfish enough to admit that he wants to be happy. 

Retains such a deep, burning desire to live to the fullest extent possible—past regrets and mistakes be damned.

The thought sits at the forefront of his mind as he peeks a drowsy eye open and turns his head to the right, squinting his eyes against the warm light of the bedside lamp. Sammy’s asleep, mouth open and breath puffing with a light snore. The spell book he bought today is open and rests on his chest, which moves up and down in a gentle rhythm. Slow and steady—peaceful.

Dean pulls the lamp cord, bathing the room in darkness. He scooches down farther under the covers, making sure his shoulders are fully covered. He wiggles his toes and relishes in comfort.

Surely, there are some things worth living for—just as much as they are dying for.

When they get back to the bunker, Dean gets to work.

He manages to balance duties at the mechanic shop and out-of-state hunts with crafting. However, he wishes he could stay down in the carpentry shop all day, every day. But Sam doesn't get overly suspicious, which is the main goal, so he thinks he’ll survive. 

The smell of oil and grease clings to his clothes after he gets off work, but by the end of each day in the shop, a thick layer of wood dust overpowers that: coats him in the warm scent of earth, clear and fresh. 

He takes his time, carefully shaping, molding, and carving each square inch of the wood. Legs are crafted (with great difficulty because of their shape), the bulk of the desk is cut and built to size, and many a drawer and cubby hole are prepared. 

Sam may be a neat freak, but with the amount of knick-knacks he collects, he’s gonna need a lot of space. Dean consequently spares no expense when it comes to built-in storage.

At first, it's easy to hide what he’s doing from Sam: he never really comes down to the shop, and it's mostly just bits and pieces in the beginning. Once he gets to assembly, though, worry worms its way into his mind. On the off chance that Sam does come down to visit, he's gonna know that Dean is not, in fact, building him more kitchen tools and lap desks. 

He's gonna have to get his hands a bit dirty; before he can talk himself out of it, he gives a certain occult expert and Queen of Hell a call.

Rowena picks up on the third ring. 

“Why, hello, deary.” Her voice is high-pitched, accentuated by a distinct Scottish accent. Based on the tone, he knows there’s a self-satisfied, cat-like grin on her face. “To what do I owe this fine pleasure? Perhaps you’ve come to beg for assistance from the finest witch of our age?”

The table he's leaning against digs into his lower back, sending uncomfortable pings up his left side. He adjusts, finding a more comfortable angle while scoffing into the phone. “Hello to you, Rowena. Sounds like you're still your old self. Staying out of trouble, I hope?”

Keys jingle in the background, and Dean hears the distinct sound of a motor firing up: he didn't know they had cars in Hell. “But of course, sweetie. When am I ever not the picture of perfection?”

Personally, Dean can name at least five times right off the bat. Her “best behavior” wasn't exactly a habit she practiced in any social setting he knew of. 

“You don’t actually want me to answer that, so I’ll get straight to the point,” he says. “I need your help. With a spell, I mean.”

Surprise and amusement echo in his ears. “Why, Dean,” she says. “I’m shocked! Usually, it's Samuel coming to me for help.” A mirthful, tight-lipped laugh tickles Dean's ear. “You’ve piqued my curiosity, so please—do spill.” 

“Well,” Dean says, grabbing the pencil wedged behind his ear and a notepad. “It's uh…actually Sam that I’m calling for, in a way. I’m working on a project and don't need him to be too nosy. It's for him, but he can't know about it yet. I just don't have any way to hide what it is I'm doing.”

“Well now…” Her tone shifts, and he detects a note of fondness laced over the sultry tone in her voice—which is what he was counting on. “ The Dean Winchester: actively consulting a witch for his dear ole’ Samuel.” It’s not terribly difficult to imagine her face upturned in a smug smirk. “Cannot say I’m surprised, however,” she continues. “Very par for the course with you, isn't it? I thought it would be something a tad more…risque. Ah, well,” she sighs, and he waits for her to continue, absentmindedly picking at a splinter on the table. 

“What you require, dear, is a concealment spell: a powerful one, if you truly want to make it foolproof. The poor boy would likely just trip over whatever it is you're hiding if it were only invisible.”

Here goes nothing. Not that it will be hard: he knows she's got a soft spot for them (especially Sam), so he's not above a bit of healthy manipulation to get what he wants. 

“Got it in one,” he affirms. “So…whaddya say? Help a guy out? Maybe I can lend you a book or two from the library in return? Or, hell—I don’t know...” He sweetens the pot. “See about helping you retrieve that one, freakishly old biblical artifact you've been pestering us about?”

“Oh ho! Now that does sound very tempting, I must say. It's certainly not every day you can go alone to retrieve a relic like that, even if you are a queen. And there are a few books I’d like to get my hands on that I know Sam is hoarding.” A pause, and Dean thinks he’s almost got her. “Since it is for Samuel…I suppose I could find some time in my very busy schedule as Queen to accommodate. A trip topside might be fun!” 

She lets loose a put-upon sigh that does little to hide the fondness in her voice. “But only as long as I receive some type of payment! A girl's got to have her fun, you know.” 

Bingo. She's as terrible as he is when it comes to Sammy, and he knew she'd fold without too much fuss. “You got it,” he agrees. ”Here, let me pass you some specks, and we’ll set a date.”

After about ten more minutes of planning and scheming, Dean’s all set. He's got all the notes needed for prep work, so they exchange farewells. 

The phone call ends with a quiet beep, and he anxiously awaits her visit.

It’s a hazy Wednesday morning, sun peeking up from the east and spilling its warm rays into the low lying cloud of fog layering the earth, when Dean gets his opportunity to smuggle Rowena in the bunker.

They're out in the back near their garden, sipping on hot cups of coffee that warm them from the inside out. Dean's feet are propped up on a stool in front of his lawn chair, and his robe staves off the slight chill of the early morning.

Sam’s next to him, his dark hair frazzled from sleep, yet starting to shine with undertones of red, light brown, and gray as the sun rises. He’s clad in a short-sleeved sleep shirt and cotton sweatpants, coffee clutched in one large hand and a drowsy look on his face. 

Dean, silently observing him, thinks he looks one step away from being fully retired. ‘Course, he knows that if Sammy looks that way, he can’t be much better himself. 

A rabbit runs through the underbrush near the bell pepper section of the garden, and they both track it with their eyes. It stops near a particularly bright green plant and sets to nibbling on one of its leaves. Dean would go get the 22 and take care of it, but he's too lazy this morning, so he just ignores it: there’s plenty more where that came from.

“Hey, Sammy. We should go to the beach,” Dean says randomly.

“Huh?” Sam questions, rising out of his stupor with a yawn.

“I said,” Dean continues, “that we should go to the beach. Not right now, of course—but definitely sometime soon.” A yawn escapes. “Sand in our toes, Sammy. Sand in our toes.”

Habits and practiced responses born of many a year tend to linger, so Dean expects Sam to refuse and give some excuse about being too preoccupied with work and hunting. 

But to his surprise, Sam agrees. “You know what? We definitely deserve a vacation.”

Dean tries to suppress his skepticism. “You serious? I mean, I’m talkin’, four days—bare minimum—on the Georgia or California coast. Tiki hat drinks, sunshine, and bikinis, Sam—bikinis.” Man, he's already imagining himself there. He’d even be open to a spa session with Sam if he asked. 

“You don’t have to convince me, dude. I’m all in.”

Heck. Dean’s rip-roaring ready to go right then and there, but they’ll have to work out the details later. Sam stands up, stretching his body like a (very large and hairy) cat. Runs rough, worn hands through his hair and over his face to wake himself up. 

“But, as of right now,” he announces, “I’m going to go get dressed and eat. Gotta sub for most of the day.”

Coffee is finished, chairs are put away, and the rabbit is left to chow down in the garden. Sam leaves for the day, but not before grabbing a sack full of canned goods and dry storage food for the two girls in his class, Carly and Lacy Harrison.

