Fic: Epiphany [4/9]
They make it through the first few days at the rental without burning it down or breaking anything beyond repair. Dean chalks that up as a win. Sam has a meeting with the school board that Saturday to get his schedule figured out and receive the list of students he'll be mentoring. He calls Joanne at Stairway and tells her when he's available and she says she's got a white apron all ready for him.
Dean pops the hood to change the Impala's oil and give her a good once-over before driving her into the garage and pulling a tarp over her. Dean's boss said he had an old truck he'd sell to Dean cheap. It cuts their savings in half but the Impala's too conspicuous to someone poking around for information.
Monday morning dawns and Sam's got a bowl of Lucky Charms out for Dean and waves him out the door, even though his eyes are slits in his face and his hair looks like a rat nested in it. "Have a good day at work, honey," he mumbles. Dean curses him for not having to work until that afternoon but it's half-hearted and doesn't stop him from grinning on the way to the garage.
Rick starts him out easy. The burly man leads Dean from the office to the garage where he's introduced to "the guys" as Rick calls them, each raising a hand or nodding when Rick says his name.
"You know how to run the lifts?"
Dean shrugs. "Show me once, I think I can handle it."
Rick claps him on the shoulder. "That's what I like to hear. Grant? Get Cary from the back and have him give Dean a tour. Tools, equipment, stuff like that. And the man needs coveralls."
"Coveralls," Dean mutters and laughs a little to himself, following Cary to the back where he can get his uniform.
"Huh?" Cary asks.
"Nothing." Dean shakes his head, still chuckling. Never had to wear a uniform for something that I actually did before, he could say but there's no point. None of the guys here would get it, and if he wanted to keep the job he should definitely keep quiet about everything he and Sam have done.
"C'mon, I'll show you where you can stow your stuff," Cary says and Dean follows.
He gets home a little after five and nearly has a heart attack when he searches the house and nobody's home. He has his phone out and is about to call Sam when he finds the note on the front door that reads, Quit panicking. Working at Stairway. Meet me there and I might not burn your burger in Sam's messy scrawl. He gives himself a minute to curse whoever raised the darn kid and then gets back in the Impala to drive into town.
Stairway isn't crowded but there's a decent-sized gathering for a Monday night, a combination of football and small town curiosity. Not a few girls crowd the stools and only snatches of the jukebox can be heard over the crack of the pool table and the sound of the game on the TV. It's not hard to find Sam, even through the smoky haze lit by neon. He's half a head taller than anyone else in the room and he's putting his size to good use, gathering mugs and wiping tables with the same dexterous grace with which he loads a gun. He's got the white apron Joanne promised tied around his waist and he keeps wiping his hands on it after swiping at his forehead. When he sees Dean, he grins and wends his way through the crowd.
"Find my note?"
"You know, cell phones work too. And they're more reliable. And convenient."
"If I didn't leave you a note every once in a while, you'd forget how to read," Sam volleys back. He clears the bar in front of Dean, setting the glasses in the plastic bin. "Want to get the door there?"
Dean glances behind him. "It's shut."
"Cross breeze," Sam says, already carting the bin away to the kitchen. "I'm really hot."
"You can say that again," someone hollers from the back and the hum in the room rises in laughter until someone's team scores a touchdown and the room divides into cheers and groans.
Dean grins and settles himself on a stool. Joanne bustles by, pad of paper in hand. "You want anything, sweetie?"
"For my brother to stop being so popular around here."
Joanne chuckles. "Nah, he's good for business."
"Just a burger, then."
She nods and marks it down on her pad. Sam comes by a little while later with two burgers and a basket of fries, which he plunks down on the bar between them. He takes a bite of his burger and says with his mouth full, "Wanna drink?"
"Hit me."
Sam hops up and goes behind the bar, sets two beers on the counter and heads back around again. "How was the garage?"
"Fine. Good, actually. The guys are cool. Rick's a good guy."
Sam nods and grunts, stuffing in a mouthful of fries.
"Dude, I have to wear coveralls."
Sam's eyes widen, eyebrows shooting up, and a dimple pops in one cheek. "S'rsly?"
"Yeah. How's this been?" Dean gestures at the busy room.
"Good. Busy." Sam swallows. "Joanne says it's not usually so bad. Pretty easy, falling back into it, y'know?"
"You look official." Dean tugs at the white apron tied around Sam's waist.
"My suit's all crumpled in the back."
"Your suit--oh. You had your parent-teacher whatever today."
Sam shakes his head. "Just meeting the teachers, getting my schedule, seeing the students. First session's on Wednesday."
Dean hesitates, then dives in. "Everything go okay?"
"Yeah."
"I mean..." He shifts a little on his stool, lowering his voice so Sam has to learn forward to hear over the hubbub. "With your feelings. Any...whatever?"
Sam's face goes solemn. "Once. About the principal."
