FIC: Enough of its Glory Remains, Part 1
Enough of its Glory Remains
Part 1 | Part 2 | Art Post | Master Post
Enough of its Glory Remains
That star of the field, which so often hath pour'd
Its beam on the battle, is set;
But enough of its glory remains on each sword,
To light us to victory yet.
--Thomas Moore
It was blisteringly hot for April. The apple tree in the front yard had already busted out in blossoms, and the ceiling fan in the kitchen was turned all the way up, whirring audibly as it wiggled on its mounting. Sam wore cargo shorts and no shoes, sitting on the counter with a jar of peanut butter and a spoon, swinging his feet like he used to when he was just a little kid watching Dean make Spaghetti-Os. Now Dean was making chicken salad.
Dean looked out the window over the sink, which faced the three acres of tree-speckled farmland behind the house they lived in. There was even a beat-up old barn out there, faded brick-red paint peeling off the siding, white trim turned grimy grey with age. Grass reached several feet high on every side, neglected but healthy.
Their place was cheap, too. Six-hundred dollars a month for two bedrooms, acreage, a barn. Fully furnished, utilities included. They paid extra every month for an internet/cable package and that was it. "We offer rent to buy, you know," the realtor had said a week ago when she took them around. Her teeth were crooked and she wore a nametag that said Alice. "It could be yours in a couple years, gentlemen. Berkeley Springs is a great place to make a home. Start families." She cocked her head and beamed, curly brown hair bouncing, amethyst earrings swaying. The words just rang hollow in Dean's chest. "There's another property of mine just down the street a ways, you know. Maybe for when you both get tired of the bachelor life, want to have your own families."
Sam smiled winningly and told her he was sure they'd want have a look sometime. Alice handed over the keys and their copy of the lease (Sam and Dean Smith, tenants), Dean handed her the deposit in cash, and the house was theirs.
Bobby had money stashed once upon a time, squirreled away all over the country just like his library. A couple hundred here, a thousand there. He took Sam and Dean aside, back after he died but before they put him to rest, and told them every spot, every set of coordinates. "This is so Shawshank," said Dean, months later, huddled deep in his coat as they hacked at the icy soil in North Dakota under a huge maple tree. Sam pulled up the tin with gloved fingers and they added the three thousand dollars to the stack. Sam wrote it down in what he pretentiously referred to as his "ledger," and they bundled back into the car to continue their scavenger hunt - next stop, five hundred dollars in Joplin, Missouri. At least, if the tornado didn't get to it before they did.
And then that, too, was safely deposited, the whole wad of cash happily accruing interest in the City National Bank, budgeted and watched over by Sam and Dean Smith, joint account-holders.
Dean chopped the chicken, knuckles holding the breast in place like he saw on Rachael Ray once, so he wouldn't slice his fingertips off. He scraped it off the cutting board into the bowl with the back of the knife, a real kitchen knife from the Target two towns over.
The Chevy parked in the carport that he could just see from the kitchen window was not the Chevy he wished it was. It was a beat-up, reliable old '64 pickup, the last one Sam hotwired after Dean mangled his leg and the Impala-well. Sam installed a weapons cache in a lockbox in the bed. He knew exactly how to build it for their arsenal, but he wouldn't talk about it, mouth set in a grim line while he carved out the foam slots. Dean couldn't bring himself to help. It was functional enough, he guessed. It was never supposed to be permanent; they were going to ditch the truck a thousand miles back. Sam liked all the room in the bed, though, and that the footwells were deep enough for him. He didn't say so, but Dean was pretty sure the fact that Dean could stretch out his messed up leg when he started getting cramps was even more important to Sam than whether he could comfortably fit in the cab himself. Sam did most of the driving, these days. It was torture for Dean, his right leg barely holding up for a drive to the grocery store before the pain set in, wrapping around his muscles and joints.
That was nothing compared to Sam, though. Hale and hearty of body, he wasn't doing too well upstairs. Lucifer was nowhere to be found-nothing supernatural about it. At least nothing besides the things Sam was seeing, the things he was remembering and reliving. Castiel has absolved him of the heavy soul scarring that drove him crazy, but that didn't erase Sam's memories or his trauma. Nothing could do that.
*
Back before they'd gotten to West Virginia, when they were still on the road a couple months ago, the screaming nightmares got more intense and started invading Sam's days as much as his nights. When he couldn't, wouldn't sleep-just like when Satan was riding shotgun-Dean couldn't take it anymore.
"We're going to see someone, Sam," he said, in his most big-brother tone that brooked no argument.
"That doesn't work, remember?" Sam said, voice cracked and dry like his lips, eyes heavy and pained.
"It didn't before, but this isn't like that."
"Like hell it isn't."
Dean pressed his mouth closed and rubbed at the back of his neck. Sam was curled on the motel bed, half under the blanket in only a threadbare pair of sweatpants. The carpet was thin and rough under Dean's toes. A maid knocked two doors down. She'd be at their room soon.
"I know a guy. A friend of Frank's."
Sam turned his head, almost imperceptibly. "A hunter?" The words were soft, but he still winced after he said them. Dean couldn't even imagine what he was seeing, what he was hearing. It was the worst thing in the world knowing that Sam was relentlessly tortured by his own mind and Dean didn't even know how.
"Yeah, Sammy. She knows the gig. I think she'll be able to help."
Dr. Farqan was a sweet-looking woman in her early forties with thick black hair and long black eyelashes. She wore a blue turtleneck even though it was summer, and she had three rings on her toes. Her office was unremarkable, no sign, no front. It was in a clean, boring commercial block - Sam and Dean went through a ground-floor store that advertised Tempurpedics and ergonomic desk chairs to get to the stairs leading up to her door.
"How can I help you?" she said, glancing first at Dean and then settling on Sam. Dean's chest clenched -of course it was obvious to her. Sam looked miserable. Half dead. Dean's pathetic limp didn't hold a candle to whatever was going on in his brother's melon.
Sam sighed. "I don't know if you can."
"Let's have a chat first, okay?" Dr. Farqan said, and waved Sam into a private room. "You can wait out here if you like, Mr. Winchester, or you can come back in an hour or so."
Dean picked a chair facing the door, put his feet up on the coffee table to ease the twinge in his knee, and waited.
*
Sam didn't really look much better when he came out of Dr. Farqan's back room, but he was holding a white paper bag that made pill-noises as he moved, and he certainly didn't seem any worse.
Dean clears his throat and grabs his jacket. "What do we owe you?"
Dr. Farqan shakes her head, mouth pursed. "I know who Sam and Dean Winchester are. You don't owe me anything."
Dean would've argued, but people in their line of work shouldn't look gift pill bottles in the mouth. "Thanks," he said. "Look us up if you need anything."
"I will," Dr. Farqan said, and showed them out.
"What'd you tell her?" Dean asked, watching Sam slump tiredly into the driver's seat.
"The truth," Sam said, not looking at Dean.
"What'd she give you?"
"Medication. Zyprexa. Some sleeping pills. She says no more caffeine. Lots of regular exercise," Sam said, and stared unblinking at the road. There was something else, sitting there in his chest, waiting for Dean to ask.
"And?"
"She says we should stop hunting. I said that wasn't an option."
Dean was silent for a long time, just looking at Sam's red knuckles on the wheel, the ratty knees of his jeans. "Why isn't it?"
"You know why, Dean. We can't stop. We can't ever stop. This is it. And even if we could, I don't want to. I need to be doing things. I need to not be-" He trailed off, the plastic of the steering wheel creaking as he gripped it hard.
"You wouldn't be alone in your head, man. And it wouldn't have to be forever. But I'm a wreck right now. I can barely move, much less hunt. We need a break, just to get back to fighting shape, you know? I learned my lesson, I know that settling down just leads to more shit. That's not what I'm talking about. I mean just you and me and someplace to get some sleep and heal up for a while. Have some hot meals. Figure out what to do with Bobby's money and plan out how we're gonna stay off the grid for good."
Sam shrugged, the corner of his mouth tucking up. "I guess. Just for a little while. I hate to see you dragging that leg around. We gotta work on that."
"That's what I'm sayin', Sammy." Dean allowed himself a tentative smile. "Even Lindsay Lohan had to check into rehab for exhaustion once in a while. Gimme the map, I'll find us somewhere good."
*
Berkeley Springs, West Virginia, isn't actually called Berkeley Springs. When Sam and Dean rolled into town in their beat-up, hot-wired 1964 Chevy pickup, it was confusing. BATH was printed very clearly on the map, crumpled and sweaty in Sam's hands. WELCOME TO BERKELEY SPRINGS, said the sign by the side of the road.
"Where have you taken us?" Sam said, eyebrows up.
"Me? You're the one driving," said Dean, and eyed Main Street with trepidation. There were dozens of little shops, colorful awnings and sandwich boards and flower boxes in all directions. "I swear it says Bath on the map." He'd specifically picked the town because nothing sounded nicer than soaking his leg in a nice hot bath. This was panning out to be a disappointment.
"Well it says Berkeley Springs on the Post Office," Sam muttered, parking the truck outside what appeared to be a visitor center.
The man at the information desk, Harrold (the second R on his nameplate was underlined three times), had long grey hair and tiny half-moon glasses. "Greetings, sirs, what can I do for you this lovely day?" He beamed at them, and Dean scowled.
"Where are we? The map says Bath." Dean plonked it down on the desk and pointed sternly.
"You're in Bath," said Harrold, still cheery. "But we call it Berkeley Springs."
"Of course you do," said Dean.
"We're the country's first spa!" shouted Harrold as they turned to head out, the bell tinkling and the door clicking shut behind Dean.
"We're in the right place," said Dean as he maneuvered into the passenger seat again and slapped down a free tourism brochure on the dash. Sam was leaning against the window, eyes squeezed shut and hands tense on his thighs. "Sammy," Dean said, softly. "Hey, Sammy, it's okay-" He wrapped a hand around Sam's bicep, firmly but not too suddenly. Sam's eyes sprang open and he gulped deep breaths. "It's okay, man, you just dozed off."
Sam nodded, knuckling hair out of his eyes, and threw the truck into gear. "Alright, so where're we going?"
"This is the right place. Guess we want to find a rental office. Get a place to crash for a while."
Sam took a deep breath and rolled his shoulders, the way he always did when he was willing himself to keep a grip. Dean swallowed dryly and winced at the pangs in his leg.
*
It was the first of the month. Dean had been living in the same house, his house, for a week. He and Sam bought groceries. They bought tools. They bought sheets and blankets. They bought dishes and beer and whiskey and ice trays. They put their clothes in drawers and in the closets. The pillows they put their guns under were the same every night.
They had separate rooms.
It was strange, lying awake in a queen bed, staring at the slope of the gabled ceiling, not hearing Sam's breathing or the relentless hum of a motel A/C unit. Not having a soft, warm body next to him like Lisa or Cassie. It felt like the time Sam thought they'd be better on their own, time Sam spent bartending and getting in deep shit trouble while Dean saw his face everywhere and missed him so hard it hurt every fucking day. He hated working on his own. He hated working with anyone else but Sam, to be honest, but it was really fucking bad when he had to do it alone.
He turned his face into the pillow and breathed in the sterile smell of the pillowcase - Sam insisted on washing them before they put them on the beds even though they were brand new. "You never know what kind of chemicals are on them from the dyeing process," he said, making soft pops as he shook them out, unfurling them with a snap before he tossed them in the washer. Their house had a laundry room. The detergent in the cabinet over the dryer was theirs, that they bought, from a Kmart.
Dean just sighed. "Thanks, Martha Stewart. You saved my life. Could've died of pillow toxins." Sam smiled, a tired half-smile, but a smile nonetheless.
And so it had been a week. They had the bare necessities. Sam signed them up for cable (Sam and Dean Smith, cable subscribers) and bought a flat-screen TV off Craigslist. He set it up in the empty corner of the family room, on the floor for now, since they didn't have anything as fancy as an entertainment center. The TV was next to the sorry excuse for a fireplace. There was a cheap shelf screwed into the drywall over the little metal hole-in-the-wall hearth, probably someone's approximation of a mantle-too narrow even for the narrow TV, unfortunately. The ceiling sloped in this room, too, on the same side of the house as Dean's room. The couch was ragged and covered in a faded sage-green cover with stretched-out elastic around the arms to hold it on. Dean found a coffee table in the crawlspace under the house, too small for the couch, on spindly legs and stained the same attempt at mahogany as the makeshift mantle. All in all, it was redneck Craigslist chic, and perfectly good enough for Dean.
"At least I don't have to worry about using coasters," he said, when Sam eyed the coffee table like it was roadkill.
"If I put a potted plant on it, it'll collapse," Sam said, clearly exasperated.
"A-potted plant?" Dean said. "You can't be serious."
Sam threw up his hands. "Whatever, Dean. That's not the point. I just think if we're going to be staying here for a while, it should - I don't know. Be different."
"Different than what?"
"Than all the broke-down places we stay when we're not taking a break. I don't want to wake up every day and be depressed that I'm a washed-up mental patient living in a no-name town with my literally-lame brother and a plywood coffee table painted brown, you know?"
Dean sighed. It wasn't even worth fighting. "Yeah, Sammy. I know." He sat on one of the rung-backed bar stools at the counter separating the kitchen from the family room, swiveling to face Sam on that ugly sage couch. "How ‘bout I get a job tomorrow and we'll save up some more money and buy ourselves some real furniture? Get you a new mattress, too. Maybe it'll help you sleep." Dean cleared his throat and looked down, hoping Sam wouldn't chew him out. It was always a risk.
Sam looked up, startled. "You still hear me?"
Dean shrugged sadly. "It's not a real big house, man. I still hear you. It's not as bad as your worst, but. I don't know. Maybe those pills Farqan gave you aren't doing the trick."