With Sam safely out and about, Rowena arrives twenty minutes later. With a knock on the bunker door and a hello, sweety pie, accompanied by a pat on the cheek, she confidently strides in, all five-foot nothin’ of her. Three-inch, booted purple heels clack on the stone floor. Long, red hair bounces with each step down the stairs. 

She gets right to the point.

“Alrighty then. Where is this…project you’ve been working on?” Heading straight for the bookshelves, she runs a finger across the spines and throws an arched brow over her shoulder. She certainly knows how to make herself at home. 

With a firm eye on her, he leads the way to his shop. A long, steel handle holds the door in place. He grabs with both hands and lifts, the sound of grating metal echoing down the long corridor. 

Once in, she plants her hands on her hips and gives the room a critical, roving look. Dean strides in and heads straight for the desk: there’s no telling how long this will take, so twiddling their thumbs ain’t an option. 

“Patience, dear,” she tells him. “Patience. Don’t get your big boy undies in a twist. I’ve got to get my bearings about me. These spells are delicate things, you know.” 

Apparently, he wasn’t all that subtle. Oh well. At least she’s being thorough. 

She finally looks at the desk. Appreciation has her eyebrows raised and her lips tilting upwards, short legs striding forward.

“Why, Dean. This is better than I expected. I’m actually quite shocked you had it in you.” A slender hand runs across the edges of the desk. Her head bobs as she moves around the table to examine all its sides. “I’m quite impressed.”

“Gee. Thanks,” he replies with no small amount of sarcasm. He can’t help the eye roll, either. He’s not one to gloat (ok—yes, he is), but he thinks he’s done an ok job himself. Rowena just can’t help herself from teasing either him or Sam any chance she gets.

It doesn't take her too much longer before she’s standing up straight, looking at him expectantly. “Well, then. I think I’ve got an idea of what we’ll be needing for this particular experiment,” she informs him. The twinkle in her eyes and the way she rubs her hands together remind him of a fly getting ready to chow down. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

Over the course of several hours, Rowena and Dean work together to cast a spell over the room. Well, more like Rowena tells him what to do, and he does it. 

Spell work, for good reason, isn’t really his forte. Besides, he’s mostly familiar with basic spells. He’s generally more than happy for Sam to take the wheel on the larger stuff. 

She’s brought all the supplies she needs, but she has him move this there. No, place that over there. Hmm. Why don’t you move that just a tad more? Ah, yes— perfect.

Even though he feels like a workhorse, he does what she asks because she’s doing him a solid. 

It’s for Sammy, so in his book, it’s worth it. 

When all is said and done, small, cream colored candles line the room, and certain items of dubious origin stand in strategic parts of the wide open space. At the center, the desk sits surrounded by even more candles. 

With no small amount of flair, Rowena twiddles her fingers at the lights above them. 

“Turn these off for me, deary?”

Alright then. Dean hits the lights, and they get the show on the road. Spell casting always seems so dramatic to him, but after five prolonged minutes, the last word of Latin flashes out of her mouth, and the lights magically turn back on.

She faces him, looking highly pleased with herself. “There you have it! All done.” 

He’s not quite sure how it all worked, but in the end, he’s satisfied once she reassures him, three times, that Sam won’t see anything important. 

“Don’t you worry, dear. Samuel won’t even know if he’s walked through the desk.”

Mission accomplished, Dean shows Rowena to the door. 

“Well, that was exciting. Let’s do it again sometime!” She says, winking at him as she stands in the entryway. 

He hmms, noncommittal like. “Maybe,” he says. “No promises, though. Anyways, thanks again for helping out. Just let me know when you want to come get those books. I’ll let ya in.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble at all. I’m always happy to grace you with my presence.” A sly smirk is sent his way, but then her eyes narrow into slits. “As long as you make sure I do get those books.”

Dean scoffs. As if he would create unnecessary problems by double-crossing her: death wishes aren’t his thing anymore. 

“Don’t let Dorothy drop a house on you, Rowena. I’ll make sure you get your book. God, I swear you're as bad as Sam.”

“As long as we’re clear, dear.” 

With a careless wave of a hand over her shoulder and a click of the door, Dean’s left in blissful silence. That woman can talk a man’s ear off. 

He frowns. That’s an unpleasant thought. 

Can she actually do that? 

A shudder runs up his spine at the thought, and he shakes his shoulders to dispel the feeling. 

Thank God they're on her good side.

Now that the concealment spell guards his secret, Dean works without worry.

Some days, he gets home from Dally’s, says a quick hello to Sam, and then isolates himself downstairs. Anything from Bob Segar to Teena Marie (What? She's got style, ok?) blares loudly on the speakers he purchased on a whim in Santa Rosa, New Mexico. 

Other days, he doesn’t make it down there; several nests of vampire and kelpie on the East Coast take up a week and a half of their time.

More days fly by: Sam continues to volunteer at the school while also supplying the hunting community with information and assistance. 

Dean works, builds, and watches movies. Works, builds some more.

It grows hotter with the passing of time. When their garden really starts to flourish, they both head outside to weed and pick veggies. Squash and zucchini line the rows near the front in an array of dark greens and bright yellows. Further down, garlic sprouts indicate a need to be harvested. And Dean's personal favorite, the habaneros and chilli peppers, sparkle at him in the sun, reds and yellows ripe for the plucking. 

Mmmm. That’s gonna make some excellent seasoning for taco night.

Sweat drips from their brows in the glistening sunlight while cicadas sing a constant chorus in the background. Flannels are tied around their waists, but when that proves insufficient, shirts are tossed and sunscreen applied, much to his chagrin. 

He’s a man, not Malibu Barbie. 

Just trust me, Dean. You’ll regret it if you don’t. Now turn around and stick your arms out.

Ugh—bossy. Fine.

But the sweat and discomfort are the result of honest work: an investment with a guaranteed return, no longer foreign, but familiar, fulfilling. 

The burgers he grills on most Thursdays are stacked with their own homegrown, juicy tomatoes. And Sam becomes quite skilled at making some type of squash stir fry that Dean heartily enjoys. Veggies aren’t normally his thing (because half the time people just boil them, gross ), but whatever voodoo magic Sam puts in it has his mouth watering as soon as the smell hits his nose. 

Summer, so far, is a blast: all that’s missing is Cindy Crawford in a bikini and an all-expenses-paid trip to Vegas.

Dean’s downstairs one evening after supper when Sam knocks on the shop door. He shouts that it's open and continues to carefully brush wood stain on the rim of the desk. Sam peeks his head around the door frame and then lets himself in. 

“Ugh. That stinks,” Sam states as he comes to stand beside Dean. “What is that? Vinegar mixed with liver?” His nose scrunches in distaste, forehead creasing with furrowed lines. He looks down at the lap desk with curiosity. 

“It's varnish,” Dean tells him. “And I know. Potent, ain’t it?” Another swipe of varnish. Dip. Swipe. Swipe. Dip. Swipe. Fluid motions Dean makes sure to keep even and steady while he waits for Sam to figure out what it is he's “making.”

Sam leans his hip against the lathe to the left of the work table. “You ain't kidding,” he says. Then his eyes narrow. “Hey, is that one of the lapdesks I've been wanting?”

“Mhmm.” He sends a silent thank you to Rowena. “You like it?” 

“Yeah, man,” Sam says as he examines it. “It's looking really good.”

“Thanks, Sammy.” Oops. Now Dean feels a tad guilty for kinda-sorta-not-really lying to him. Well, it's for a good cause anyway. Besides, he’ll get to them at one point or another.

Sam looks up from the desk. “Anywho,” he says. “Was gonna let you know that Jody called: said she’s throwing a hunter's get-together at her place on Sunday. Invited us out. It’s potluck style, so I figured we could maybe go? I can fix a dessert, and if you want, you could make some of that Cajun Gumbo? Jody and the girls seemed to enjoy it.”