"And?"
"Nothing big. He's not completely happy. My guess is he wants to move next year."
"No, I mean you. You were fine? No headache, no spacing out?"
"Nope." Sam looks almost proud and Dean lets out a breath.
"Good. See? We've got this. Reading people? We can deal. Hey. Vegas."
Sam rolls his eyes and shoves in another handful of fries, looking affronted when Dean slaps his hand.
"You're going to choke. Why don't you slow down, quit making these people think we're savages or something, huh?"
"Can't." Dean lifts his eyebrows and Sam swallows thickly. "Got fifteen minutes."
"Fifteen, that's it?"
"Well, thirty, but it's busy. They could use the help."
"All right, get back in there."
Sam takes a swig of his beer, manfully sticking his tongue out at Dean's expression of pleased surprise, then takes his basket and mug back to the kitchen. A few seconds later, Dean can hear him fumbling in Spanish to the cook and loading the dishwasher with glasses.
Okay. First day. Maybe they can make it after all.
-
It's surreal, for the first couple of weeks. They've gone under cover before, but driving the pick-up and signing his name Dean Campbell takes some getting used to. For one thing, they completely forget about the mail, until Sam dashes out like the mailbox is on fire, triumphantly brandishing a stack of junk mail and a lumpy package when he returns.
"Got something from Bobby."
"Awesome, let me see." Dean gestures for the package and--of course--Sam raises an eyebrow and rips it open himself, only to stop stock-still.
"Oh my god."
"What is it?" Dean gets up from the couch and snatches the package from Sam's hand, pulling out a roll of bills. "Holy crap."
He pulls out his cell phone and punches in Bobby's number, putting him on speaker when he picks up.
"Hello?"
"Bobby, where'd you get this?" Dean says.
"Nice to hear from you too," Bobby says dryly. "I take it you got my package."
"You could say that."
"Don't take that tone with me. What'd you think I did, robbed a bank? I saved it, you idjits."
"Bobby." Sam's voice is as raw as Dean feels. "This is... You need this. If something happens, or... We can't--"
"You can and you will. Shut up and put it somewhere safe before I come down there and make you," Bobby says firmly.
"Bobby, we're fine. Honest. We've both got jobs, we got good rent on a place, we're fine."
"Your idea of fine and normal folk's idea of fine are radically different. It gets harder to live by the skin of your teeth when you've got more to take care of than a brother and a car. Do you have an emergency fund?"
"We don't--" Dean starts but Bobby cuts him off.
"You do, Dean. Besides, I've been saving it for you boys, specifically. It's...well, I guess it's like a hunter's college fund. You save it for your kids and you hope one day they have the good sense to need it." At their silence, he clarifies, "It's a retirement fund."
Dean clears his throat and Sam turns away to drag a hand down his face. "Thanks," Dean gets out and hands the phone to Sam. Sam talks on the phone in a quiet murmur as Dean goes upstairs and stands in the lone bedroom, two beds pressed to either side of the room, the window between. A house. They have a house.
He never thought they'd live to see the day.
-
Wrapping themselves in small town life comes easy after that. Sam decides that if they're settling in with a civilian cover, they're going to do it right, which apparently means that Sam is going head-to-head with their oven in an attempt to learn how to cook. This also means that there are plenty of late-night food runs when whatever Sam makes comes out charred. Beth at the diner starts leaving the week's special in a to-go box on the counter on Sam's night off. On weekends, Sam brings home donuts so often that Mrs. Kim has their favorites ready in a pink box on the counter. Dean takes to meeting Sam at Stairway after his shift at the garage, sometimes bringing along a couple of the guys to shoot a game of pool until Sam gets off at midnight.
It'd be picture-perfect but for the powers that brought their hunting careers to a screeching halt in the first place. Sam's distractions seem to be easily handled once life-or-death situations are off the market, but they're far from gone. Dean is in the middle of watching a football game and Sam has taken over the kitchen counter with the papers he needs to finish editing before Monday, sending sour looks at Dean through the doorway whenever Dean yells too loud over an incorrect call. Then someone scores a touchdown and Dean's shout is followed closely by the sound of something breaking.
"Sam?" Dean calls and Sam appears in the doorway, holding two halves of a dish.
"Newest development?" Sam says. "Telekinesis is a go."
"Duly noted."
"And unless you want to explain to Carol what happened to all her dishes, would you please try to keep it down?"
-
Sam's visions don't go away, but the headaches that come with them do. They fall into a rhythm of dealing with them, Sam scribbling down whatever he sees, then passing the information to Bobby, telling him about the vampires in Duluth or the crocotta in Bar Harbor. Bobby takes Sam's developing abilities in stride, as always, but he tells Sam to keep an eye on them just the same and to take care of himself.