Sam shook his head, slowly, like he was thinking. "They're not magic. It's not like I'll be perfect instantly. They take time to start working, and even when they do, it's not a cure. I'm still not sleeping so great, but I don't know. It's a different kind of not great."
"A better kind?" Sam shrugged as an answer, and Dean didn't pretend to understand. These talks weren't exactly his strong suit. He stared out the sliding glass door onto their second-story deck, instead, and imagined a big shiny grill by the railing. He could go for some ribs. "So maybe a big ridiculous mattress really would help you out. It all comes full circle. I'll go out looking for a job tomorrow. Need something to do anyway. I can't handle sitting around being stiff all day."
"Sure," Sam said, distantly, like he was still thinking. Dean wasn't sure how Sam felt about working, if he thought he could handle it or not. He didn't want to press the issue.
"I'm gonna make some chicken salad," Dean said instead. Sam looked at him like he was speaking Japanese. "What? I like Rachael Ray, okay?"
Sam laughed, a real laugh, and Dean's belly felt warm like he'd just taken a belt of whiskey.
*
Berkeley Springs had a mechanic shop. Only one, but that was something. Dean drove the truck down the next morning, bright and early at 6 AM. Main Street smelled delicious, a welcoming combination of breakfast food and flowers and the crisp spring air. Despite the sweltering heat yesterday, it was sunny but mild today. Frogs chirped in all directions, the mountains rising around the town in the crisp air, clear and refreshing just like the damn brochure.
"Hi," he said, ducking into the garage and giving a wave to the guy at the computer off to the side of the lifts. He looked up, a nice smile on a gruff face. He had a full head of salt-and-pepper hair and a ruddy complexion, streaked with engine grease. He was wearing coveralls, too, the very picture of a typical small-town America mechanic. There was a cheesecake calendar on the wall behind him - apparently April was Suzie Housewife month. The girl was wearing an apron (and nothing else) holding a suggestive slice of cherry pie. "I'm Dean Smith."
"Chet Gleeson. Best mechanic in all of Berkeley Springs. What can I do for you?"
Dean shook his grease-stained hand. "I just moved to town with my brother and I'm looking for work. I'm a fair hand with an engine and as professional as you could ask for." He smiled winningly.
"Actually," Chet said, in a low, gravelly voice, "I just might. Not a lot of mechanics in a town like this, you know? But lots of weekenders needing things tweaked and replaced before the drive home or the next leg."
"Sure," said Dean, sticking his hands in his pockets and rolling up on the balls of his feet, making his leg twinge as the muscle flexed. "Makes perfect sense. I got no problem changing tires and recharging Freon if that's what you need, sir."
"Please, call me Chet." He smiled again, that small-town smile Dean had seen a million times on a million faces.
"Sure, Chet."
"Let's test you out on this one over here," Chet said, and pushed himself up from his desk with a grunt. There was a 1969 Nova up on the lift on the other side of the garage, and Dean couldn't help but laugh. She looked real good. "What's up, son?" Chet asked, wiping his hands on a stained-grey rag.
"Nothing, just impressed. I'm a Chevy man." Dean tried not to wince at the cramp in his leg as he stood under the Nova, surveying the undercarriage.
"Oh yeah? What do you drive?"
"A ‘6-'64 pickup, actually. A recent acquisition." Dean swallowed hard past the lump in his throat. "Grew up with an Impala, though. Best car you'll ever meet."
Chet nodded at the Nova. "Well what we got here is a fried carburetor, or so the customer thinks. Used to be Dad's car; he doesn't know coolant from motor oil. Googled it before he brought it in. Take a shot at this and see what you think."
"Sure thing, Chet. Thanks for the opportunity." Dean saluted, trying that winning smile again. Chet gave him a pleasant nod and shuffled off, back to the books. The garage was pretty nice, given how bedraggled it looked from the street. It was clean, a little worn but there was definitely some newly refurbished equipment. There were posters of classic cars on all the walls, old license plates, steering wheels - sort of like a hokey chain restaurant, but for real. There was a picture of Jim Morrison with his Dodge Charger, A1 racers like Jackie Stewart, even just old black and white photos of entire families with their Jalopies and T-birds and-Impalas. Dean looked away, blinking, and focused on the other guys instead. There were only two, one working on a Toyota, what looked like just an oil change, and one hammering a dent out of an Explorer.
"Hey," called one of them, a black guy wearing glasses and a green lanyard. "Sup, man?"
"Dean," said Dean, and waved. "New to town. Hoping for a job."
"Tony," said the guy, and held out a callused hand. "It's great here, sure you'll get comfortable in no time." He clapped his hands together once, rubbing them like he was getting ready for something exciting. "And this here's Mike. We been working together for what, eight years now, Mike?"
"Yeah, man. And neighbors for ten."
"Our wives are inseparable. Jeannie and Sheryl. Y'all should come over some time and we can cook out." Tony clapped a hand to stomach. "Mike makes a mean prime rib, man."
"Oh, I'm-not married," said Dean awkwardly. "I'm actually crashing with my brother."
"Oh yeah?" said Mike, leaning against the Explorer like he was settling in for a story.
"My last job - we were in the family business together, you know, my brother and me. We're buddies and had some good times but we had to travel a lot, got kinda drained. We just wanted to take a break for a while."
"Sure, sure," said Tony, and clapped Dean on the shoulder. "You came to the right place, my friend. Berkeley Springs is the greatest place you could ever take a break. Just steppin' outside you can smell it in the air. You'll be good as new in no time."
Out the corner of his eye, Dean could see Mike eyeing him up, probably trying to figure out what his limp was about, why he was standing on his leg so funny. It wasn't a big deal, and he appreciated that neither of them asked annoyingly personal questions about it, but he was getting itchy from all the attention and really just wanted to get to work.
"Guess I should go to town on that Nova back there," Dean said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. "Chet's giving me a test drive and I intend to ace it."
"Piece of cake," said Mike, and turned back to the door panel on the Explorer.
Dean got in a solid hour of work on the Nova before his vision started swimming. It was hilarious to think of himself having some sort of car-related PTSD flashbacks, but when he couldn't tell the Nova he was working on from the Impala, or the garage around him from Bobby's junkyard, and when he started seeing Dad and Sam in one of the pictures on the wall, and hear the crashing, crunching, sick screech of metal on metal and feel the stifling waves of heat washing over him, the dull, constant pain of his leg, and Sam, somewhere in the middle of it, Dean not being able to see him or hear him, the monsters of Purgatory closing in on all sides-
He crumpled to his knees on the garage floor, head pressed to the smooth concrete. Stabbing pains in his leg didn't stop him, only helped ground him and remind him where he was, what was going on. He felt panic well up in him, wanted Sam here, wanted his fucking car here, somewhere he could go to take a real breath, to smell something familiar and feel the smooth steering wheel under his hands and the rumble of the engine and Sam with his head lolling on the low back of the bench seat, sliding closer and closer to Dean's shoulders as he slid sideways on the leather.
"Dean?" said Tony, dropping his wrench with a clank and running over, scuffed Timberlands all Dean could see.
"It's okay, man, just-uh. Just get lightheaded sometimes, you know, and this bad leg, I can't-"
"Lemme help you," Tony said, crouching down and offering Dean a steady arm to help get him sitting up against the back wall of the garage. "Hey, maybe you're not quite ready to get back to work, man," he said, not unkindly.
Dean shook his head, wanting to be anywhere but this garage. Everything felt wrong. "I don't know. Maybe." He fished his phone out of his jacket and dialed Sam, waving Tony off with a mouthed thank you. "Sammy, this isn't working out."
"What's not working out?" Sam said, sounding out of breath.
"I'm at Gleeson's Garage on Sycamore Street. The guy here was trying me out for a job but uh-it's not. Not a good fit. And my leg-"
"I'll be there in five minutes," Sam said, thankfully all business. He usually knew to save the irritating questions for after the fact. "I'm on the bike, I'll drive you."
The bike, as it was known, was Sam's first Berkeley Springs purchase. "I'm supposed to exercise more," he said, deadpan, when Dean couldn't stop laughing. It wasn't a terrible bike, per se, but it looked straight out of Breaking Away, and it was pretty unbelievable to Dean that Sam could ride it without crushing it, or balance at all on the skinniest tires known to man. It was a uniform steel grey everywhere except for two stripes on the crossbar, the curved handlebars wrapped in white tape, white break lines scuffed and cracked where they led back to the breaks. Sam loved it immediately, though, and the pleased look on his face was enough to saint the damn bike as far as Dean was concerned.
"Go take some Instagram pictures of it and put it on your Tumblr," Dean had said, punching Sam in the arm.
"And to think," Sam had said, smirking, "once upon a time you didn't even know what MySpace was." Dean had grinned, pleased with himself.
Sam showed up in four minutes, sans bike - he stowed it in the truck bed out front, most likely. "Hey," he said, and jogged straight over to where Dean was sitting. He closed one hand over Dean's shoulder, the other gently on his bad thigh. "Came as fast as I could."
"Thanks, swear you didn't need to, but-"
"Let's get to the truck, okay?" He knelt down and got Dean's arm around his broad shoulder, grabbing Dean's waist and hefting them both up like it was nothing. Part of Dean was sick with jealousy-Sam being as strong and capable as ever while Dean was literally hobbled. The other part was grateful, calm. Sam deserved to have something. To have escaped unscathed in at least one way, since god knew he was scathed in every other way.
"Gotta tell Chet," Dean said, and Sam just shook his head. "Got you covered, man."
Dean rolled down the window in the truck and listened hard for the pitch of Sam's voice. "-country's service, and it's not unexpected that-shouldn't impact the quality of his work-deployment-unfamiliar situations-"
At first, Dean was upset that Sam was making him out to be some sort of shell-shocked vet, like he was so fragile, like he could break so easily. But it was true - and it was double, triple true for Sam, who was the fucking strongest person Dean had ever known, besides Dad.
"He says you can come back tomorrow if you're ready to work," Sam said, clambering into the driver's seat. "You got another chance to show him what you can do, but he's only got so much time to spend on you instead of hiring someone else."
"Thanks," Dean said, and Sam smiled. It even reached his eyes.
*
Dean shuffled to the kitchen in his sweatpants and an undershirt after his shower. He grabbed a glass from the cabinet over the microwave and pops some ice cubes out of the new tray in the freezer. The whiskey was under the sink; he poured himself three fingers of Canadian Club and stuck the bottle back under there with the potatoes and onions in their brown paper bag.
Sam was folded up on the couch, hair wet and curling from his own shower. He had a bright yellow mixing bowl full of popcorn and something in a mug on the coffee table -sans coaster. He still looked tired, his eyes still heavy, but considering it had only been a week, the lines in his face weren't etched so deep, and there was something different about him - like maybe there were signs that his mind wasn't moving so frantically, like maybe he wasn't quite so constantly at war with himself.
"What're you reading?" Dean asked, flopping down on the other end of the couch.
"Asimov," said Sam, closing the book on his finger. It was yellowed and dog-eared, from the same person who sold Sam the bike.
"That takes me back," Dean said.
"Like you ever read Asimov," said Sam, laughing.
"No, but you did. In high school. All of ‘em."
"I never once told you about that," Sam said, furrowing his eyebrows. "Why would you have cared?"
"You didn't talk about it, but that doesn't mean I didn't see you with ‘em, or pick up after you when you left your crap all over the house. I can read too, Sam, and books have dust jackets." Dean shrugged, not sure if this was a fight or not.
"Oh," Sam said, and opened the book again just to check the page number before he closed it and put it on the coffee table under his mug. Dean bought those mugs day before yesterday from a lady on Main Street who made them every other Sunday.
"So I was thinking," he continued, and Dean rubbed a hand through his own damp hair. "Maybe I could go back to Chet tomorrow."
"You?" asked Dean, not sure where this was going.
"Well, he needs someone, right? And you-have extenuating circumstances. But maybe I could do it?"
Dean just waited for the rest. There was clearly more.
"I need something to do with my hands, Dean. I need something that isn't about-life. I know that sounds stupid, but I just want to do it. And I know you don't want to say it, but your leg just isn't gonna let you do a job like that where you have to be on your feet all day. You'll be able to do stuff like that again, I know you will, but until you do some real PT and get back in fighting shape, you're-you're just going to fuck it up." Sam stumbled a little, like he wasn't sure what Dean would do with the knowledge that Sam was worried about him. As if he didn't already know. "You've taught me everything you know. I'll never be as good as you are, but I bet I'm as good with pistons and intake valves as anyone else in Berkeley Springs."
Dean laughed and shook his head. There were squirrels out on the deck fighting over a nut. It stung a little, Sam taking over and talking like a real adult, but he was right. "You talk a good game."
Sam just shrugged, allowing himself a little grin.
"Alright, you go back to Chet tomorrow. I'll stop trying to put the cart in front of the horse." Sam clapped a hand on Dean's back and was just about to say something when Dean continued, "But Sammy. Take your phone. If you need me to return the favor, you know I will."
"Of course, Dean," Sam said, and met Dean's eyes with a long, inscrutable look.
"What?"
"Nothing. Think maybe I'll take a nap."
"Best idea you've ever had," Dean said, and as soon as Sam stood up, he stretched out on the couch, rubbing the kinks out of his thigh and shin as best he could.
"I'll make dinner when I wake up," Sam said, folding the blanket on the back of the couch. "I'm no Rachael Ray, but-" He laughed, dodging Dean's swipe as he made his way to his room in the back of the house.
*
The next day, Dean considered driving to Main Street in the truck since Sam took the bike to Chet's. There was a cool breeze, though, and not a cloud in the sky. His leg wasn't entirely horrible, considering the bad day previous, so he decided to go for a walk instead. Sam said he needed PT, so he was going to get some damn PT.