Dean thinks for a moment. That many hunters around doesn't exactly sit well with him. Last time they got together with more than six of them in one place, there were three fights, a sprained ankle, and a broken cabinet door that had Jody fuming, smoke coming out of her ears. 

But she also has a lot of patience and love for hunters, which is why he knows she keeps up with the hospitality. He thinks he'd like to see Jody and the girls, anyway; it's not like they have anything else to do on a Sunday afternoon.

“Sure,” Dean replies. “Sounds good to me.” There—-last coat finished. 

“Hey, you think we should bring some of that punch I make? The one spiked with whiskey?” He asks as he pulls his sweat rag, a piece of cut-up old t-shirt, out of his back pocket and wipes his hands, getting the gunked-up varnish out from between his fingers.

Sam snorts and shakes his head, hair brushing the sides of his face. “Not if you want to live. Jody will skin you alive if you so much as put a drop of Jack Daniels in there.”

(Dean may or may not have been the reason there were three brawls.)

“Yeah, you're probably right.” He yawns, feeling the first strains of drowsiness rest on his shoulders. Looks at his watch and realizes that it’s nearly 11:00pm. 

“Well, I’m all done down here. Think I’m gonna call it a night.” 

Dean leads the way towards the exit, reaching up and flicking off the lights. Darkness fills the room, and he holds the door open for Sam before following behind. 

“Hey, I know! How ‘bout some weed brownies? Bet you Jody would love that.” 

“It’s your funeral.”

The night before Sunday, Dean and Sam prepare their respective dishes. They move around and with each other, so accustomed to the practiced rhythm that it’s like a dance: a pass here, hip check there. Toss of an item through the air to an awaiting hand. 

Sam grabs the pots and pans, arranging them on the counter according to each dish. Dean snags the seasonings and other ingredients, some freshly bought after their grocery run that morning, and places them on the adjoining counter space by the sink.

Monkey bread is the dessert of choice: Dean watches as Sam rolls out a large amount of dough, strong hands kneading and shaping it into something Dean immediately wants to devour. It’s thrown in the mixing bowl with lots of brown sugar, flour, and pumpkin spice. He's eyeing it, debating on whether or not to try and swipe a bite, when Sam tears a piece off and passes it to him without a word. 

With delight, Dean tosses it into his mouth and chews. 

Ultimately, he decides to stick with gumbo, lathering it with seasonings. He may be redneck white—but damned if he ain’t gonna make a proper pot of gumbo. 

A hunt in ‘04 for a pack of vampires down in New Orleans had him crossing paths with a lady named Mama Sweeney. She’d taken one look at him after he’d chopped the heads off the blood-suckers (saving her from imminent death) and promptly served him some homemade, authentic Cajun Gumbo after he disposed of the bodies. 

Dean loved it so much that he worked up the guts to ask her for the recipe. Surprisingly enough, she acquiesced and spent a day showing him the ropes, but only because you saved my life, hun. Also, you white as a shade. If you gonna be aspirin’ to make gumbo, you gonna be makin’ it right.”

Gumbo, monkey bread, and duffles secured, they hit the road around 9:00 am the following morning. It’s only about six hours to Jody's, give or take, so they don’t have to stay overnight anywhere until after the pow-wow.

Interstate travel thankfully isn’t needed, so they take Highway 281 up to Grand Island, Nebraska, then cut across 81 through Columbus.

High noon crests in the sky, only the barest hint of Baby’s shadow sliding across the hot, two-lane road: windows are rolled up and the air conditioner stays on full blast.

Sam reads, attention caught by some book of lore or another. A finger holds down one page while another thumbs at the corner of the next, ready to turn. Dean drives and listens to his tapes, occasionally eyeballing the high-rising stalks and the cattle grazing in the fields as they pass. 

He hopes there's red meat at this shin-dig.

Arrival at Jody’s is approximately 3:23 pm. Dean parks Baby in front of the garage per her instructions. Her yard is neatly trimmed, roses and hedges lined against the wall of the house. Jody steps out, her dark, short-cropped hair in its usual fashion, curt and orderly. She’s got a towel thrown over a blue floral blouse and tongs clutched in her hand, but she greets them with open arms anyway when they approach the door. 

“Hey, boys! Glad you could make it.” She hugs them both, stretching up on her tiptoes to reach Sam’s neck. Her smile is wide and her eyes are bright. “Come on in; you know the routine.”

“Hey, Jody,” Sam replies. He sets the dishes he’s carrying down on the side table in the living room and sheds his jacket, leaving just a light blue flannel rolled up to his elbows. “Thanks for having us out. How have you and the girls been?”

Dean sheds his layers as well and motions his hands of goods at Jody. She jerks her head towards the kitchen and clears off some counter space. 

“Just set it all here,” she says. “And we’ve been good! Claire just got herself a new car: an ‘87 Mustang, believe it or not. She’s hunting more often now, as much as I wish she wouldn’t. But she’s found herself a good partner—a real sharp shooter—so at least there’s that.” 

Dean whistles. Not bad for Miley Cyrus.

Jody continues, opening the fridge and organizing things as she talks. “Alex, the little smarty, has progressively moved up in her job and got promoted. She finished her courses and is now a full-time nurse.”

They spend the next ten minutes in the kitchen getting everything ready, and then migrate to the living room with a few beers. Dean lounges on the couch next to his brother; jean-clad legs sprawled and bodies relaxed. Jody sits in her chair across from them, one leg crossed over the other and an elbow on the armrest, chin in hand. They visit for a while, talking about this, that, and the other, just catching up on life. 

She seems surprised, but pleased, when Sam mentions the garden, and downright proud when Dean lets it slip about Sam’s substitute teaching on top of being hunter liaison. 

Dean can relate to her reaction; he’s the most proud out of anybody.

Evening settles like a blanket over the neighborhood, and soon, other hunters start pulling in. Donna, all five and a half feet of her, strides in with a hey there, Dean-o!, her usual chipper, Wisconsin accent shining through.

Claire and Alex file in behind her, a contrast of blonde and dark black, and he pats them good-naturedly on the shoulder. They both look just that much older than the last time he saw them, and for what feels like the thousandth time, he marvels at the no-longer foreign idea of growing old. 

By the time everyone's made it, Dean counts about twenty or so hunters, not including themselves and the girls, who mill about the house. Most look as he expected: flannels and thick jackets worn over blue jeans, with the occasional cap thrown in for good measure. Others beat to a different drum: more casual, yet neater, clothing worn with confidence and style. 

A glint of light in his peripheral vision has him turning his head towards one woman in the front room. She's got an array of dangly and shiny piercings on her ears that brush against her hair, and on her wrists and fingers shine several bracelets and sparkly rings. The other woman she's talking to must have said something funny, cause her head is thrown back in a laugh, and it seems to Dean as if all her jewelry is expressing her joy with their tinkling and swaying. 

Personally, he thinks it's a beautiful look on her. 

He takes a sip of his beer and goes to mingle. It’s not exactly his favorite thing to do with people he doesn’t know; however, Jody would appreciate it, so he sucks it up. 

The sounds of laughter and chatter echo throughout the house. Some guy’s got a leg propped up on a chair, dramatically waving his arms as he tells a story about a werewolf and a siren. A loud crash resounds at the exact moment he gets to the jump scare, but most don’t even flinch; they're a little too accustomed to loud noises. Jody quickly marches past Dean, with a that better not have been my other china cabinet door, Robert!

Dinner’s served on paper plates and accompanied by beer bottles. And there’s all kinds of yummy-looking food: two casseroles, two pies, and three types of meat line the countertop near the sink. Next to that, there are four salads (of which he only likes potato, ‘cause all the others are leafy and gross) and two pots of stew: kitchen sink and poor man's. 

You'd think with all the food they were feeding an army and not twenty to thirty people, but he knows from experience, Jody always plans for leftovers. He's seen the Babette’s Feast side of her take over enough times with him and Sam to know it's just her mom-sense tingling. 