Guitar Road was farmy all around with hilly green properties, white fences, red barns and outcroppings of slatey rock. Rich copses of trees speckled the pastures, leafy green and budding early in the warm rush of April. The mountain air was clear and easy to breathe. Dean passed a few runners on the street-dirt road, really-and a few more horseback riders. The birds were singing like crazy, and it was actually kind of irritating. Too much bucolic charm wasn't necessarily always a good thing. Guitar Road butted up to Main Street eventually, the burst of color visible from blocks away. Dean figured he might as well go have a look, maybe get some lunch, see if he could grab a newspaper.
He passed a stained glass store with a kindly older lady teaching a class over at the tables on the side of the shop. There was an organic diner, a historical society, and at least three different spas. He picked up a Washington Post at the newsstand and a coffee from the thankfully-not-Starbucks, the sun filtering down over the mountains through the trees and lighting everything up, fresh and clean.
As he walked down the sidewalk, something caught his eye in a storefront window. It was The Grimmoire of Shadows, one of the elusive books from Bobby's scattered collection that wasn't where it was supposed to be. "Well what do you know," Dean murmured. The sign hanging out front was a deep royal blue, recently repainted, with metallic gold rays and an eye of Horus in the middle of a shield. Portals, it said, stenciled gold in Harry Potter font.
He peered in the window; there was a girl behind the counter, pale blonde hair pulled back in a high ponytail, ashy eyebrows and eyelashes like she didn't have any at all. Dean walked in to get a better look, jingle bells tinkling from where they hung on the door handle. The shop was a little musty, a muted oaky brown all around, smelling like leather and herbs and something that crackled in the air.
"Hi," the girl said. She was probably a little younger than Sam, pink-cheeked and with a little gap between her front teeth. "Looking for anything in particular?"
"Not really," said Dean, and slid his hands in his pocket. "Just wanted to look around."
"Sure thing," she said, and nodded at a bulletin board on the opposite wall, covered in neon flyers and business cards. "Take a look at the stuff going on this week, too. Maybe you'll have a chance to get to something while you're in town."
"Oh, I actually just moved here," Dean said, charming smile in place. "With my brother. I'll be in town a good while."
The girl curled up the corner of her mouth and tilted her head towards Dean. "Well then, welcome to Berkeley Springs," she said. "I'm Melody. You into New Age? We have meditation circles every Wednesday, and Book Club on Thursday. Shantal does a crystal reading on Sunday mornings with brunch." Her eyes were bright and she leaned on the counter, elbows close together and the tips of her ears turning pink. Dean was pretty sure he was getting it laid on thick.
"We'll think about it," he said, and made it sound like maybe he really would come to Shantal's crystal reading.
"I'll let you ponder," said Melody. "I have to do some restocking in the back." She gestured tentatively over her shoulder, like she didn't really want to leave her post at the front counter.
"No problem. I can take of myself out here," Dean said, and gave her a casual laugh.
Melody went to the back and Dean went straight for the book in the window. It was a pristine copy, not stained and torn like Bobby's, none of the pages missing from being swiped by past hunters to tape higgledy-piggledy in their journals or on serial-killer-like wall flowcharts.
The jingle bells rang again as an older guy walked in, complete with tweed jacket and elbow patches, soft beige loafers, and an unlit pipe. He had a full white mustache and smelled like sweet tobacco and port. Dean placed the book back in the window.
"Good afternoon," said the man, cracking his knuckles absently. "I'm looking for Oneiromancy and the Demonic Presence, by Gerald Balkland," he said, blinking watery blue eyes at Dean.
"Um, I don't-" Dean started, but stopped himself. He'd seen the dreams shelf just a second ago when he was perusing the stacks. "Actually, I think I can help you find that," he said instead, and headed over to the purple sign etched with silver moon and stars. He knew the book the guy was looking for-remembered it sitting at the bottom of a pile in Bobby's basement, the thrill he got when he thought maybe there'd be something in there to help Sam back when he was still having dreams from the Yellow-Eyed Demon.
"Aha!" said the guy, and grabbed the book off the shelf, right where Dean had seen it. It wasn't exactly where it should've been-Bobby's insane mess of a system was way more useful than whatever this bookstore was using, but it got the job done. "Thank you so much."
"No problem," said Dean, and the guy clicked his pipe in his mouth and angled a thankful smile at him.
"Hey, you're pretty good at that," said Melody. Dean whipped around-she could tiptoe like a cat, apparently. She smirked at him. "You done this before?"
"You could say that, Mel," said Dean, laughing awkwardly. "I don't suppose you're looking for help around here, are you?"
"Actually," said Melody, looking around at the leaning stacks of books and boxes of things needing restocking, "we can't pay much, but we really could use another hand around here."
Dean smiled and grabbed the Grimmoire from the window. "Awesome. You got yourself a hand. And I'll take this, please. Wrap ‘er up."
*
It wasn't nearly as oppressive and difficult to settle into Berkeley Springs as Dean worried it might be. In fact, it was actually pretty nice, if temporary. Sam googled torn muscles and leg pain and came up with a set of exercises Dean had to do every day. "Walking is the most important thing," he said, wearing a ridiculous pair of wind pants and some short of shiny t-shirt that he said wicked away sweat. Nothing on planet earth could wick away as much sweat as Sam could put out, and that was a fact.
"I'm not some little kid, Sam. Or a chick from a Jane Austen book. You don't have to chaperone me on my stroll around the grounds." Sam raised an eyebrow. "Shut up, British chicks are hot and I have a weakness for mini-series, you know this. Don't hate."
Sam laughed and tossed Dean's sweatpants at his head. "Put ‘em on, we're going walking."
Dean sighed and gave in. It was nice out, anyway, and he kind of missed Sam during the weekdays. Weirdly. He was used to being with Sam 24/7, give or take a few hissy fits over the years. It was undeniably weird to spend at least eight hours a day dealing with the problems of people who weren't Sam by himself.
"How're things at the garage?" Dean asked, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other all the way up the hill. They always walked away from the town, up towards the mountains. The incline was good for getting him back in shape.
"Fine. Tony's teaching me about motorcycles." The breeze blew Sam's hair around, giving him the bangs he hadn't had for years. It made him look like a little kid.
"Oh yeah?" Dean said, trying not to sound like anything.
"Not half as good as you, though," Sam said, elbowing him softly. "And he doesn't reward me with beer, either."
Dean laughed. "You can always bring your work home with you, you know. I can still teach you a thing or two even if I can't do it while copping a squat under the Impala." His laugh faded.
"Yeah," said Sam, suddenly heavy. "I miss her too. And I miss you being able to cop a squat." He shushed Dean before he could even get the words out, already turning pink. "That's not what I meant! Sick. You know, I want to get you back to-before."
"I know, Sammy," Dean said. He didn't say that he wasn't sure that would ever happen. Hellhounds do a number on a guy, and there weren't any angels around to magic away his broken bones and torn skin and shredded muscles.
Later, Sam had him lie down on the carpet in front of the couch, sad coffee table pushed to the side. "You need to stretch it, too. Not just walk on it," he said, authoritative and holding a printout that looked suspiciously like it was from About.com. "I'll help."
"I don't need your help!" Dean said, affronted, and kind of embarrassed. It was weird, him lying prone on the ground and Sam standing over him all of a trillion feet tall. He struggled into a sitting position, legs still stretched out in front of him.
"Yes you do," said Sam, voice quiet but weirdly firm. "I told you I'm gonna get you better, and if I have to hold you down and sit on you until you let me, so be it."
"Sure, Sammy," Dean said, conviction drained out him, muscles already feeling more relaxed, skin tingling weirdly.
"Groin stretches first," Sam said, and pulled Dean's feet apart, his bare heels dragging hotly on the carpet. Sam kneeled between his feet, one huge hand on each of Dean's shins. "Come on, do the butterfly, just like we used to have to do in gym."
Dean stared. "I went to gym all of twice pretty much ever," he said. "Gym is the number one class to skip, Sam. I know you're a geek, but even you watch TV."
Sam sighed, exasperated. He took one Dean's feet in each hand and brought the soles of them together, heels to heels and toes to toes, and pushed slowly back towards Dean until his knees bent and his inner thighs stretched. Dean hissed in, both at the stiff pull and also because this was just so fucking weird. Sam's hands were clammy on his insteps, and the veins in his smooth forearms were standing out. His hair hung down over his face, and Dean didn't know what he was thinking. "How does that feel?" Sam said, finally, although Dean could barely hear him.
"Fine," said Dean. "Kinda. Um. Tight."
"That's okay, that's what it's supposed to feel like," said Sam, and Dean was glad Sam wasn't looking at him. He forced a laugh.
"That's what she said," said Dean.
Sam didn't say anything at all, just kept pushing back, light but constant pressure, so Dean could feel the loosening all the way up to his balls. He shivered. Sam's hands were heavy, electric, the bulk of his body palpable hovering over Dean's lap, where his thighs were spread, Sam pressing them open.
"Quads next," said Sam, after the long, charged silence.
"Thank god," said Dean, and brought his knees together as fast as his leg would let him.
*
Dean wasn't the only one needing rehab. Sam's nightmares weren't exactly the shrieking terrors they had been when they were on the road, but it was still wasn't exactly pleasant to listen to him.
Dean's leg was cramping up one night, refusing to let him sleep. He shuffled out to the kitchen, scratching his belly absently under the waistband of his boxers, not bothering to put on a shirt. Sam was there, sitting on one of the barstools at the counter, glass of whiskey by his hand and a plate of grilled cheese in front of him.
"Hey," said Dean, raspy with lack of sleep. The green-glowing clock over the stove said it was two-thirty AM. "You okay?"
Sam shrugged. "Leg?"
"Yeah, keepin' me up. The Vicodin from our stash's just like sugar pills at this point. You?" He opened the fridge and grabbed a tupper of Sam's pasta salad from the other night. Ever better after it sat for a couple days.
"Feels like I'm taking sugar pills, too, sometimes," Sam said, and downed a gulp of whiskey.
"What do you dream about?" Dean asked, staring at a jar of mayo, shoulders tense.
"Lucifer. Dad. You." Dean heard the clinking of ice.
"Me?" He closed the fridge, but still didn't turn around. Just looked down at the blue top of the tupper, his own toes on the laminate floor.
"Yeah. The hellhounds."
Dean didn't even ask which time-it was pretty obvious Sam meant both. "So you dream about things that actually happened? Like flashbacks?"
"Yeah, but I dream about other things too. Things that feel like they're going to happen. I know they're not really, but. It's hard to believe, most of the time."
Finally Dean turned, putting down the tupper next to Sam's plate. "Well, it's not like your nightmares have never come true," he said, mostly to his fork.
"That part doesn't help," Sam said, weary. "And it's not always dreams. Sometimes it happens in the middle of the day, too. Lucifer's back, dropping cars on Tony and Mike, or telling me to stab them with a screwdriver or club them with tire irons. Sometimes he looks like you." He said it in a bored monotone, but each word was fleshy and real to Dean, had the dark weight of experience on it.
"But it's better than it was?"
"I can fight it better. I don't get so lost in it. I still feel so-I don't know."
"Isolated?"
Sam looked up quickly, a bright spark of life in his eyes. "Yeah. Yeah, isolated. That's-yeah."
"Hey," Dean said, forking a huge bite of pasta into his mouth, letting the dill settle on his tongue while he talked rudely through it. "I may not be in your head for real but I'm probably the closest you're going to get to someone who'll understand. I know it's not like I get your every emotion. Damn, I wouldn't even want to. But you're not alone in this, Sammy. You got me."
Sam was looking up at the washboard and spade hung on the wall over the cabinets, some previous tenant's idea of décor. He looked down again to meet Dean's eyes, and it was like a punch to the gut. "I know," he said, and Dean felt it all the way down to his toes.
Sam gulped the last of his whiskey and set his glass in the sink, wandering back to bed with a hand in his hair.
Dean ate a couple more bites of salad, capped the tupper, and put it back, leaning his forehead on the cool stainless steel of the fridge. He had an idea, and it was a good one, but if he didn't judge it just right, he'd probably get punched in the gut for real. He grabbed his book off the rickety table by the front door.
He padded down the hall to Sam's room, his door pushed to but not shut all the way. That was already a good sign. Dean sidled in. Sam was curled up under the covers, facing the door, hair splayed across the pillow and the comforter pulled up to his chin. "Sammy," Dean said, and Sam's eyes slid open-he already knew Dean was there.
"Yeah," he said, not uncurling.
Dean didn't say anything else, didn't ask first, just walked around the bed and laid down on top of the covers on the other side, legs stretched out and back propped against the headboard. It was plush, covered in 80s-peach brocade. "Folklore of Russia and Ukraine," he said, opening to the title page of the book. "By Professor Sarah Heineman." Sam didn't turn over, but he also didn't shove Dean off the bed or tell him he was a patronizing dickhead. "The most famous of Russian folklore speaks of an old woman-" Dean began, and he kept reading until Sam's breathing was deep and even, though his eyes were gritty and dry.
*
It became a ritual, comforting for both of them. Dean brought home books from Portals, usually folklore, and Sam curled up with his back to Dean, broad and warm, rising and falling with calm, even breaths as he fell asleep. Sometimes Dean fell asleep too, only to wake up when the book thunked to the ground next to him, or when Sam murmured or shouted in his sleep. If Sam woke him up, he'd go around to Sam's side of the bed, trying not to feel creepy as he watched him breathe, trying to gauge if it was a nightmare bad enough to wake him up over. Part of him felt like a vampire again, remembering that visceral, brooding hunger deep in his belly as he watched Lisa sleep. The tempting thump of Sam's pulse, the rush of the blood through his veins, wanting nothing but to taste him. Knowing he'd be delicious.
If Sam was sleeping fitfully, Dean would put a hand on his shoulder, give him a squeeze. "Hey, Sammy," he'd say, "you're okay." Sometimes it didn't really do any good, but sometimes Sam quieted, stilled, curled in towards Dean's hand with his lips slack and his eyelids relaxed instead of tightly slammed shut.
"You should get glasses," Sam said one night, back turned to Dean, voice muffled by his pillow.
"What? I don't need glasses," Dean said, affronted. "I have perfect vision. I can still hit a beer can with a bb gun halfway across a football field, I'll have you know."
"I can hear it when you squint," Sam said.
"That doesn't even make sense."
"Whatever, I can. Get glasses. I don't want to make you go blind."
"You're not-you know what? I'm not even going to talk about this with you. Shut up. Listen to my goddamn skinwalker story or I'm going to my own bed, you hear me?"
Sam shut up.
Two weeks later, Dean pulled out a pair of black plastic reading glasses he got from the rotating rack at CVS, right in front of the pharmacy counter. Sam's back was to him, as always, but as soon as he started reading, Sam turned over. Sam never turned over. He stared at Dean.
"You actually got glasses," he said, arms crossed over his body, one hand holding each opposite hip under the covers. His bangs were caught in his eyelashes, and Dean decided not to brush them back. That would be weird.
"Yeah, well," he said. "I do work in a bookstore. If I can't see what I'm reshelving, I'm gonna fuck up, aren't I?"
Sam pressed his lips into an inscrutable line; his eyes were kind of blue in the moonlight filtering in from the high window over his bed. He didn't look away. "They don't suck," he said.
"You're a nerd," Dean said. "Of course you don't think they suck. Now I look like one of your people. Finally, I'm assimilated into your alien culture." He smiled a little, thumbing the unread pages of the book.
Sam smiled too, and there was more color in his face than Dean had seen in a long time. He didn't turn back over the rest of the night.
*
Having a house meant that Sam and Dean also had chores. Dean remembered mowing the lawn in the world of the djinn with a dull ache. He had a rusting old push mower he found in the barn, but he only ever used it on the front yard - there was just too much growth out back to tackle with it. He kind of liked looking out at the tall grass, anyway.
He mowed the lawn, Sam took out the trash. Usually he did it early Thursday mornings before he went running, but one Wednesday evening he was rummaging around in the kitchen, pulling out the Hefty bag from the trash can in the pantry. Dean could hear the clink and clatter of glass bottles over the tinny hum of Jeopardy.
Sam stopped on his way out the door, looking at Dean over the back of the couch with his mouth set in a hard line.
"What?" Dean said, lips halfway to his glass of whiskey.
"This bag is half-full of bottles," Sam said, suspiciously quiet.
"'Atta boy, Sammy, way to look at the bright side. Better than half-empty, right?" Dean turned off the TV with a savage thumb on the remote. He was not in the mood for this discussion now, and wouldn't ever be.
"I'm serious, Dean. I happen to know there's several bottles under the sink, one in the freezer, and a flask in your nightstand."
Dean just shrugged. Sam knew he drank - Sam drank too. It was just what they did.
"We don't even have a damn vacuum cleaner, but you're already a regular at Top Shelf Liquor," Sam said. His tone wasn't angry - not really. Just a little sad. Disappointed, maybe.
"Is this a caretervention or what, Sam?"
"No, I'm just. I don't know. You're on pain meds, you're drinking as much as you ever did on the road. Just worries me, I guess." Sam let the trash bag fall gently out of his hand, the soft tinkle of bottles punctuating his sentence. He came around the couch and sat down next to Dean, one leg drawn up on the cushion in front of him.
Dean did feel a little fuzzy and warm, the nice softness of the whiskey wrapping him up in a way it had stopped doing before he was on meds for his leg. He listed a little towards Sam. "You drink too."
"Not as much as you do, I don't think," Sam said, his knee pressing into Dean's side. His knuckles brushed Dean's bad thigh. "I'm not pissed or anything. Just, you know. Maybe now that we're slowing down, you could-slow down with that, too."
"It's not about how slow we're going. You know what it's like, when you don't want to think about stuff anymore. It's just white noise in my head when I've had some drinks." Sam ducked his head and looked up at Dean, urging him to keep talking. Dean sighed. "Makes me not care so much that Bobby's gone. Jo and Ellen. That we don't even know where Cas is, or if we'll ever hear from him again." Sam shifted, eyes flicking away. Talking about Castiel inevitably made him uncomfortable, guilty, upset, who even knew. "It just sucks."
"I know it sucks," Sam said. "I'm sorry about all that. About Cas. He wouldn't have been like that if he hadn't-for me-"
Dean put his hand on Sam's knee, giving it a squeeze. Dealing with Sam's issues was always easier than dealing with his own. "I'll be okay. You'll be okay."
Sam pressed his hands together in his lap, nodding. "Sure. Okay."
*
The Morgan County Public Library was only about five minutes away from Guitar Lane, sitting primly at the corner of Congress and Washington in an Italiante Victorian house from 1870. Sam had been nuts over it from the moment they first saw its green shutters and embellished gables.
"Dean," Sam had said that first time, seeking him out after stopping at the information desk. He'd had a brochure clutched in his hand and was about three seconds away from grabbing Dean by the shoulders and shaking him. "It was owned by one of the original signers of the Declaration of Independence. It used to be a high-class boarding house in the 30s."
"Uh-huh," Dean had said, surveying the records room in what apparently used to be the kitchen, if the ventilation system was anything to go by. Which it was. "We're in old houses all the time, man. Chill out."
"But this is our library," Sam had said, slipping the brochure in his bag. He pulled out a copy of their lease. "I'm getting a real library card. With my name on it." The geek shone out from every pore.
"No, with Sam Smith on it," Dean had said.
It hadn't mattered to Sam, that it wasn't technically his name. He showed Marian the Librarian his proof of address, signed the back of his card, and immediately used it to check out The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and the biography of Steve Jobs.
"Not reading ‘em here?" Dean had asked, smacking Sam on the back on their way out. "Had enough of the boarding house ambiance already?"
"Got my own house to read in, now," Sam had said, his mouth twitching up at the corner in a little smile.
Dean had just smiled back.
Now, Sam was almost done with both the novel and the biography, and was on his way out to return them. He had affixed a basket to the front of his bike specifically to carry books. "Need anything at the library?" he called. Dean was putting together a particleboard dresser in his room.
"Nope," he shouted. The basket may have been intended for books, but Dean knew for a fact that Sam could fit a bag of groceries in there, too. "Don't forget to pick up something for dinner on your way home."
*
They'd been living in Berkeley Springs for two months and Dean was making meatloaf while Sam read Game of Thrones on the couch with a grey microfiber blanket over his legs. They both jumped when Bobby's old cell rang, vibrating like hell in the drawer of the walnut end table Sam had picked up at the flea market last Saturday. Sam stared at the drawer for a long moment before finally opening it and answering the phone.
"Hello?" he said, closing his book over his finger. "No, it's not. He's-yes. Yes. Maybe so, what did you need?"
Dean set the oven timer and grabbed the tea towel from the fridge handle, wiping his hands as he wandered over to Sam.
"Lemme check on that for you. I'll call you right back, Vince. Sure." Dean raised his eyebrows. Sam thumbed off the phone. "It was Vince Carlotti. Looking for some info."
"And?"
"And I told him I'd help him out in lieu of Bobby."
"What's he need?"
"He's up against a weird curse that he can't figure out-I know Bobby had that stack of notes with his curse boxes, I figured we could go through those and get Vince an answer."
"We?"
"Don't tell me you don't want to help. Who better to carry on Bobby's legacy?"
Dean gave him an irritated look. "This isn't a Disney movie, Sam, and I'm not loafing with a warthog."
"I'm serious, Dean. We have half the man's library. You have daily access to probably another fifth or so. We know enough people scattered around that we could rebuild the rest." There was a manic light in Sam's eyes, the good kind that meant he was welling up inside with excitement. That he was dead set on something and they were going to do it no matter what. "Let's do it."
"I can't," Dean said, and it killed him to go against it when Sam was so het up, but, "I couldn't be half the man Bobby was. Never will be."
"First of all, that's not true, and secondly, no one's asking you to be. We just gotta answer the phone and help people out. Bobby did it for us a trillion times. No reason we can't tell every other schmuck just like us what Bobby used to say."
Dean shrugged and turned his back to Sam, taking refuge in the kitchen. "I don't know."
"Just think about it," Sam said, following Dean, looming tall and solid behind him, close but not touching. "I'm going downstairs to find those notes. You can come later if you want."
*
By June, they were only missing about a dozen books from Bobby's collection. They had a whole network of contacts cobbled together from Frank, Bobby, Dad, and the Roadhouse crew. Sam carefully printed cards for each of them and kept Rolodexes full of them-"You can't hack a Rolodex," he said-referring hunters to each other, to libraries, to websites. He set up shelves in the basement for the books, typed up notes on Bobby's filing system. Dean got sucked into it, too, despite his better judgment. Even though he wasn't hunting, he was still fighting the good fight. He was still saving people. It was still the Family Business. He stocked the shelves downstairs just like he did at work, found books and amulets and relics and rare ingredients for summoning just like he grew up with. The shelves were sturdy, and would hold up to the stacks of books as long as they needed to. The filing system was solid, expandable-they could keep on using it. As long as they stayed in that house, at any rate. It looked a lot like Bobby's house in the basement of the two-story colonial on Guitar Lane.
It was a blisteringly hot Friday, breaking all kinds of records, according to Channel 8 News at 6. Sam had his laptop sitting on an ice pack intended for lunch boxes, and Dean decided he didn't need to put on clothes after his cold shower, just keeping a towel clutched around his waist. It was extremely tempting to lie down on the tiled floor of the kitchen, but he managed to keep at least a little dignity and sat on one of the bar stools instead.
"Got a lead about a set of religious texts in Ohio," Sam said, twisting around to look at Dean. He did a double take, noticing the towel. "Um."
"It's too hot for clothes, okay? Be glad I'm wearing anything at all. I'd really rather expose myself and besmirch your virtue than sweat through a clean towel, but I'm feeling generous today."
Sam stared at him for a second, looking constipated, but then shook his head and continued. "Whatever. The point is, a set of religious texts in Ohio. Should knock off six of the last twelve. The rest are pretty much holy grails, destroyed as likely as not. This'll wrap up the search for now."
"Where in Ohio?" Dean asked, leaning over the back of loveseat to peer at the screen.
"Tipp City. Woman named Bryant, apparently. She knew Bobby back when he and Rufus were running together; we can give her what she paid for them. Someone brought ‘em to her from a storage locker auction to get appraised and she bought all six right on the spot for half what they could go for."
"Smart chick," Dean said. Sam's eyes were fixed resolutely on Google Maps even though he wasn't typing or using the touchpad. "Rested up enough to drive all night? Want to go now?"
"Soon as you get some clothes on."
Dean was in jeans and a white tee with his old duffel packed inside five minutes. Luckily, he hadn't really unpacked it the last time they'd been on the road. "Let's go," he shouted, and was out the door to the truck while Sam was still folding his unmentionables upstairs.
A straight shot on I70 would get them there in about six hours, give or take depending on how fast Sam pushed the truck. It was sweltering, but the A/C in the cab was better than in their house, so Dean felt no pain as he cranked the radio and flipped open the binder of notes on the ancient Sumerian ritual guides this batch would most likely live on a shelf with. He slid on his reading glasses surreptitiously from his pocket. He could see Sam turn at look at him, just for a second, before turning back to the road with a stupid smile on his face.
"We need to get you new frames," he said, and Dean pretended not to hear. "That CVS crap has to go. Not that you can't pull it off, but when we get back, we're going to ForEyes and I'll treat."
There wasn't much to see after about 10 PM when it was finally dark, the headlights illuminating yards of fields and trees and fenceposts that looked like all the other fields and trees and fenceposts. Dean fidgeted, restless in the passenger seat. He tried to sleep, but it just wasn't going to happen. He'd let Sam switch to the local college radio station forty miles back, so he curled into the corner of the cab with a sweatshirt rolled up against his neck and let all the songs he didn't know wash over him, hoping they'd block out Sam murmuring to himself.
Sam pulled into the Super 8 outside Dayton at about one AM. Bryant was expecting them early in the morning, and Dean wasn't sure a room was really necessary considering they'd only be in it for five hours or so. He unfolded himself slowly, with a grimace and a hissed intake of breath as his leg cramped and spikes of pain prickled from his ankle to his thigh. Sam was by his side before he'd even stood up straight, hand hitched up under Dean's armpit, helping him up and taking most of his weight. "I'm fine," Dean said, but he didn't stop leaning, his side pressed flush to Sam's chest, still cool from where the air vents were blowing on him. Sam looked down at him, silent, not arguing with him but not letting go, either. His hair slid forward, hiding his eyes in the shadow of the yellow neon VACANCY sign.
Dean had to admit, if only to himself, that he did need someplace to lie down and stretch out. Sam grabbed the bed by the bathroom as soon as they got in the door, before Dean had even found the light switch, yanking the polyester comforter off then turning to the wall to shuck his cargo shorts without so much as a word. He slid between the sheets and turned his back to Dean, who confusedly watched the rise and fall of his ribcage under the thin summer blanket in the light that spilled into the room from the window.
He did his stretches before he pulled off his jeans, working the feeling back into his leg. It didn't actually hurt that much, and he hadn't even taken any meds in the past several hours.
Falling asleep was easy, and dreamless, although Sam's shadowed face in the light of the motel sign lingered behind Dean's eyelids.