He groans internally. It all looks so good; his mouth is watering just thinking about it. 

Sam must have the same idea, because when it's their turn in line, he looks at Dean as if to say holy hell, and dives in. Plates full, they find a spot near Jody's wall-mounted shelf and sit and eat their fill. 

The get-together progresses, and soon most everybody’s lax and loose by eight, not quite drunk but not quite sober, either. 

But while they're definitely having a good time and everyone gets along, he can feel someone watching him and Sam too closely: heavy gazes and suspicious eyes travel up their forms and across their shoulders.

It's like a fly that you know is there, bugging you, but one you just can't get to leave you alone.

At first, he thinks maybe he or Sam has food on their face. But when he finds that they don’t, his mind jumps to a more probable, and uncomfortable, cause. 

Just because nobody has sidled up and asked the uncomfortable questions doesn't mean they’re not thinking about them. 

Wondering how long were you in hell, Sam? (What was it like?) and did you really drink the blood of the unclean?  

Are you what they say you are, boy-king-of-hell?  

Wanting to know if you were really a bona-fide demon there for a while, Dean? or wait, how did you come back normal? 

(Or are you even normal at all? Are you even safe to be around?)

Frankly, the answer is no; probably (definitely) not. But frankly, it's none of their damn business in the first place, so they better not ask.

Dean tries to chase the morbid thoughts away. He's been enjoying himself so far and wants to continue the trend of relaxation and good times, so he finishes his food and goes to find a card game, doing his best to brush off those few straggling stares.

Ha! Full House. He’s got Donna beat.

A little while later, though, (God, it's getting pretty late and ok—there are definitely a few people drunk by now), the stares come back again.

This time, however, whatever thoughts are circling like vultures in people's minds don’t stay private. 

Donna’s re-shuffling the cards and getting ready for another round when she looks over and past his shoulder, a slight frown on her face. Dean, curious, rotates 90 degrees and looks into the living room.

Sam sits in a chair, back ram-rod straight and eyes clouded with a certain look that immediately raises Dean’s hackles. He's seen it before, but not as often anymore. Sam will only space out like this after something brings unpleasant memories to the surface.

It’s not a good time. 

Great, he thinks.

Someone had to go and open their idiotic mouth. Somebody just had to vomit their undesired thoughts.

Donna seems to understand what's going on; she doesn't blink when Dean rises up out of his chair, simply motions for him to go, and resumes dealing as someone takes Dean’s place. 

Dean marches over before he can stop himself and hovers over Sam and the idiot standing in front of him. 

The idiot who's about to get a mouthful. 

But first: “Sam,” he asks. “You good?” 

He would question outright if the guy is bothering him, but he's attempting to do some damage control until it's absolutely unavoidable.

Sam raises his face, that still-lost look Dean abhors gracing his features for another unsettling moment, before he nods his head. 

“It's all good, Dean, just…” Sam trails off.

Like hell! Dean has dealt with this scenario enough times to know that Sam is not a-ok. He's clearly shaken up and certainly not comfortable with whatever the guy said. 

Dean whips his head around, and the weasel shrinks back in newfound concern and fear.

Good. As he should.

Dean is about to light into him, make sure he knows exactly whose brother he's messing with, when Sam's hand latches onto his lower forearm, tugging insistently. 

It just barely stops him from breaking the guy's nose like he really, really wants to.

“Dean,” Sam implores in a subdued tone. “Hey, it's alright. I’ll be fine in just a minute. Let it go.” It takes an effort, but Dean tears his face away from average jackass and down towards Sam. He's looking up at him with tired, but clear and placating eyes. 

Sam lowers his voice a notch. “I don't want to make a scene, ok? For Jody’s sake?”

The anger doesn't leave Dean’s body, but it recedes enough for him to clear his head. Out of respect for Jody, he'll let it go.

“Fine,” he replies after a long moment of tense silence. “But only because you asked.”

”But you, ” he says harshly, rounding on Idiot of the Day and shoving a finger in his chest, just one more thing to say. “I’m not as understanding as Sammy, here. So, get lost— before I make you.”

He levels his best, deadly serious glare at the twat; the guy hastily stands and retreats. At this point, Dean doesn't even find it worth it to learn his name.

With a gentle hand, Dean clasps Sam’s collar at the junction of his neck and shoulder, uncaring who sees them (because screw them—they should mind their own business), and waits for Sam to look up at him.

“Sammy,” Dean gently prods. “You sure you're alright? Cause we can totally call it quits right now and go home. If this joint don't carry your favorite stripper in a g-string, we can find someplace else to be—just say the word. Jody will understand.” 

His accompanying grin and tactic work. Sam chuckles half-heartedly and shakes his head. He rises to his feet, and Dean's hand falls from Sam's neck to rest fully on the top of his shoulder.

“It’s alright, Dean. I’m good,” Sam implores him. 

Dean doesn't move his hand. He looks Sam in the eye, searching, needs to make sure and certain.

“Seriously,” Sam says, with more conviction. “I’ll be alright. Just a little dazed, is all.” He looks at Dean, the haunted look now less pronounced.

Dean nods his head in acquiescence, satisfied, and firmly pats Sam’s chest. He leaves his side and goes to stand somewhere near Jody, but he doesn't quite lose track of him.

He’s still slightly on edge after that, his natural inclination to let righteous anger guide him taking time to fully recede. He sits and talks with Donna and Jody—even has an arm wrestle with each of them (he wins, of course, but not before both women put up a formidable fight). 

Eventually, he winds up lounging against the hallway corner, observing the arm wrestle Claire is currently engaged in with Alex (who is surprisingly open and friendly with everyone tonight, despite her usually negative view of hunting).

But just when he thinks he's adjusted, he hears voices from down the darkened hallway. He frowns; Jody doesn't want anyone down there, and it’s a subdued conversation, as if whoever it is doesn’t want other people to hear. 

In Dean’s book, it ain’t being nosy if you don’t get caught, so he hones in on the voices. 

The first one that reaches his ear is pitched, but Dean can hear every word they say. It's male and has a rough, scratchy texture. Likely a smoker, Dean guesses. 

“Did you see the way he came at him like that?” it says. “Didn't even try to ask Lewis what was going on: just went straight for his brother. Acted like he was going to murder Lewis.” 

Instant regret washes over Dean. Maybe he shouldn’t have listened in—they're definitely talking about earlier.

A second voice, this time female, responds in a disbelieving tone: “I know, right? It's like they're not even trying to hide it.”

He frowns. Trying to hide what? What are they talking about?

“See! That's exactly what I was talking about earlier. The way Dean grabbed him? The way Sam practically gazed into his eyes? I certainly don't grab or look at my brother like that—and we're close.” 

Dean hears one of the speakers shift in the hallway. He’s looking around the room cautiously and subtly, making sure no one else is listening in when their next words reach his ear. 

“I mean, I’ve heard the rumors. Didn't quite believe them, though.” There’s a poignant pause, then the female voice continues. ”But now I've seen it up close. What they talk about.”

“Guess it's not just a rumor: the way they really are.”

Oh.

Oh.

Dean almost lets out the loudest, most annoyed, most put-upon sigh in the world, but just barely manages to restrain himself. Instead, he rests his head against the wall in exasperation. 

Not this again. Give him a break.

He's pretty sure these are the other asshats whose stares he felt earlier in the evening. Guess he just got the topic of their curiosity wrong. 

He hopes he doesn't get a look at their faces, because he has no desire to know who in the hunting community is continuing to spread that particular rumor. 

It's already annoying enough to know that freaking middle schoolers vocalize their opinions that they’re queerer than a three-dollar bill; add the reminder that hey, grown ass men and women also still think and talk about that—have for twenty years— and the exasperation kicks up a notch. 

Why can’t people just—not. 

At the end of the day, it technically won't matter what people think, because he's gonna live his life the way he damn well pleases. No matter what anyone assumes he and his brother get up to while watching daytime soap operas and playing house. 