*
Part 2
Part 1 | Part 2 | Art Post | Master Post
Enough of its Glory Remains
That star of the field, which so often hath pour'd
Its beam on the battle, is set;
But enough of its glory remains on each sword,
To light us to victory yet.
--Thomas Moore
It was blisteringly hot for April. The apple tree in the front yard had already busted out in blossoms, and the ceiling fan in the kitchen was turned all the way up, whirring audibly as it wiggled on its mounting. Sam wore cargo shorts and no shoes, sitting on the counter with a jar of peanut butter and a spoon, swinging his feet like he used to when he was just a little kid watching Dean make Spaghetti-Os. Now Dean was making chicken salad.
Dean looked out the window over the sink, which faced the three acres of tree-speckled farmland behind the house they lived in. There was even a beat-up old barn out there, faded brick-red paint peeling off the siding, white trim turned grimy grey with age. Grass reached several feet high on every side, neglected but healthy.
Their place was cheap, too. Six-hundred dollars a month for two bedrooms, acreage, a barn. Fully furnished, utilities included. They paid extra every month for an internet/cable package and that was it. "We offer rent to buy, you know," the realtor had said a week ago when she took them around. Her teeth were crooked and she wore a nametag that said Alice. "It could be yours in a couple years, gentlemen. Berkeley Springs is a great place to make a home. Start families." She cocked her head and beamed, curly brown hair bouncing, amethyst earrings swaying. The words just rang hollow in Dean's chest. "There's another property of mine just down the street a ways, you know. Maybe for when you both get tired of the bachelor life, want to have your own families."
Sam smiled winningly and told her he was sure they'd want have a look sometime. Alice handed over the keys and their copy of the lease (Sam and Dean Smith, tenants), Dean handed her the deposit in cash, and the house was theirs.
Bobby had money stashed once upon a time, squirreled away all over the country just like his library. A couple hundred here, a thousand there. He took Sam and Dean aside, back after he died but before they put him to rest, and told them every spot, every set of coordinates. "This is so Shawshank," said Dean, months later, huddled deep in his coat as they hacked at the icy soil in North Dakota under a huge maple tree. Sam pulled up the tin with gloved fingers and they added the three thousand dollars to the stack. Sam wrote it down in what he pretentiously referred to as his "ledger," and they bundled back into the car to continue their scavenger hunt - next stop, five hundred dollars in Joplin, Missouri. At least, if the tornado didn't get to it before they did.
And then that, too, was safely deposited, the whole wad of cash happily accruing interest in the City National Bank, budgeted and watched over by Sam and Dean Smith, joint account-holders.
Dean chopped the chicken, knuckles holding the breast in place like he saw on Rachael Ray once, so he wouldn't slice his fingertips off. He scraped it off the cutting board into the bowl with the back of the knife, a real kitchen knife from the Target two towns over.
The Chevy parked in the carport that he could just see from the kitchen window was not the Chevy he wished it was. It was a beat-up, reliable old '64 pickup, the last one Sam hotwired after Dean mangled his leg and the Impala-well. Sam installed a weapons cache in a lockbox in the bed. He knew exactly how to build it for their arsenal, but he wouldn't talk about it, mouth set in a grim line while he carved out the foam slots. Dean couldn't bring himself to help. It was functional enough, he guessed. It was never supposed to be permanent; they were going to ditch the truck a thousand miles back. Sam liked all the room in the bed, though, and that the footwells were deep enough for him. He didn't say so, but Dean was pretty sure the fact that Dean could stretch out his messed up leg when he started getting cramps was even more important to Sam than whether he could comfortably fit in the cab himself. Sam did most of the driving, these days. It was torture for Dean, his right leg barely holding up for a drive to the grocery store before the pain set in, wrapping around his muscles and joints.
That was nothing compared to Sam, though. Hale and hearty of body, he wasn't doing too well upstairs. Lucifer was nowhere to be found-nothing supernatural about it. At least nothing besides the things Sam was seeing, the things he was remembering and reliving. Castiel has absolved him of the heavy soul scarring that drove him crazy, but that didn't erase Sam's memories or his trauma. Nothing could do that.
*
Back before they'd gotten to West Virginia, when they were still on the road a couple months ago, the screaming nightmares got more intense and started invading Sam's days as much as his nights. When he couldn't, wouldn't sleep-just like when Satan was riding shotgun-Dean couldn't take it anymore.
"We're going to see someone, Sam," he said, in his most big-brother tone that brooked no argument.
"That doesn't work, remember?" Sam said, voice cracked and dry like his lips, eyes heavy and pained.
"It didn't before, but this isn't like that."
"Like hell it isn't."
Dean pressed his mouth closed and rubbed at the back of his neck. Sam was curled on the motel bed, half under the blanket in only a threadbare pair of sweatpants. The carpet was thin and rough under Dean's toes. A maid knocked two doors down. She'd be at their room soon.
"I know a guy. A friend of Frank's."
Sam turned his head, almost imperceptibly. "A hunter?" The words were soft, but he still winced after he said them. Dean couldn't even imagine what he was seeing, what he was hearing. It was the worst thing in the world knowing that Sam was relentlessly tortured by his own mind and Dean didn't even know how.
"Yeah, Sammy. She knows the gig. I think she'll be able to help."
Dr. Farqan was a sweet-looking woman in her early forties with thick black hair and long black eyelashes. She wore a blue turtleneck even though it was summer, and she had three rings on her toes. Her office was unremarkable, no sign, no front. It was in a clean, boring commercial block - Sam and Dean went through a ground-floor store that advertised Tempurpedics and ergonomic desk chairs to get to the stairs leading up to her door.
"How can I help you?" she said, glancing first at Dean and then settling on Sam. Dean's chest clenched -of course it was obvious to her. Sam looked miserable. Half dead. Dean's pathetic limp didn't hold a candle to whatever was going on in his brother's melon.
Sam sighed. "I don't know if you can."
"Let's have a chat first, okay?" Dr. Farqan said, and waved Sam into a private room. "You can wait out here if you like, Mr. Winchester, or you can come back in an hour or so."
Dean picked a chair facing the door, put his feet up on the coffee table to ease the twinge in his knee, and waited.
*
Sam didn't really look much better when he came out of Dr. Farqan's back room, but he was holding a white paper bag that made pill-noises as he moved, and he certainly didn't seem any worse.
Dean clears his throat and grabs his jacket. "What do we owe you?"
Dr. Farqan shakes her head, mouth pursed. "I know who Sam and Dean Winchester are. You don't owe me anything."
Dean would've argued, but people in their line of work shouldn't look gift pill bottles in the mouth. "Thanks," he said. "Look us up if you need anything."
"I will," Dr. Farqan said, and showed them out.
"What'd you tell her?" Dean asked, watching Sam slump tiredly into the driver's seat.
"The truth," Sam said, not looking at Dean.
"What'd she give you?"
"Medication. Zyprexa. Some sleeping pills. She says no more caffeine. Lots of regular exercise," Sam said, and stared unblinking at the road. There was something else, sitting there in his chest, waiting for Dean to ask.
"And?"
"She says we should stop hunting. I said that wasn't an option."
Dean was silent for a long time, just looking at Sam's red knuckles on the wheel, the ratty knees of his jeans. "Why isn't it?"
"You know why, Dean. We can't stop. We can't ever stop. This is it. And even if we could, I don't want to. I need to be doing things. I need to not be-" He trailed off, the plastic of the steering wheel creaking as he gripped it hard.
"You wouldn't be alone in your head, man. And it wouldn't have to be forever. But I'm a wreck right now. I can barely move, much less hunt. We need a break, just to get back to fighting shape, you know? I learned my lesson, I know that settling down just leads to more shit. That's not what I'm talking about. I mean just you and me and someplace to get some sleep and heal up for a while. Have some hot meals. Figure out what to do with Bobby's money and plan out how we're gonna stay off the grid for good."
Sam shrugged, the corner of his mouth tucking up. "I guess. Just for a little while. I hate to see you dragging that leg around. We gotta work on that."
"That's what I'm sayin', Sammy." Dean allowed himself a tentative smile. "Even Lindsay Lohan had to check into rehab for exhaustion once in a while. Gimme the map, I'll find us somewhere good."
*
Berkeley Springs, West Virginia, isn't actually called Berkeley Springs. When Sam and Dean rolled into town in their beat-up, hot-wired 1964 Chevy pickup, it was confusing. BATH was printed very clearly on the map, crumpled and sweaty in Sam's hands. WELCOME TO BERKELEY SPRINGS, said the sign by the side of the road.
"Where have you taken us?" Sam said, eyebrows up.
"Me? You're the one driving," said Dean, and eyed Main Street with trepidation. There were dozens of little shops, colorful awnings and sandwich boards and flower boxes in all directions. "I swear it says Bath on the map." He'd specifically picked the town because nothing sounded nicer than soaking his leg in a nice hot bath. This was panning out to be a disappointment.
"Well it says Berkeley Springs on the Post Office," Sam muttered, parking the truck outside what appeared to be a visitor center.
The man at the information desk, Harrold (the second R on his nameplate was underlined three times), had long grey hair and tiny half-moon glasses. "Greetings, sirs, what can I do for you this lovely day?" He beamed at them, and Dean scowled.
"Where are we? The map says Bath." Dean plonked it down on the desk and pointed sternly.
"You're in Bath," said Harrold, still cheery. "But we call it Berkeley Springs."
"Of course you do," said Dean.
"We're the country's first spa!" shouted Harrold as they turned to head out, the bell tinkling and the door clicking shut behind Dean.
"We're in the right place," said Dean as he maneuvered into the passenger seat again and slapped down a free tourism brochure on the dash. Sam was leaning against the window, eyes squeezed shut and hands tense on his thighs. "Sammy," Dean said, softly. "Hey, Sammy, it's okay-" He wrapped a hand around Sam's bicep, firmly but not too suddenly. Sam's eyes sprang open and he gulped deep breaths. "It's okay, man, you just dozed off."
Sam nodded, knuckling hair out of his eyes, and threw the truck into gear. "Alright, so where're we going?"
"This is the right place. Guess we want to find a rental office. Get a place to crash for a while."
Sam took a deep breath and rolled his shoulders, the way he always did when he was willing himself to keep a grip. Dean swallowed dryly and winced at the pangs in his leg.
*
It was the first of the month. Dean had been living in the same house, his house, for a week. He and Sam bought groceries. They bought tools. They bought sheets and blankets. They bought dishes and beer and whiskey and ice trays. They put their clothes in drawers and in the closets. The pillows they put their guns under were the same every night.
They had separate rooms.
It was strange, lying awake in a queen bed, staring at the slope of the gabled ceiling, not hearing Sam's breathing or the relentless hum of a motel A/C unit. Not having a soft, warm body next to him like Lisa or Cassie. It felt like the time Sam thought they'd be better on their own, time Sam spent bartending and getting in deep shit trouble while Dean saw his face everywhere and missed him so hard it hurt every fucking day. He hated working on his own. He hated working with anyone else but Sam, to be honest, but it was really fucking bad when he had to do it alone.
He turned his face into the pillow and breathed in the sterile smell of the pillowcase - Sam insisted on washing them before they put them on the beds even though they were brand new. "You never know what kind of chemicals are on them from the dyeing process," he said, making soft pops as he shook them out, unfurling them with a snap before he tossed them in the washer. Their house had a laundry room. The detergent in the cabinet over the dryer was theirs, that they bought, from a Kmart.
Dean just sighed. "Thanks, Martha Stewart. You saved my life. Could've died of pillow toxins." Sam smiled, a tired half-smile, but a smile nonetheless.
And so it had been a week. They had the bare necessities. Sam signed them up for cable (Sam and Dean Smith, cable subscribers) and bought a flat-screen TV off Craigslist. He set it up in the empty corner of the family room, on the floor for now, since they didn't have anything as fancy as an entertainment center. The TV was next to the sorry excuse for a fireplace. There was a cheap shelf screwed into the drywall over the little metal hole-in-the-wall hearth, probably someone's approximation of a mantle-too narrow even for the narrow TV, unfortunately. The ceiling sloped in this room, too, on the same side of the house as Dean's room. The couch was ragged and covered in a faded sage-green cover with stretched-out elastic around the arms to hold it on. Dean found a coffee table in the crawlspace under the house, too small for the couch, on spindly legs and stained the same attempt at mahogany as the makeshift mantle. All in all, it was redneck Craigslist chic, and perfectly good enough for Dean.
"At least I don't have to worry about using coasters," he said, when Sam eyed the coffee table like it was roadkill.
"If I put a potted plant on it, it'll collapse," Sam said, clearly exasperated.
"A-potted plant?" Dean said. "You can't be serious."
Sam threw up his hands. "Whatever, Dean. That's not the point. I just think if we're going to be staying here for a while, it should - I don't know. Be different."
"Different than what?"
"Than all the broke-down places we stay when we're not taking a break. I don't want to wake up every day and be depressed that I'm a washed-up mental patient living in a no-name town with my literally-lame brother and a plywood coffee table painted brown, you know?"
Dean sighed. It wasn't even worth fighting. "Yeah, Sammy. I know." He sat on one of the rung-backed bar stools at the counter separating the kitchen from the family room, swiveling to face Sam on that ugly sage couch. "How ‘bout I get a job tomorrow and we'll save up some more money and buy ourselves some real furniture? Get you a new mattress, too. Maybe it'll help you sleep." Dean cleared his throat and looked down, hoping Sam wouldn't chew him out. It was always a risk.
Sam looked up, startled. "You still hear me?"
Dean shrugged sadly. "It's not a real big house, man. I still hear you. It's not as bad as your worst, but. I don't know. Maybe those pills Farqan gave you aren't doing the trick."
Sam shook his head, slowly, like he was thinking. "They're not magic. It's not like I'll be perfect instantly. They take time to start working, and even when they do, it's not a cure. I'm still not sleeping so great, but I don't know. It's a different kind of not great."
"A better kind?" Sam shrugged as an answer, and Dean didn't pretend to understand. These talks weren't exactly his strong suit. He stared out the sliding glass door onto their second-story deck, instead, and imagined a big shiny grill by the railing. He could go for some ribs. "So maybe a big ridiculous mattress really would help you out. It all comes full circle. I'll go out looking for a job tomorrow. Need something to do anyway. I can't handle sitting around being stiff all day."
"Sure," Sam said, distantly, like he was still thinking. Dean wasn't sure how Sam felt about working, if he thought he could handle it or not. He didn't want to press the issue.
"I'm gonna make some chicken salad," Dean said instead. Sam looked at him like he was speaking Japanese. "What? I like Rachael Ray, okay?"
Sam laughed, a real laugh, and Dean's belly felt warm like he'd just taken a belt of whiskey.
*
Berkeley Springs had a mechanic shop. Only one, but that was something. Dean drove the truck down the next morning, bright and early at 6 AM. Main Street smelled delicious, a welcoming combination of breakfast food and flowers and the crisp spring air. Despite the sweltering heat yesterday, it was sunny but mild today. Frogs chirped in all directions, the mountains rising around the town in the crisp air, clear and refreshing just like the damn brochure.
"Hi," he said, ducking into the garage and giving a wave to the guy at the computer off to the side of the lifts. He looked up, a nice smile on a gruff face. He had a full head of salt-and-pepper hair and a ruddy complexion, streaked with engine grease. He was wearing coveralls, too, the very picture of a typical small-town America mechanic. There was a cheesecake calendar on the wall behind him - apparently April was Suzie Housewife month. The girl was wearing an apron (and nothing else) holding a suggestive slice of cherry pie. "I'm Dean Smith."
"Chet Gleeson. Best mechanic in all of Berkeley Springs. What can I do for you?"
Dean shook his grease-stained hand. "I just moved to town with my brother and I'm looking for work. I'm a fair hand with an engine and as professional as you could ask for." He smiled winningly.
"Actually," Chet said, in a low, gravelly voice, "I just might. Not a lot of mechanics in a town like this, you know? But lots of weekenders needing things tweaked and replaced before the drive home or the next leg."
"Sure," said Dean, sticking his hands in his pockets and rolling up on the balls of his feet, making his leg twinge as the muscle flexed. "Makes perfect sense. I got no problem changing tires and recharging Freon if that's what you need, sir."
"Please, call me Chet." He smiled again, that small-town smile Dean had seen a million times on a million faces.
"Sure, Chet."
"Let's test you out on this one over here," Chet said, and pushed himself up from his desk with a grunt. There was a 1969 Nova up on the lift on the other side of the garage, and Dean couldn't help but laugh. She looked real good. "What's up, son?" Chet asked, wiping his hands on a stained-grey rag.
"Nothing, just impressed. I'm a Chevy man." Dean tried not to wince at the cramp in his leg as he stood under the Nova, surveying the undercarriage.
"Oh yeah? What do you drive?"
"A ‘6-'64 pickup, actually. A recent acquisition." Dean swallowed hard past the lump in his throat. "Grew up with an Impala, though. Best car you'll ever meet."
Chet nodded at the Nova. "Well what we got here is a fried carburetor, or so the customer thinks. Used to be Dad's car; he doesn't know coolant from motor oil. Googled it before he brought it in. Take a shot at this and see what you think."
"Sure thing, Chet. Thanks for the opportunity." Dean saluted, trying that winning smile again. Chet gave him a pleasant nod and shuffled off, back to the books. The garage was pretty nice, given how bedraggled it looked from the street. It was clean, a little worn but there was definitely some newly refurbished equipment. There were posters of classic cars on all the walls, old license plates, steering wheels - sort of like a hokey chain restaurant, but for real. There was a picture of Jim Morrison with his Dodge Charger, A1 racers like Jackie Stewart, even just old black and white photos of entire families with their Jalopies and T-birds and-Impalas. Dean looked away, blinking, and focused on the other guys instead. There were only two, one working on a Toyota, what looked like just an oil change, and one hammering a dent out of an Explorer.
"Hey," called one of them, a black guy wearing glasses and a green lanyard. "Sup, man?"
"Dean," said Dean, and waved. "New to town. Hoping for a job."
"Tony," said the guy, and held out a callused hand. "It's great here, sure you'll get comfortable in no time." He clapped his hands together once, rubbing them like he was getting ready for something exciting. "And this here's Mike. We been working together for what, eight years now, Mike?"
"Yeah, man. And neighbors for ten."
"Our wives are inseparable. Jeannie and Sheryl. Y'all should come over some time and we can cook out." Tony clapped a hand to stomach. "Mike makes a mean prime rib, man."
"Oh, I'm-not married," said Dean awkwardly. "I'm actually crashing with my brother."
"Oh yeah?" said Mike, leaning against the Explorer like he was settling in for a story.
"My last job - we were in the family business together, you know, my brother and me. We're buddies and had some good times but we had to travel a lot, got kinda drained. We just wanted to take a break for a while."
"Sure, sure," said Tony, and clapped Dean on the shoulder. "You came to the right place, my friend. Berkeley Springs is the greatest place you could ever take a break. Just steppin' outside you can smell it in the air. You'll be good as new in no time."
Out the corner of his eye, Dean could see Mike eyeing him up, probably trying to figure out what his limp was about, why he was standing on his leg so funny. It wasn't a big deal, and he appreciated that neither of them asked annoyingly personal questions about it, but he was getting itchy from all the attention and really just wanted to get to work.
"Guess I should go to town on that Nova back there," Dean said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. "Chet's giving me a test drive and I intend to ace it."
"Piece of cake," said Mike, and turned back to the door panel on the Explorer.
Dean got in a solid hour of work on the Nova before his vision started swimming. It was hilarious to think of himself having some sort of car-related PTSD flashbacks, but when he couldn't tell the Nova he was working on from the Impala, or the garage around him from Bobby's junkyard, and when he started seeing Dad and Sam in one of the pictures on the wall, and hear the crashing, crunching, sick screech of metal on metal and feel the stifling waves of heat washing over him, the dull, constant pain of his leg, and Sam, somewhere in the middle of it, Dean not being able to see him or hear him, the monsters of Purgatory closing in on all sides-
He crumpled to his knees on the garage floor, head pressed to the smooth concrete. Stabbing pains in his leg didn't stop him, only helped ground him and remind him where he was, what was going on. He felt panic well up in him, wanted Sam here, wanted his fucking car here, somewhere he could go to take a real breath, to smell something familiar and feel the smooth steering wheel under his hands and the rumble of the engine and Sam with his head lolling on the low back of the bench seat, sliding closer and closer to Dean's shoulders as he slid sideways on the leather.
"Dean?" said Tony, dropping his wrench with a clank and running over, scuffed Timberlands all Dean could see.
"It's okay, man, just-uh. Just get lightheaded sometimes, you know, and this bad leg, I can't-"
"Lemme help you," Tony said, crouching down and offering Dean a steady arm to help get him sitting up against the back wall of the garage. "Hey, maybe you're not quite ready to get back to work, man," he said, not unkindly.
Dean shook his head, wanting to be anywhere but this garage. Everything felt wrong. "I don't know. Maybe." He fished his phone out of his jacket and dialed Sam, waving Tony off with a mouthed thank you. "Sammy, this isn't working out."
"What's not working out?" Sam said, sounding out of breath.
"I'm at Gleeson's Garage on Sycamore Street. The guy here was trying me out for a job but uh-it's not. Not a good fit. And my leg-"
"I'll be there in five minutes," Sam said, thankfully all business. He usually knew to save the irritating questions for after the fact. "I'm on the bike, I'll drive you."
The bike, as it was known, was Sam's first Berkeley Springs purchase. "I'm supposed to exercise more," he said, deadpan, when Dean couldn't stop laughing. It wasn't a terrible bike, per se, but it looked straight out of Breaking Away, and it was pretty unbelievable to Dean that Sam could ride it without crushing it, or balance at all on the skinniest tires known to man. It was a uniform steel grey everywhere except for two stripes on the crossbar, the curved handlebars wrapped in white tape, white break lines scuffed and cracked where they led back to the breaks. Sam loved it immediately, though, and the pleased look on his face was enough to saint the damn bike as far as Dean was concerned.
"Go take some Instagram pictures of it and put it on your Tumblr," Dean had said, punching Sam in the arm.
"And to think," Sam had said, smirking, "once upon a time you didn't even know what MySpace was." Dean had grinned, pleased with himself.
Sam showed up in four minutes, sans bike - he stowed it in the truck bed out front, most likely. "Hey," he said, and jogged straight over to where Dean was sitting. He closed one hand over Dean's shoulder, the other gently on his bad thigh. "Came as fast as I could."
"Thanks, swear you didn't need to, but-"
"Let's get to the truck, okay?" He knelt down and got Dean's arm around his broad shoulder, grabbing Dean's waist and hefting them both up like it was nothing. Part of Dean was sick with jealousy-Sam being as strong and capable as ever while Dean was literally hobbled. The other part was grateful, calm. Sam deserved to have something. To have escaped unscathed in at least one way, since god knew he was scathed in every other way.
"Gotta tell Chet," Dean said, and Sam just shook his head. "Got you covered, man."
Dean rolled down the window in the truck and listened hard for the pitch of Sam's voice. "-country's service, and it's not unexpected that-shouldn't impact the quality of his work-deployment-unfamiliar situations-"
At first, Dean was upset that Sam was making him out to be some sort of shell-shocked vet, like he was so fragile, like he could break so easily. But it was true - and it was double, triple true for Sam, who was the fucking strongest person Dean had ever known, besides Dad.
"He says you can come back tomorrow if you're ready to work," Sam said, clambering into the driver's seat. "You got another chance to show him what you can do, but he's only got so much time to spend on you instead of hiring someone else."
"Thanks," Dean said, and Sam smiled. It even reached his eyes.
*
Dean shuffled to the kitchen in his sweatpants and an undershirt after his shower. He grabbed a glass from the cabinet over the microwave and pops some ice cubes out of the new tray in the freezer. The whiskey was under the sink; he poured himself three fingers of Canadian Club and stuck the bottle back under there with the potatoes and onions in their brown paper bag.
Sam was folded up on the couch, hair wet and curling from his own shower. He had a bright yellow mixing bowl full of popcorn and something in a mug on the coffee table -sans coaster. He still looked tired, his eyes still heavy, but considering it had only been a week, the lines in his face weren't etched so deep, and there was something different about him - like maybe there were signs that his mind wasn't moving so frantically, like maybe he wasn't quite so constantly at war with himself.
"What're you reading?" Dean asked, flopping down on the other end of the couch.
"Asimov," said Sam, closing the book on his finger. It was yellowed and dog-eared, from the same person who sold Sam the bike.
"That takes me back," Dean said.
"Like you ever read Asimov," said Sam, laughing.
"No, but you did. In high school. All of ‘em."
"I never once told you about that," Sam said, furrowing his eyebrows. "Why would you have cared?"
"You didn't talk about it, but that doesn't mean I didn't see you with ‘em, or pick up after you when you left your crap all over the house. I can read too, Sam, and books have dust jackets." Dean shrugged, not sure if this was a fight or not.
"Oh," Sam said, and opened the book again just to check the page number before he closed it and put it on the coffee table under his mug. Dean bought those mugs day before yesterday from a lady on Main Street who made them every other Sunday.
"So I was thinking," he continued, and Dean rubbed a hand through his own damp hair. "Maybe I could go back to Chet tomorrow."
"You?" asked Dean, not sure where this was going.
"Well, he needs someone, right? And you-have extenuating circumstances. But maybe I could do it?"
Dean just waited for the rest. There was clearly more.
"I need something to do with my hands, Dean. I need something that isn't about-life. I know that sounds stupid, but I just want to do it. And I know you don't want to say it, but your leg just isn't gonna let you do a job like that where you have to be on your feet all day. You'll be able to do stuff like that again, I know you will, but until you do some real PT and get back in fighting shape, you're-you're just going to fuck it up." Sam stumbled a little, like he wasn't sure what Dean would do with the knowledge that Sam was worried about him. As if he didn't already know. "You've taught me everything you know. I'll never be as good as you are, but I bet I'm as good with pistons and intake valves as anyone else in Berkeley Springs."
Dean laughed and shook his head. There were squirrels out on the deck fighting over a nut. It stung a little, Sam taking over and talking like a real adult, but he was right. "You talk a good game."
Sam just shrugged, allowing himself a little grin.
"Alright, you go back to Chet tomorrow. I'll stop trying to put the cart in front of the horse." Sam clapped a hand on Dean's back and was just about to say something when Dean continued, "But Sammy. Take your phone. If you need me to return the favor, you know I will."
"Of course, Dean," Sam said, and met Dean's eyes with a long, inscrutable look.
"What?"
"Nothing. Think maybe I'll take a nap."
"Best idea you've ever had," Dean said, and as soon as Sam stood up, he stretched out on the couch, rubbing the kinks out of his thigh and shin as best he could.
"I'll make dinner when I wake up," Sam said, folding the blanket on the back of the couch. "I'm no Rachael Ray, but-" He laughed, dodging Dean's swipe as he made his way to his room in the back of the house.
*
The next day, Dean considered driving to Main Street in the truck since Sam took the bike to Chet's. There was a cool breeze, though, and not a cloud in the sky. His leg wasn't entirely horrible, considering the bad day previous, so he decided to go for a walk instead. Sam said he needed PT, so he was going to get some damn PT.