But it would still be nice not to be talked about in terms of gay, or not gay. Incestuous, or not incestuous, as much as he shudders to even think the word.

He wishes he could shout it from the rooftops and post it on big, flashing billboards that he's NOT GAY: NEVER HAS BEEN AND NEVER WILL BE. PLEASE STOP TALKING!

And that neither is his brother! Just because they live differently than some (okay, most), does not equate to Flowers in the Attic and can we please be adults and hunt the damn wendigo? Pretty please?

But it won’t do any good, because gossip is gossip and so on and so forth. So, really, it's hearing about it that grates on him. 

People will always think what they want, but to vocalize those thoughts is just…odd. And sickening, in his opinion. 

Disappointed and confused, he straightens and heads to the back porch, voices from inside fading into white noise. With his hands in his pockets, he leans against the beam holding up the patio overhang and watches as the last strains of twilight disappear from the sky. A stray cat runs across the yard, streaking black and white as it leaps up and then over the fence into the neighbor’s yard. 

The sliding door is pushed open, which has him turning his head—but it’s just Jody. She's got two beers in hand and closes the door behind her, the noise from inside muffled once it slides closed. 

The privacy of the moment isn't lost on Dean.

She offers him a beer as she leans against the opposing support beam. He nods a thanks and takes it, popping the lid off with the lip of his ring. 

“So…how you doing, Dean?” She starts off just this side of cautious, and Dean doesn't answer right away, just half-heartedly grimaces and takes a swig. He guesses the following statement before she makes it. 

“Couldn't help but notice that little fiasco with Lewis. He’s a good hunter, but sometimes he puts his foot in his mouth.” 

Trust Jody to always get right to business. 

He's not in the depths of despair, obviously, but his thoughts are a jumbled conglomeration centered on Sam, and he's still upset from earlier. He’s also tired, physically and mentally, so he doesn't bother censoring himself when he does respond.  

“Hmmph. Some nerve.” He kicks a pebble with his foot. “You know? I didn't even catch what the guy said. All I knew was that Sam looked so lost. Like he only ever does when he's starting to slip into some really bad memories.” 

Dean doesn't specify which ones. Those are Sam's wounds: Sam's story to tell to whom he wishes.

Jody’s quiet. Dean watches her set the beer down and then cross her arms. She looks straight at him, her warm hazelnut eyes regarding his features.

“I also couldn't help but overhear the conversation near the hallway.” 

Oh. 

He was hoping he was the only one, but he should have known: Jody is a sheriff and a hunter, after all. 

“Jane and Phillip Coleman are good people,” she says. “Skilled hunters like Lewis. Just too gullible for their own good.” Her eyebrows furrow, and she looks apologetic. “Also like Lewis.” 

Dean’s not sure what he expects from her. She knows him and Sam better than most, has been allowed to peer into some of the more private realms of their lives, but…she also saw what everyone else did and apparently overheard the Sweet Home Alabama spiel.

“I noticed you eyeing up Jennifer earlier this evening; one with all the jewelry and pretty blonde hair?” 

This time, Dean is quiet: he certainly wasn't expecting the changeup. The question throws him off kilter for a moment, but then he recalls how the light glinted in Jennifer's hair and jewelry. 

He can't help a sly smirk. “She’s definitely something to look at.”

Jody laughs. “Girl like that? One who gets the life? Well, maybe you could one day settle down. Live the way I know you never have.” 

The words register. The thought enters his brain through one ear, rests for half a second in his cerebral cortex, before exiting just as fast out the other. Floats away on the wind and fizzles into nothingness.

“Uh…I suppose. I mean—” he starts, then stops, clears his throat. “Actually, I think the man who wanted that…doesn't exist anymore. Well—in a way he still does.”

Crap. He's rambling and getting his words jumbled like a moody teenage girl. 

If anyone just gets it on a deeper level than most, what he and Sam are to each other, it’s Jody. And he knows she loves him as a mother would, just as he loves her like a son. He's confident he can be honest with her, so he looks at Jody with purpose; the truth in his heart reflected in the honesty of his gaze. 

(If it's the beer making him more open than he normally is or just his newest experiences and outlook on life, he doesn't particularly care to examine it—It is what it is.)

He takes a moment to organize his thoughts before he speaks, takes a swig to center himself.. “The guy that wants the ‘good life?’ A home? Family? Poppin’ viagra and paying bills? Going and doing? Seeing more?” He pauses, then: ”Hell—even a retirement fund and two-week vacation to the Bahamas?”

Jody steadfastly meets his eyes. There's been no unspoken implications in her tone: no accusations or assumptions. Just the steadfast concern and understanding she’s had since he’s known her. 

Dean pushes through. “He’s right here with me, right now. I'm doing those things: living parts of a life were so far out of reach, they might as well have been taking an extended stay in Timbuktu."

He fiddles with his bottle of beer. “But that life? It’s just…not with a wife and two kids. Sure, that girl—Jennifer, right?—she's nice looking and seems like a fun night or two. But beyond that?”

Dean comes to the truth of the matter, answering the question written in her eyes. 

“Sam’s it for me.” He plainly declares, then hastily clarifies. “But not in the way some seem to believe. Though I think you, of all people, should know that.” 

He's 98.7% sure she does. It would be awkward to think she bought into the assumption that he and Sam were…sleeping together.

“Oh, come on now. Give me more credit than that,” she scolds, smacking his shoulder halfheartedly. “You don't really think I'd ever buy into all that crap, do you?”

Oh, thank God. He has the decency to look sheepish and let her know that no, he never really did. 

“I know things may look a certain way to some people, but after tonight, I'm getting to the point where I really don't care anymore. Sam and I both know what we are to each other and what we’re not. At least—I’m there, I think. But also working on staying there?“ He takes a drink and gestures vaguely into the empty air in frustration. “If that makes sense?”

It's rare that he's ever this open with anyone other than Sam. It's like drinking a cold glass of water on a hot day: he takes multiple, greedy gulps, relishing the ice-burn as it soothes his throat, then the drinks turn into too much, and suddenly, he's gagging on his own greediness and wants to never thirst again.

Jody smiles and comes to stand beside him. They watch the sky paint itself with vivid blues, pinks, and oranges. It reminds him of countless evenings spent resting on Baby’s hood, listening to Sam describe this, that, and everything else under the sun as it slowly sets behind countless skylines. 

“I've told you this before,” she says, “but I’ll reiterate: the love you two have for each other is something special. I've seen it hold both of you together through some incredibly difficult times.”

She rests a gentle hand on his arm. “After all you've been through, I think the mother in me just wants to see you satisfied in life, which is why I came and talked to you. I want to know that you're happy and healthy. God, er, well—Jack—knows you and Sam both have more than earned your portion. Like you said: you know what you are to each other and what you're not. People can twist and read into the love you share all they want, but the ones closest to you? We know the truth, we know you—” she pokes his arm, “and we care about your well-being.” 

She pulls him in, hugs him tight. His arms come up and around her without delay, too grateful to resist the urge to flee. Thank God the door has privacy blinds.

“You boys—no matter what—are always welcome here. If you ever need any support, of any kind; you know where to find me.” 

If he still claimed to feel like a teenage girl, he’d say his heart contains more estrogen than it has any right to, fit to bursting with sparkles and rainbows, Lisa Frank style. 

Instead, he just squeezes Jody tighter and wonders what good he ever did in his long, hard life to deserve a friend like her. 

Releasing her from the hug, he places a soft peck on the top of her head. 

“Thank you, Jody. For understanding.”

“Always.”

After everyone leaves an indeterminable amount of time later, Dean and Sam help Jody and the girls clean up in the house. He realizes that his impromptu talk with Jody (because he is not going to call it a therapy session) was exactly what he needed, because he's in a much better mood by the time the counters are wiped down, trash is picked up, dishes are washed, and the furniture is relocated to its original location. 

And while Sam seems to sense Dean’s shift in mood, he doesn’t poke and prod for answers like he normally would. Instead, he just takes Dean’s I’m all good, Sammy, at face value, knowing him well enough by now to identify when Dean’s being genuinely honest when he utters that particular phrase. 

Midnight chimes on the clock over Jody’s wood-carved mantle, and it’s time to leave, but she gets wind of their plans to find a motel and puts her foot down.

“I’ve got two perfectly good beds open and know you boys are tired. I’ve got the space, so just grab your duffel bags and settle in.” 

Honestly, Dean has no desire to drive right now—is exhausted and ready to get horizontal like, an hour ago. (He also misses his memory-foam bed and enjoys the idea of skipping out on a motel slab).

So, sleepover night at Jody’s. All that’s missing is the pillow fight.

Morning dawns; they share a pot of coffee with Jody (the girls are still asleep), conversation bouncing back and forth between did you know Sam hides his porn in his sock drawer, like a fifteen-year-old? and yeah, well—did you also know that Dean listens to Teena Marie and Taylor Swift in the shower? Even sings along to them.

When it’s finally time to head out, Jody loads them up with leftovers (hallelujah) and gives them both a firm hug goodbye. She directs a certain smile at Dean, glint in her eye, while Sam’s putting the food in the car, and Dean welcomes the sense of support and comforting reassurance it brings. He smiles back and gives a small nod of acknowledgement in silent thanks.

The Impala rumbles as he starts her up and then eases her out of the driveway. The amulet Sammy gave him that one Christmas long ago dangles from the rear-view mirror, glinting in the early morning light. 

Dean watches his brother. Observes the way he smiles and waves goodbye as they pull out onto the street. A liquid warmth spills within his chest.

Yeah. They’re doin’ fine, just as they are.

July draws to a close, and Dean finally, finally finishes the desk on a Thursday evening.

If he had an ounce of humility or manners, he'd say it looked “nice” and was made “well.” But he’s never been particularly civilized, so he thinks it kicks ass and could knock the tits off of Mrs. Lemberger and her overweight weenie-dog Olie. The black walnut glistens under his shop light, highlighting the dark hazelnut coloring, the smooth, curved edges, and a precisely-trimmed and assembled stature. It’s sturdy, to boot: it doesn’t shake and certainly doesn’t contain a lick of that stupid particle board that most furniture is composed of nowadays. 

Hands on his hips, Dean admires his handiwork for a while. Then he expands his gaze to outside the desk’s space and frowns. After roughly two and a half months of—thankfully, no blood and tears, but definitely lots of sweat—his shop is in disarray and desperately needs cleaned inside and out. There are wood chips everywhere, a thick layer of dust has settled over everything, and tools are scattered haphazardly across the room.

He sighs and grabs a broom. 

The following morning, he drops Sam off at the school and heads to work for a couple of hours. He changes the oil in Mrs. Hopson’s 2015 Chrysler Town and Country (she’s shown up exactly on time every 3,000 miles for the past fifteen years). She tells him he’s a sweet young man for helping her, as she always does (he’s forty-eight, but whatever—he supposes she's ancient at seventy-three), and he bids her goodbye with a grease-stained hand. 

Harry, the local weed dealer, pulls up in his ‘94 Dodge pickup with a busted-up taillight at noon. How that thing still runs, Dean will never know. It’s got over 213,000 miles on it and makes this loud vibrating noise, as if the engine is gonna fall right out onto the highway. 

Considering the fact that Dean is paid under the table, no taxes in sight, and the guys at the shop smoke pot, it’s no big deal when Harry passes them a bag of weed in exchange for fixing his light.

It’s divided amongst the four of them, and Dean only hesitates a moment before he decides to take some for himself and Sam. He’s smoked pot before (they both have), but this isn’t something normally indulged in: the last time he had a hit was 2001, twenty-something years ago.

After five more oil changes and an alternator replacement, his shift ends, and he drives the Impala over to the middle school to pick up Sam. Kids flock the school-yard, some waiting for the bus or their family, while others live close enough to walk home. His eyes flick across their forms till he sees Sammy’s floppy hair towering above them all. 

Sam spots Baby and jogs over, books and papers clutched under his armpit, and a wave of something hits Dean hard in the chest, right where it pings and aches. He may have gotten taller, stronger, and just more, but Dean can still see a nerdy little brother with too-long bangs in every movement Sam takes. 

“So, how was your day with those lovely little hellions? Any of them try to put a tack in your chair?” he asks as Sam slides into the passenger seat, throwing the car in gear and taking off for the bunker. “I know I would’ve.”

“Thankfully, no,” Sam replies as he settles in. “My day was fine. Had a kid almost throw up on me, though. Barely got the trash can under her in time.” 

Dean mimes a gag. Gross.

Sam tilts his head in thought. “Didn't you actually do that once, though? Who was it? A, uh…Mr….?”

“Burmingham,” Dean supplies, then laughs. He thinks back to when he was twelve and barely paying attention to anything but Sammy and this newfound thing called girls. Mr. Burmingham had gotten on his bad side, so Dean put a tack in his chair and lathered Gorilla Glue on his car door handles.

“Goodwin Elementary,” he continues. “Fall of ‘90. Just know that he deserved it.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet. Dad made you run extra laps for a week.” 

It starts to rain as soon as they turn onto the highway, so Dean thumbs his wipers on and cranks the AC to prevent fogging on the windshield. Sam moves Dean's lunch box aside in the passenger seat, presumably to get more comfortable, but stops short, all movement halted.

“Is this— weed ?”

Oops. Dean forgot to hide that. Sam holds the small baggie in the air and looks expectantly at Dean. There's a poignant silence, punctuated only by the swish swash of the windshield wipers and the hum of Baby.

Dean shrugs his shoulders and shoots for casual. “Uh…Harry.”

When Sam’s eyebrows climb even farther up his forehead, Dean elaborates. 

“You know—the local stoner? Tall, scraggly lookin’? Has about a dozen kids with six different baby mamas?” 

“You went and made a deal with that Harry?” Sam asks incredulously. “ The drug dealer of Smith County? Dean, you're gonna get yourself arres—”

Dean cuts him off, offended. “Of course I didn't go and make a deal. Who do you think I am—Jeff Spicoli?”

Sam stares blandly, baggy still suspended.

“Whatever,” Dean brushes him off and attempts once more to explain. “He paid us for fixing his car—just not in cash. I didn't purposefully go and buy pot. It just sorta…happened. The guys split it four ways, and I didn’t really see a reason why not to.”

A cow moos in a field next to Baby as they stop at the last red light before the Bunker. Dean looks at Sam and sees the wheels turning with the tilt of his head. He looks less concerned and more thoughtful. Considering.

“Figured it couldn’t hurt every now and then,” Dean explains further, unable to stand the silence. “I know your shoulder still bothers you when it rains. Even my wrist still gives me fits sometimes from where that poltergeist tossed me in Alabama. Maybe this could take the edge off.”

He’s a grown man, dammit. He shouldn’t be worried about convincing his kid brother to get high with him. 

“Don’t give me that look. It’s not like you’ve never smoked before.”

Sam sets the baggy in his lap and clears his throat as Dean turns into the Bunker driveway. He’s expecting to get told no, absolutely not— but that’s not what happens. 

“Dude, don’t worry: I’m not mad. I just…didn’t expect it, that’s all.” He gathers his books and papers. “And you have a backwards way of communicating, just to let you know.” 

Dean parks, pulls the keys out. Shrugs an excuse, because, eh. It’s not his fault Sam’s too quick to the draw. 

Sam rolls his eyes.

“I actually wouldn’t mind it, all that much,” he says, shocking Dean. 

But he's quick to qualify his statement with a leveled look. “I mean, as long as we don’t go overboard. Only every now and then, and only on weekends, okay? And only if it's how you got it in the first place. We can't afford to have the police on our asses.”

Huh. That was awkward, but still easier than Dean expected, actually. And those terms seem acceptable, so he crosses his heart, scouts’ honor. 