Guitar Road was farmy all around with hilly green properties, white fences, red barns and outcroppings of slatey rock. Rich copses of trees speckled the pastures, leafy green and budding early in the warm rush of April. The mountain air was clear and easy to breathe. Dean passed a few runners on the street-dirt road, really-and a few more horseback riders. The birds were singing like crazy, and it was actually kind of irritating. Too much bucolic charm wasn't necessarily always a good thing. Guitar Road butted up to Main Street eventually, the burst of color visible from blocks away. Dean figured he might as well go have a look, maybe get some lunch, see if he could grab a newspaper.
He passed a stained glass store with a kindly older lady teaching a class over at the tables on the side of the shop. There was an organic diner, a historical society, and at least three different spas. He picked up a Washington Post at the newsstand and a coffee from the thankfully-not-Starbucks, the sun filtering down over the mountains through the trees and lighting everything up, fresh and clean.
As he walked down the sidewalk, something caught his eye in a storefront window. It was The Grimmoire of Shadows, one of the elusive books from Bobby's scattered collection that wasn't where it was supposed to be. "Well what do you know," Dean murmured. The sign hanging out front was a deep royal blue, recently repainted, with metallic gold rays and an eye of Horus in the middle of a shield. Portals, it said, stenciled gold in Harry Potter font.
He peered in the window; there was a girl behind the counter, pale blonde hair pulled back in a high ponytail, ashy eyebrows and eyelashes like she didn't have any at all. Dean walked in to get a better look, jingle bells tinkling from where they hung on the door handle. The shop was a little musty, a muted oaky brown all around, smelling like leather and herbs and something that crackled in the air.
"Hi," the girl said. She was probably a little younger than Sam, pink-cheeked and with a little gap between her front teeth. "Looking for anything in particular?"
"Not really," said Dean, and slid his hands in his pocket. "Just wanted to look around."
"Sure thing," she said, and nodded at a bulletin board on the opposite wall, covered in neon flyers and business cards. "Take a look at the stuff going on this week, too. Maybe you'll have a chance to get to something while you're in town."
"Oh, I actually just moved here," Dean said, charming smile in place. "With my brother. I'll be in town a good while."
The girl curled up the corner of her mouth and tilted her head towards Dean. "Well then, welcome to Berkeley Springs," she said. "I'm Melody. You into New Age? We have meditation circles every Wednesday, and Book Club on Thursday. Shantal does a crystal reading on Sunday mornings with brunch." Her eyes were bright and she leaned on the counter, elbows close together and the tips of her ears turning pink. Dean was pretty sure he was getting it laid on thick.
"We'll think about it," he said, and made it sound like maybe he really would come to Shantal's crystal reading.
"I'll let you ponder," said Melody. "I have to do some restocking in the back." She gestured tentatively over her shoulder, like she didn't really want to leave her post at the front counter.
"No problem. I can take of myself out here," Dean said, and gave her a casual laugh.
Melody went to the back and Dean went straight for the book in the window. It was a pristine copy, not stained and torn like Bobby's, none of the pages missing from being swiped by past hunters to tape higgledy-piggledy in their journals or on serial-killer-like wall flowcharts.
The jingle bells rang again as an older guy walked in, complete with tweed jacket and elbow patches, soft beige loafers, and an unlit pipe. He had a full white mustache and smelled like sweet tobacco and port. Dean placed the book back in the window.
"Good afternoon," said the man, cracking his knuckles absently. "I'm looking for Oneiromancy and the Demonic Presence, by Gerald Balkland," he said, blinking watery blue eyes at Dean.
"Um, I don't-" Dean started, but stopped himself. He'd seen the dreams shelf just a second ago when he was perusing the stacks. "Actually, I think I can help you find that," he said instead, and headed over to the purple sign etched with silver moon and stars. He knew the book the guy was looking for-remembered it sitting at the bottom of a pile in Bobby's basement, the thrill he got when he thought maybe there'd be something in there to help Sam back when he was still having dreams from the Yellow-Eyed Demon.
"Aha!" said the guy, and grabbed the book off the shelf, right where Dean had seen it. It wasn't exactly where it should've been-Bobby's insane mess of a system was way more useful than whatever this bookstore was using, but it got the job done. "Thank you so much."
"No problem," said Dean, and the guy clicked his pipe in his mouth and angled a thankful smile at him.
"Hey, you're pretty good at that," said Melody. Dean whipped around-she could tiptoe like a cat, apparently. She smirked at him. "You done this before?"
"You could say that, Mel," said Dean, laughing awkwardly. "I don't suppose you're looking for help around here, are you?"
"Actually," said Melody, looking around at the leaning stacks of books and boxes of things needing restocking, "we can't pay much, but we really could use another hand around here."
Dean smiled and grabbed the Grimmoire from the window. "Awesome. You got yourself a hand. And I'll take this, please. Wrap ‘er up."
*
It wasn't nearly as oppressive and difficult to settle into Berkeley Springs as Dean worried it might be. In fact, it was actually pretty nice, if temporary. Sam googled torn muscles and leg pain and came up with a set of exercises Dean had to do every day. "Walking is the most important thing," he said, wearing a ridiculous pair of wind pants and some short of shiny t-shirt that he said wicked away sweat. Nothing on planet earth could wick away as much sweat as Sam could put out, and that was a fact.
"I'm not some little kid, Sam. Or a chick from a Jane Austen book. You don't have to chaperone me on my stroll around the grounds." Sam raised an eyebrow. "Shut up, British chicks are hot and I have a weakness for mini-series, you know this. Don't hate."
Sam laughed and tossed Dean's sweatpants at his head. "Put ‘em on, we're going walking."
Dean sighed and gave in. It was nice out, anyway, and he kind of missed Sam during the weekdays. Weirdly. He was used to being with Sam 24/7, give or take a few hissy fits over the years. It was undeniably weird to spend at least eight hours a day dealing with the problems of people who weren't Sam by himself.
"How're things at the garage?" Dean asked, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other all the way up the hill. They always walked away from the town, up towards the mountains. The incline was good for getting him back in shape.
"Fine. Tony's teaching me about motorcycles." The breeze blew Sam's hair around, giving him the bangs he hadn't had for years. It made him look like a little kid.
"Oh yeah?" Dean said, trying not to sound like anything.
"Not half as good as you, though," Sam said, elbowing him softly. "And he doesn't reward me with beer, either."
Dean laughed. "You can always bring your work home with you, you know. I can still teach you a thing or two even if I can't do it while copping a squat under the Impala." His laugh faded.
"Yeah," said Sam, suddenly heavy. "I miss her too. And I miss you being able to cop a squat." He shushed Dean before he could even get the words out, already turning pink. "That's not what I meant! Sick. You know, I want to get you back to-before."
"I know, Sammy," Dean said. He didn't say that he wasn't sure that would ever happen. Hellhounds do a number on a guy, and there weren't any angels around to magic away his broken bones and torn skin and shredded muscles.
Later, Sam had him lie down on the carpet in front of the couch, sad coffee table pushed to the side. "You need to stretch it, too. Not just walk on it," he said, authoritative and holding a printout that looked suspiciously like it was from About.com. "I'll help."
"I don't need your help!" Dean said, affronted, and kind of embarrassed. It was weird, him lying prone on the ground and Sam standing over him all of a trillion feet tall. He struggled into a sitting position, legs still stretched out in front of him.
"Yes you do," said Sam, voice quiet but weirdly firm. "I told you I'm gonna get you better, and if I have to hold you down and sit on you until you let me, so be it."
"Sure, Sammy," Dean said, conviction drained out him, muscles already feeling more relaxed, skin tingling weirdly.
"Groin stretches first," Sam said, and pulled Dean's feet apart, his bare heels dragging hotly on the carpet. Sam kneeled between his feet, one huge hand on each of Dean's shins. "Come on, do the butterfly, just like we used to have to do in gym."
Dean stared. "I went to gym all of twice pretty much ever," he said. "Gym is the number one class to skip, Sam. I know you're a geek, but even you watch TV."
Sam sighed, exasperated. He took one Dean's feet in each hand and brought the soles of them together, heels to heels and toes to toes, and pushed slowly back towards Dean until his knees bent and his inner thighs stretched. Dean hissed in, both at the stiff pull and also because this was just so fucking weird. Sam's hands were clammy on his insteps, and the veins in his smooth forearms were standing out. His hair hung down over his face, and Dean didn't know what he was thinking. "How does that feel?" Sam said, finally, although Dean could barely hear him.
"Fine," said Dean. "Kinda. Um. Tight."
"That's okay, that's what it's supposed to feel like," said Sam, and Dean was glad Sam wasn't looking at him. He forced a laugh.
"That's what she said," said Dean.
Sam didn't say anything at all, just kept pushing back, light but constant pressure, so Dean could feel the loosening all the way up to his balls. He shivered. Sam's hands were heavy, electric, the bulk of his body palpable hovering over Dean's lap, where his thighs were spread, Sam pressing them open.
"Quads next," said Sam, after the long, charged silence.
"Thank god," said Dean, and brought his knees together as fast as his leg would let him.
*
Dean wasn't the only one needing rehab. Sam's nightmares weren't exactly the shrieking terrors they had been when they were on the road, but it was still wasn't exactly pleasant to listen to him.
Dean's leg was cramping up one night, refusing to let him sleep. He shuffled out to the kitchen, scratching his belly absently under the waistband of his boxers, not bothering to put on a shirt. Sam was there, sitting on one of the barstools at the counter, glass of whiskey by his hand and a plate of grilled cheese in front of him.
"Hey," said Dean, raspy with lack of sleep. The green-glowing clock over the stove said it was two-thirty AM. "You okay?"
Sam shrugged. "Leg?"
"Yeah, keepin' me up. The Vicodin from our stash's just like sugar pills at this point. You?" He opened the fridge and grabbed a tupper of Sam's pasta salad from the other night. Ever better after it sat for a couple days.
"Feels like I'm taking sugar pills, too, sometimes," Sam said, and downed a gulp of whiskey.
"What do you dream about?" Dean asked, staring at a jar of mayo, shoulders tense.
"Lucifer. Dad. You." Dean heard the clinking of ice.
"Me?" He closed the fridge, but still didn't turn around. Just looked down at the blue top of the tupper, his own toes on the laminate floor.
"Yeah. The hellhounds."
Dean didn't even ask which time-it was pretty obvious Sam meant both. "So you dream about things that actually happened? Like flashbacks?"
"Yeah, but I dream about other things too. Things that feel like they're going to happen. I know they're not really, but. It's hard to believe, most of the time."
Finally Dean turned, putting down the tupper next to Sam's plate. "Well, it's not like your nightmares have never come true," he said, mostly to his fork.
"That part doesn't help," Sam said, weary. "And it's not always dreams. Sometimes it happens in the middle of the day, too. Lucifer's back, dropping cars on Tony and Mike, or telling me to stab them with a screwdriver or club them with tire irons. Sometimes he looks like you." He said it in a bored monotone, but each word was fleshy and real to Dean, had the dark weight of experience on it.
"But it's better than it was?"
"I can fight it better. I don't get so lost in it. I still feel so-I don't know."
"Isolated?"
Sam looked up quickly, a bright spark of life in his eyes. "Yeah. Yeah, isolated. That's-yeah."
"Hey," Dean said, forking a huge bite of pasta into his mouth, letting the dill settle on his tongue while he talked rudely through it. "I may not be in your head for real but I'm probably the closest you're going to get to someone who'll understand. I know it's not like I get your every emotion. Damn, I wouldn't even want to. But you're not alone in this, Sammy. You got me."
Sam was looking up at the washboard and spade hung on the wall over the cabinets, some previous tenant's idea of décor. He looked down again to meet Dean's eyes, and it was like a punch to the gut. "I know," he said, and Dean felt it all the way down to his toes.
Sam gulped the last of his whiskey and set his glass in the sink, wandering back to bed with a hand in his hair.
Dean ate a couple more bites of salad, capped the tupper, and put it back, leaning his forehead on the cool stainless steel of the fridge. He had an idea, and it was a good one, but if he didn't judge it just right, he'd probably get punched in the gut for real. He grabbed his book off the rickety table by the front door.
He padded down the hall to Sam's room, his door pushed to but not shut all the way. That was already a good sign. Dean sidled in. Sam was curled up under the covers, facing the door, hair splayed across the pillow and the comforter pulled up to his chin. "Sammy," Dean said, and Sam's eyes slid open-he already knew Dean was there.
"Yeah," he said, not uncurling.
Dean didn't say anything else, didn't ask first, just walked around the bed and laid down on top of the covers on the other side, legs stretched out and back propped against the headboard. It was plush, covered in 80s-peach brocade. "Folklore of Russia and Ukraine," he said, opening to the title page of the book. "By Professor Sarah Heineman." Sam didn't turn over, but he also didn't shove Dean off the bed or tell him he was a patronizing dickhead. "The most famous of Russian folklore speaks of an old woman-" Dean began, and he kept reading until Sam's breathing was deep and even, though his eyes were gritty and dry.
*
It became a ritual, comforting for both of them. Dean brought home books from Portals, usually folklore, and Sam curled up with his back to Dean, broad and warm, rising and falling with calm, even breaths as he fell asleep. Sometimes Dean fell asleep too, only to wake up when the book thunked to the ground next to him, or when Sam murmured or shouted in his sleep. If Sam woke him up, he'd go around to Sam's side of the bed, trying not to feel creepy as he watched him breathe, trying to gauge if it was a nightmare bad enough to wake him up over. Part of him felt like a vampire again, remembering that visceral, brooding hunger deep in his belly as he watched Lisa sleep. The tempting thump of Sam's pulse, the rush of the blood through his veins, wanting nothing but to taste him. Knowing he'd be delicious.