“Wouldn't want you to teach eighth graders stoned.” 

They reach the bunker door and Dean inserts his key, twisting and then pushing the steel door open.  

“Actually, that might be fun to watch,” he continues, relieved now that he has Sam’s approval. (Not that he needs it: he'll do what he wants. It's just—better when he has Sam’s support.)

“Can see it now, Sammy.” He waves his hands in a dramatic flair. “Channel 8 headline—Substitute teacher comes to work high as a kite: Indoctrinates students in the occult and black magic instead of English.”

He’s snickering when a large hand swats him on the back of the head.

Dean's been itching to give Sam his gift, but finding the time proves difficult. 

They go to bed early on Thursday night after a busy day. Friday, Dean gardens while Sam helps a few hunters figure out what they’re tracking in a neighboring state. 

And they do, in fact, get high as kites on Friday night. Because oops, wouldn’t you know it—they forgot how much is too much and so on. But it’s a good time: their bodies go lax, limbs loose. Old wounds and aches just that much more unnoticeable, minds shrouded in a lackadaisical fog. 

Saturday, they drive a few hours into Nebraska to take care of a hex causing problems for a Baptist church (who knew choir girls could get so jealous), so it isn’t until Sunday that Dean gets his chance. 

Sammy’s in his room, so he heads that direction. He knocks on the door and cracks it open once Sam gives the all clear. He’s sitting cross-legged on his bed, t-shirt and sweatpants adorned and journal in hand. The X-Files plays in the background.

“What’s up?” 

Dean leans against the doorway, puts his hands in his own sweatpants. “Got something I want you to take a look at, if you have a moment,” he says. “I finished one of those projects I’ve been working on. Shouldn't take long.”

Sam perks up and sets his journal aside; Dean wonders what all he writes about. “Did you finish my lap desk?” 

“Yep! Made several, actually. Figured I'd let you pick which one you want for yourself and then leave the rest to Jody and anyone else who wants one.” 

It's a bold-faced lie, but eventually it won't be once he actually starts them. Hopefully, Sam will find his actual desk way more interesting, anyhow. 

Sam pauses the prolonged eye contact ensuing on the screen and follows Dean out the door and down the hallway. One pair of bare feet and a pair of slippers pad against the concrete floor, the pit-patter bouncing off the stone walls. Once they reach his shop, Dean opens the door and lets Sam in. 

It clangs shut behind them, and he sends up a silent prayer to whoever the heck is listening: he hopes he hasn't wasted the past two and a half months.

Rowena promised him the spell would disappear as soon as he was ready to show Sam. He can only hope she didn't play any mean tricks and that Sam will see the desk sitting in the center of the room.

Sam's head swivels as he looks around, trying to locate the non-existent lap desks. He frowns, clearly not finding what he's looking for, but then his eyes track to the center of the room and… bingo. 

He definitely sees it, Dean thinks, if the way his eyebrows raise to his hairline is any indicator.

“Uh, Dean. This isn't a lap desk???” Sam's tone is, as expected, confused. He looks at Dean expectantly. 

“I know. I uh…may have lied about that? I haven't actually been working on those just yet.”

Sam looks perpetually confused. 

“Uh…can I ask why??? Not gonna lie—real confused here, Dean.”

“Well, you know how bad the desk in your room is? How you've been goin’ on about getting a new one because it can't hold enough and looks like it's one step away from taking a nosedive off a cliff, Thelm & Louise style?”

“Yeah…” Sam replies hesitantly, “but what does that have to do with lap de—”

“I built you a new one.”

“ Huh ?”

Dean sighs. How long is it gonna take for the kid to get the point? 

Dean strides up next to Sam and motions with a hand towards the object in question. “I made you a desk, and it’s yours, man. I promise I’ll eventually make you those lap desks, but this is really what I've been working on.” 

Great. Sam's still looking at him like he's a demi-gorgon or something. 

He tries not to fidget, starts listing off all its amenities like he's a friggin salesman peddling skeet shooters. “It's got plenty of drawer space to keep your freakishly large pen collection organized. And ooh!” He walks around to the right side of the desk. “I made sure to include these top cabinets so you don't have to keep putting your books on the floor. And most importantly…” He holds his hands out over the desk surface like he’s stretching out a tape measure and looks at Sam over his shoulder. “Plenty of surface space, so you're not cramped while studying or whatever it is you do.” 

Salespitch finished, he watches Sam and waits patiently for a response. Please don't make him have to explain all of that again, he thinks.

With a dazed look, Sam steps forward and places a hand on the top edge of the desk. Runs it across, all the way down to the end of one side. 

A beat passes. 

Then he looks back at Dean, and suffice it to say, Dean is startled when he sees the look in his eye. 

“You made this?” 

Dean hopes that means Sam likes it. He rewards him with an eyeroll. 

“Yeah, like I’ve told you twice now.”

“Dean,” Sam intones, his name rolling off his tongue in an awed breath. “This… This is— beautiful. Thank you. ” 

Before Dean can open his mouth to say why thank you, glad you like it, he's got his arms full of a forty-four year-old man. Sam wraps him in warmth, strong arms squeezing tight, and—

Wow. Ok. 

They’re not dying, and it's not the end of the world, so Dean isn’t expecting such a strong display of emotion. His knee-jerk reaction to distract and evade almost kicks in.

But then he thinks about how open he’s been with Sam lately: how honest he was with Jody just the other night. How, in his inner mind and heart, he craves the vulnerability at the same time he abhors it; the relief and consolation brought to fruition only by stripping him down to his base layers of meat and muscle and bone and soul—

It lays all his cards on the table; exposes his grand, full-house bluff.

Cocooned in 6’4” of Sammy, he thinks: Isn't this what they’ve fought so hard for? Peace and the ability to hug each other without reservation? Without fate and destiny and death hanging over their heads? 

He won’t vocalize it—won’t ruin the moment—but he’s going all mushy-gushy inside and decides: to hell with it. He surrenders to the exposure, brings his own arms up around Sam and hugs him close, tucks his head lower on his shoulder, like he could shelter him (and be sheltered in return) forever. 

Safe and sound.

Home.

Another beat passes, then a few more, and Dean thinks it's the longest they've ever hugged in non-life-threatening circumstances. 

After a moment, their limbs untangle, and Dean places a soft pat to Sam’s head as they detach. 

No further words are spoken aloud; however, the look in Sam’s eyes paints a clear, ever-present picture. 

Yep, Dean thinks to himself: mission accomplished.

It takes them about an hour and a half to get the desk installed. 

The suckers heavy—like, really heavy, geez Dean, what the hell did you make this out of?  But they get it down to Sam’s room using a jerry-rigged pulley system: rope to help pull, two steel rods for it to roll on, and a hope and a prayer that they don’t break anything. 

No, go left, Sam, go left! You’re gonna break your foot and Dean, stop for a minute and move your fat ass so I can grab the other side!

The old, ancient, dead man’s desk is removed and set outside the bunker for burnpile material. Sam sweeps and cleans out the empty spot to prep for the new desk: books are shoved aside, and paper, pens, and knick-knacks are thrown onto the bed.

Dean made sure when he was designing it that measurements were exact, so the desk slides just right through the door and then into the vacant space. 

Task complete, they take a step back and admire their work. Dean places his hands on his hips, waits for his breath to slow.

“Wait. How on earth did you hide this from me? I went down there, like, a week ago.”

Oh. That. 

“Well, you see…”

Long story short: Rowena gets the books Dean promised (and eventually the help retrieving that Noah’s-Ark-lookin’ artifact.)

Sam seems to accept the explanation Dean gives him for calling her up, but he almost has an aneurysm when Dean mentions the books. In the end, though, he still likes Rowena (they both do), so he mumbles his very reluctant approval. 

Two weeks, Rowena. Don’t think I won’t come find you. Those are almost three-hundred years old.

But of course, dear Samuel. I know exactly how valuable they are and wouldn’t dream of letting harm befall them.