If Sam was sleeping fitfully, Dean would put a hand on his shoulder, give him a squeeze. "Hey, Sammy," he'd say, "you're okay." Sometimes it didn't really do any good, but sometimes Sam quieted, stilled, curled in towards Dean's hand with his lips slack and his eyelids relaxed instead of tightly slammed shut.
"You should get glasses," Sam said one night, back turned to Dean, voice muffled by his pillow.
"What? I don't need glasses," Dean said, affronted. "I have perfect vision. I can still hit a beer can with a bb gun halfway across a football field, I'll have you know."
"I can hear it when you squint," Sam said.
"That doesn't even make sense."
"Whatever, I can. Get glasses. I don't want to make you go blind."
"You're not-you know what? I'm not even going to talk about this with you. Shut up. Listen to my goddamn skinwalker story or I'm going to my own bed, you hear me?"
Sam shut up.
Two weeks later, Dean pulled out a pair of black plastic reading glasses he got from the rotating rack at CVS, right in front of the pharmacy counter. Sam's back was to him, as always, but as soon as he started reading, Sam turned over. Sam never turned over. He stared at Dean.
"You actually got glasses," he said, arms crossed over his body, one hand holding each opposite hip under the covers. His bangs were caught in his eyelashes, and Dean decided not to brush them back. That would be weird.
"Yeah, well," he said. "I do work in a bookstore. If I can't see what I'm reshelving, I'm gonna fuck up, aren't I?"
Sam pressed his lips into an inscrutable line; his eyes were kind of blue in the moonlight filtering in from the high window over his bed. He didn't look away. "They don't suck," he said.
"You're a nerd," Dean said. "Of course you don't think they suck. Now I look like one of your people. Finally, I'm assimilated into your alien culture." He smiled a little, thumbing the unread pages of the book.
Sam smiled too, and there was more color in his face than Dean had seen in a long time. He didn't turn back over the rest of the night.
*
Having a house meant that Sam and Dean also had chores. Dean remembered mowing the lawn in the world of the djinn with a dull ache. He had a rusting old push mower he found in the barn, but he only ever used it on the front yard - there was just too much growth out back to tackle with it. He kind of liked looking out at the tall grass, anyway.
He mowed the lawn, Sam took out the trash. Usually he did it early Thursday mornings before he went running, but one Wednesday evening he was rummaging around in the kitchen, pulling out the Hefty bag from the trash can in the pantry. Dean could hear the clink and clatter of glass bottles over the tinny hum of Jeopardy.
Sam stopped on his way out the door, looking at Dean over the back of the couch with his mouth set in a hard line.
"What?" Dean said, lips halfway to his glass of whiskey.
"This bag is half-full of bottles," Sam said, suspiciously quiet.
"'Atta boy, Sammy, way to look at the bright side. Better than half-empty, right?" Dean turned off the TV with a savage thumb on the remote. He was not in the mood for this discussion now, and wouldn't ever be.
"I'm serious, Dean. I happen to know there's several bottles under the sink, one in the freezer, and a flask in your nightstand."
Dean just shrugged. Sam knew he drank - Sam drank too. It was just what they did.
"We don't even have a damn vacuum cleaner, but you're already a regular at Top Shelf Liquor," Sam said. His tone wasn't angry - not really. Just a little sad. Disappointed, maybe.
"Is this a caretervention or what, Sam?"
"No, I'm just. I don't know. You're on pain meds, you're drinking as much as you ever did on the road. Just worries me, I guess." Sam let the trash bag fall gently out of his hand, the soft tinkle of bottles punctuating his sentence. He came around the couch and sat down next to Dean, one leg drawn up on the cushion in front of him.
Dean did feel a little fuzzy and warm, the nice softness of the whiskey wrapping him up in a way it had stopped doing before he was on meds for his leg. He listed a little towards Sam. "You drink too."
"Not as much as you do, I don't think," Sam said, his knee pressing into Dean's side. His knuckles brushed Dean's bad thigh. "I'm not pissed or anything. Just, you know. Maybe now that we're slowing down, you could-slow down with that, too."
"It's not about how slow we're going. You know what it's like, when you don't want to think about stuff anymore. It's just white noise in my head when I've had some drinks." Sam ducked his head and looked up at Dean, urging him to keep talking. Dean sighed. "Makes me not care so much that Bobby's gone. Jo and Ellen. That we don't even know where Cas is, or if we'll ever hear from him again." Sam shifted, eyes flicking away. Talking about Castiel inevitably made him uncomfortable, guilty, upset, who even knew. "It just sucks."
"I know it sucks," Sam said. "I'm sorry about all that. About Cas. He wouldn't have been like that if he hadn't-for me-"
Dean put his hand on Sam's knee, giving it a squeeze. Dealing with Sam's issues was always easier than dealing with his own. "I'll be okay. You'll be okay."
Sam pressed his hands together in his lap, nodding. "Sure. Okay."
*
The Morgan County Public Library was only about five minutes away from Guitar Lane, sitting primly at the corner of Congress and Washington in an Italiante Victorian house from 1870. Sam had been nuts over it from the moment they first saw its green shutters and embellished gables.
"Dean," Sam had said that first time, seeking him out after stopping at the information desk. He'd had a brochure clutched in his hand and was about three seconds away from grabbing Dean by the shoulders and shaking him. "It was owned by one of the original signers of the Declaration of Independence. It used to be a high-class boarding house in the 30s."
"Uh-huh," Dean had said, surveying the records room in what apparently used to be the kitchen, if the ventilation system was anything to go by. Which it was. "We're in old houses all the time, man. Chill out."
"But this is our library," Sam had said, slipping the brochure in his bag. He pulled out a copy of their lease. "I'm getting a real library card. With my name on it." The geek shone out from every pore.
"No, with Sam Smith on it," Dean had said.
It hadn't mattered to Sam, that it wasn't technically his name. He showed Marian the Librarian his proof of address, signed the back of his card, and immediately used it to check out The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and the biography of Steve Jobs.
"Not reading ‘em here?" Dean had asked, smacking Sam on the back on their way out. "Had enough of the boarding house ambiance already?"
"Got my own house to read in, now," Sam had said, his mouth twitching up at the corner in a little smile.
Dean had just smiled back.
Now, Sam was almost done with both the novel and the biography, and was on his way out to return them. He had affixed a basket to the front of his bike specifically to carry books. "Need anything at the library?" he called. Dean was putting together a particleboard dresser in his room.
"Nope," he shouted. The basket may have been intended for books, but Dean knew for a fact that Sam could fit a bag of groceries in there, too. "Don't forget to pick up something for dinner on your way home."
*
They'd been living in Berkeley Springs for two months and Dean was making meatloaf while Sam read Game of Thrones on the couch with a grey microfiber blanket over his legs. They both jumped when Bobby's old cell rang, vibrating like hell in the drawer of the walnut end table Sam had picked up at the flea market last Saturday. Sam stared at the drawer for a long moment before finally opening it and answering the phone.
"Hello?" he said, closing his book over his finger. "No, it's not. He's-yes. Yes. Maybe so, what did you need?"
Dean set the oven timer and grabbed the tea towel from the fridge handle, wiping his hands as he wandered over to Sam.
"Lemme check on that for you. I'll call you right back, Vince. Sure." Dean raised his eyebrows. Sam thumbed off the phone. "It was Vince Carlotti. Looking for some info."
"And?"
"And I told him I'd help him out in lieu of Bobby."
"What's he need?"
"He's up against a weird curse that he can't figure out-I know Bobby had that stack of notes with his curse boxes, I figured we could go through those and get Vince an answer."
"We?"
"Don't tell me you don't want to help. Who better to carry on Bobby's legacy?"
Dean gave him an irritated look. "This isn't a Disney movie, Sam, and I'm not loafing with a warthog."
"I'm serious, Dean. We have half the man's library. You have daily access to probably another fifth or so. We know enough people scattered around that we could rebuild the rest." There was a manic light in Sam's eyes, the good kind that meant he was welling up inside with excitement. That he was dead set on something and they were going to do it no matter what. "Let's do it."
"I can't," Dean said, and it killed him to go against it when Sam was so het up, but, "I couldn't be half the man Bobby was. Never will be."
"First of all, that's not true, and secondly, no one's asking you to be. We just gotta answer the phone and help people out. Bobby did it for us a trillion times. No reason we can't tell every other schmuck just like us what Bobby used to say."
Dean shrugged and turned his back to Sam, taking refuge in the kitchen. "I don't know."
"Just think about it," Sam said, following Dean, looming tall and solid behind him, close but not touching. "I'm going downstairs to find those notes. You can come later if you want."
*
By June, they were only missing about a dozen books from Bobby's collection. They had a whole network of contacts cobbled together from Frank, Bobby, Dad, and the Roadhouse crew. Sam carefully printed cards for each of them and kept Rolodexes full of them-"You can't hack a Rolodex," he said-referring hunters to each other, to libraries, to websites. He set up shelves in the basement for the books, typed up notes on Bobby's filing system. Dean got sucked into it, too, despite his better judgment. Even though he wasn't hunting, he was still fighting the good fight. He was still saving people. It was still the Family Business. He stocked the shelves downstairs just like he did at work, found books and amulets and relics and rare ingredients for summoning just like he grew up with. The shelves were sturdy, and would hold up to the stacks of books as long as they needed to. The filing system was solid, expandable-they could keep on using it. As long as they stayed in that house, at any rate. It looked a lot like Bobby's house in the basement of the two-story colonial on Guitar Lane.
It was a blisteringly hot Friday, breaking all kinds of records, according to Channel 8 News at 6. Sam had his laptop sitting on an ice pack intended for lunch boxes, and Dean decided he didn't need to put on clothes after his cold shower, just keeping a towel clutched around his waist. It was extremely tempting to lie down on the tiled floor of the kitchen, but he managed to keep at least a little dignity and sat on one of the bar stools instead.
"Got a lead about a set of religious texts in Ohio," Sam said, twisting around to look at Dean. He did a double take, noticing the towel. "Um."
"It's too hot for clothes, okay? Be glad I'm wearing anything at all. I'd really rather expose myself and besmirch your virtue than sweat through a clean towel, but I'm feeling generous today."
Sam stared at him for a second, looking constipated, but then shook his head and continued. "Whatever. The point is, a set of religious texts in Ohio. Should knock off six of the last twelve. The rest are pretty much holy grails, destroyed as likely as not. This'll wrap up the search for now."
"Where in Ohio?" Dean asked, leaning over the back of loveseat to peer at the screen.
"Tipp City. Woman named Bryant, apparently. She knew Bobby back when he and Rufus were running together; we can give her what she paid for them. Someone brought ‘em to her from a storage locker auction to get appraised and she bought all six right on the spot for half what they could go for."
"Smart chick," Dean said. Sam's eyes were fixed resolutely on Google Maps even though he wasn't typing or using the touchpad. "Rested up enough to drive all night? Want to go now?"
"Soon as you get some clothes on."
Dean was in jeans and a white tee with his old duffel packed inside five minutes. Luckily, he hadn't really unpacked it the last time they'd been on the road. "Let's go," he shouted, and was out the door to the truck while Sam was still folding his unmentionables upstairs.
A straight shot on I70 would get them there in about six hours, give or take depending on how fast Sam pushed the truck. It was sweltering, but the A/C in the cab was better than in their house, so Dean felt no pain as he cranked the radio and flipped open the binder of notes on the ancient Sumerian ritual guides this batch would most likely live on a shelf with. He slid on his reading glasses surreptitiously from his pocket. He could see Sam turn at look at him, just for a second, before turning back to the road with a stupid smile on his face.
"We need to get you new frames," he said, and Dean pretended not to hear. "That CVS crap has to go. Not that you can't pull it off, but when we get back, we're going to ForEyes and I'll treat."
There wasn't much to see after about 10 PM when it was finally dark, the headlights illuminating yards of fields and trees and fenceposts that looked like all the other fields and trees and fenceposts. Dean fidgeted, restless in the passenger seat. He tried to sleep, but it just wasn't going to happen. He'd let Sam switch to the local college radio station forty miles back, so he curled into the corner of the cab with a sweatshirt rolled up against his neck and let all the songs he didn't know wash over him, hoping they'd block out Sam murmuring to himself.
Sam pulled into the Super 8 outside Dayton at about one AM. Bryant was expecting them early in the morning, and Dean wasn't sure a room was really necessary considering they'd only be in it for five hours or so. He unfolded himself slowly, with a grimace and a hissed intake of breath as his leg cramped and spikes of pain prickled from his ankle to his thigh. Sam was by his side before he'd even stood up straight, hand hitched up under Dean's armpit, helping him up and taking most of his weight. "I'm fine," Dean said, but he didn't stop leaning, his side pressed flush to Sam's chest, still cool from where the air vents were blowing on him. Sam looked down at him, silent, not arguing with him but not letting go, either. His hair slid forward, hiding his eyes in the shadow of the yellow neon VACANCY sign.
Dean had to admit, if only to himself, that he did need someplace to lie down and stretch out. Sam grabbed the bed by the bathroom as soon as they got in the door, before Dean had even found the light switch, yanking the polyester comforter off then turning to the wall to shuck his cargo shorts without so much as a word. He slid between the sheets and turned his back to Dean, who confusedly watched the rise and fall of his ribcage under the thin summer blanket in the light that spilled into the room from the window.
He did his stretches before he pulled off his jeans, working the feeling back into his leg. It didn't actually hurt that much, and he hadn't even taken any meds in the past several hours.
Falling asleep was easy, and dreamless, although Sam's shadowed face in the light of the motel sign lingered behind Dean's eyelids.
*
Part 2