Sam loves his desk, tells Dean so on five different occasions within the first two days of having it, but still badgers Dean about the lap desks, so it's off to the shop once more. 

Before he knows it, summer draws to a close. The temperature dips just that little bit, then rises again, nature trying to decide which season it likes more: summer or fall.

Dean and Sam both sport perpetual tans from their time in the garden this year: Dean’s freckles pop out teeny-tiny all across his face and shoulders, and Sam’s whole chest and shoulders glow with so much sun that he looks like the Oiled-Up Sax Guy from Lost Boys.

As usual, they continue to balance their time with the supernatural and the mundane activities of a pseudo-retired life: Sam does well enough with the summer school students that he gets asked to stay on for the upcoming school year, and Dean continues to build, change oil, and fix taillights at the shop. 

Occasionally, he accepts the payment of weed, not cash, offered to him by Harry. Because getting high is fun, especially when Sam goes to step and falls flat on his face like Bambi, wonky limbs and all.

But then Dean finds that he can’t see straight, and suddenly he’s the one falling face-first as he misjudges where the bed is and hits the floor instead.

Higher than a drunk frat girl who’s had one too many, they just laugh and laugh, years sliding off their shoulders like water in a stream.

The tides of life, if he’s allowed to be poetic, used to have an alarming trend: they would throw him from coast to coast, tossing him against the waves and bashing him on the rocks till he was blue in the face and begging for it all to end.

It was utterly exhausting—practically never-ending—and he never could seem to figure out a way to swim his way to shore and safety. 

But now he floats, metaphorically and literally, gently guided by the tide's hands back towards the shoreline of Huntington Beach, Orange Co., California. 

Bright blue pull floaty, shades, and a girly tiki hat drink are his anthem today, and he is loving it.

(They were both deadly serious about that beach vacation, so a place had been selected, and off they went.)

Southern California is pretty this time of year: the breeze is gentle and it’s not too hot, so there’s a decent amount of people roaming about, families with ice chests and canopies setting up camp for a long day in the sun. 

He watches with amusement from the chest-high water as a couple of kids play in the sand, sculpting impressive castles. Several dogs run and chase after each other along the surf.. 

Sam’s on the beach, sunglasses on and sheltered beneath the canopy they purchased to secure their spot for the day. The closer Dean floats to shore, the easier he can see the book that Sam’s holding and the drink in his other hand. He’s stretched out on a fold-out, low-back tanning chair with his legs crossed at the feet. 

Dean's floaty bumps against the sand in the shallow water, so he tips himself over and unceremoniously falls into the water to get out of it. Then he rises up on all fours like a bear, grabs his floaty, and crawls his way through the shallow water to shore. 

Once he reaches Sam, drip-dropping the whole way, he plops down on the bright green, tiki-hut beach towel Sam stretched out on the ground by his chair. They bought it at the Walmart in downtown Huntington for a couple of bucks, along with a mini ice chest and the chair Sam’s using.

Worth it, cause now he's lounging in the shade with a beer in hand and no sand on his back—just in his toes. 

Dean takes a swig as Sammy places his book facedown in his lap. 

“So. How’s the water?”

“Well, I don’t feel like I’m in a sauna, so that’s good,” Dean supplies. ”And I’m certainly not swimming in the Arctic, which is even better.” 

He takes another swig, leans back on his elbows, and watches as a couple walks by them, smiles easy and hands clasped. 

“Needless to say, Sammy, the water is nice. You should totally join me.”

“Oh, I plan on it,” Sam says. “Just wanted to finish my chapter first.” He leans back and laces his fingers together behind his head, forearm muscles clenching and bony elbows jutting out. 

“You ever think about the fact that we’re actually here?” Sam continues after a brief silence. “That it’s not just some kind of half-assed dream or wish anymore? I mean, we’re actually here: swim trunks and sand in our toes.”

Dean hasn’t been able to stop smiling ever since they bought pool floaties, so it’s a definite yes. 

“Have all day,” he replies, flicking a toe in the sand and watching as tiny, minuscule grains fly through the air. “Fun, ain’t it?”

“Hell yeah,” Sam replies. 

There's a brief silence between them. A seagull soars through the sky while a volleyball game manned by teenagers commences beneath it. They sip their beers, basking in the breeze that rakes its fingers through their hair.

Two women walk across their direct line of vision, and they track them with their eyes. They look similar enough that Dean thinks they might be cousins, possibly even sisters, and Dean guesses they're probably both in their 30s or 40s, skin not the smooth tightness of younger women, but soft and buoyant, lined with natural stretch marks and dimples. One’s got on a big, floppy red hat while the other sports shades and a tennis cap. 

Both of them are very pleasing to look at.

They must feel eyes on them, because they look directly at him and Sam. Dean sends a nod their direction, flirty eyes communicating the smooth why hello bouncing around in his brain. Sam waves politely, but he doesn’t fool Dean or the two women: his eyes say the same thing Dean’s do.

Dean watches them share a brief glance before grinning in his and Sam’s direction again, gazes also flirty and wow.

Just a little ways down, they make camp, not too far from view. He watches as they stretch out on beach towels, shades on and legs oiled up with tanning lotion. 

He stares, unabashedly, because he knows beautiful when he sees it: this view is far better than his brother's hairy legs. And the ladies don’t seem to mind the attention, judging by the way they laugh and flirt with them across the short distance. 

Sam’s no better than he is, gaze locked on smooth, shiny legs. 

Like clockwork, they look at each other.

Sam speaks first. “That could be fun.” 

Dean scoffs. “ Could be? No, Sammy, that is the definition of fun.”

No other words are spoken, but if by the end of the day numbers are exchanged and names taken, well—

Once again, that’s their business.

The sun rises higher in the sky, and Dean finds himself growing more relaxed, made numb by its warmth.

“Hey Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Wanna know something?” Sam says. “I think this summer is the first time in a long time that I’ve felt content.”

Dean lifts an eyelid and peers up at Sam from his position at the far side of the towel. “Oh yeah?”

“Mhmh. Don’t get me wrong: the past few years have been good. But this summer has just seemed…I don’t know—better. You know?”

Yes, Dean knows exactly what Sam means. He nods his head in agreement, willing to simply listen for a moment to Sam’s thoughts on this strange juncture in their shared lives.

“I mean,” Sam continues, “I can remember thinking that I would never get to this point. That I’d just keep going in the same circles over and over again, unable to just be still for a moment.” 

Sam fiddles with the edge of his swim trunks and looks down at Dean. “You ever feel that way?”

“All the time, Sammy.” He sits up and props an elbow on the ground to help support his weight. “But you know what? It was worth it.”

“Everything we did to get to this point was worth it.”

Sam is quiet, listening intently. Eyes sharp and seeking. 

“I feel the same as you do, Sammy: I’ve never been more at peace in my entire life. Yeah, sure, life still happens and whatnot, but I’m happy right where I am. I don’t ever plan on going anywhere else. Ever. ” 

The with you doesn’t escape his lips, but he looks Sam dead in the eye, cards on the table, full-house bluff exposed. Let’s him know that Sam is the only place he ever wants to be. The only place he ever will be till the day he bites the dust.

It's something that Dean has known and understood on a fundamental level: the concept residing there from the moment Dean ran out the door of a burning building with a small, swaddled bundle in his arms. But these past few months have served to solidify the fact. 

Seared it into his heart, his mind, his soul. 

So, no: he doesn’t mind telling Sammy that he loves him, over and over and over again, in his own unique way. 

He could spend a lifetime doing it.

Already is. 

Sam returns his gaze, and yes—the love and deep-seated understanding—is a mirror image in his own crow-feet framed eyes. 

A silence falls; no words are needed in this moment, both of them content just to let it be what it will be.

Content to watch the sun's rays twinkle and shine across the Pacific as the tide rolls in, gentle and steady.

Again, for the millionth time in the later part of his life, Dean can’t help but think that life is pretty damn good.

fin.