Which Sam does, for the most part. In the middle of the month, though, Sam gets sick. It starts out as a weak cough that he buries in his arm during his shift at Stairway. He's slower with getting drinks up and doesn't keep up the casual repartee that keeps the bar so busy the nights Sam works. Dean comes in and salutes him with a beer at his usual corner of the bar but makes note of the way Sam's distracted. Knowing things or the seeing-and-hearing things angle, he doesn't know which, but one of them is keeping Sam from being at the top of his game.
After a few minutes of observing, Dean catches Sam by the arm as he passes. "Joanne let you out here without a hazmat suit on? Is that sanitary?"
"Ha," Sam says, voice husked out. "I'm fine."
"You sure? 'Cause you're looking a little spacey there, bro." He squeezes Sam's arm and leans in a little, and Sam wilts.
"Distracted," Sam says lowly. "I keep seeing things."
"Flashes of light?"
Sam shakes his head. "Shapes." A smile tugs his mouth. "I could have sworn I saw a pigeon fly in here earlier this evening."
Dean grins a little too. "You'll let me know if you need me to call in and cancel your tutoring gig tomorrow, right?"
"I'm fine." Sam gives him a short nod--that's that--and moves back into the crowd, collecting used dishes from the high tables.
-
The next evening Dean's installing spark plugs in a Camry and almost misses his cell ringing under the blare of the radio. The display says that he's missed a call by the time he fishes the phone out of his pocket but it's ringing again before he has the chance to see who it was.
"Hello?"
"Dean," Joanne says, relief in her voice. "I wasn't sure you'd pick up."
Dean hits the power on the radio. "What's going on?"
"Can you come down to Stairway?"
He's striding toward the back room by the time Joanne finishes her sentence. "What's wrong? Is it Sam?"
"He had a little incident."
The hesitation spurs him on faster. Dean's out of his coveralls and grabbing his things from his locker at a jog. He waves a hand to catch Rick's attention at his chair in the office and mouths Sam, hooking a thumb toward the door. Rick nods, his wide face concerned.
"He's fine. He's doing okay," Joanne says. There's a pause with some mumbling on the other end. "Abby's with him right now and I've closed the bar down. I'm just going to step out a minute."
Another pause during which Dean jams the keys into the truck's ignition, gassing the engine to help it catch quicker. He palms the steering wheel with one hand, barely looking at the road before pulling out.
"Okay, I'm outside. I didn't want to upset--"
"Talk to me, Joanne, and cut the crap."
To her credit, she's unfazed by Dean's sharpness. "Sam had a seizure."
Dean's hand tightens convulsively on the phone.
"We're still trying to piece together what happened. I think he was carrying a tray of glasses to the kitchen and you know how they can just come out of nowhere, seizures. One minute he was fine, the next he was on the floor. It didn't last long, a minute or two at most, but with all the glass..."
"Is he hurt?" Dean asks, his voice hoarse.
"He's cut up some," Joanne says gently. "He rolled on his side, during, but we picked out what we could see. You'll probably want to have him shower when he gets home, see if you can't flush out any splinters."
"Does he know where he is?"
"He knows, he's fully aware, not foggy in the least. It really was just a mild seizure, Dean. Bad luck with the glasses but these kinds of things happen."
Dean curses at a stoplight and considers running it, changing his mind at the disapproving look Sam would give. "Thanks, Joanne. Keep him talking, okay?"
"Sure thing, hon."
"And tell him not to move. He'll try, but keep him still 'til I get there."
"Don't worry, we've got it covered. Don't kill yourself getting yourself here."
Dean scoffs at that. "I'll be there in three."
-
He doesn't know what he expected when he gets to Stairway but it's not for the place to be full like nearly every other night. If he didn't catch the Closed sign outside and that there's no one behind the bar, he might not even know that something was wrong. Then a tall redhead pushes through the swinging door, catches sight of him, and threads her way through the tables.
"I didn't think he meant it when he said leather and an angry face. He's in the back. Watch the glass."
Dean doesn't do more than nod his thanks and wends his way to the back. He pushes open the swinging door and there's Sam sprawled on his side on the floor in the cramped place between the dishwasher and the wall, Joanne kneeling by his head and the cook, Javier, hovering nearby, muttering in Spanish.
"Look who's here," Joanne says and Sam shifts on the floor.
"That my bossy big brother?"
"Who told you you're allowed to party without me?" Dean says. "I like the glass. Nice touch."
"Yeah, well, go big or go home." Sam grins.
Dean crouches next to Sam's feet, puts a careful hand on Sam's leg. "Lucky you're not fired for laying down on the job."
"Yeah, some nut job called ahead and said I wasn't allowed to move." Sam rolls his eyes, watching Dean watching him. Dean's not dumb. He gets the message: I'm okay. No big deal.
"Huh. Weird." The thing is, Dean's had a lot of practice reading his brother and what he sees is Sam shaken, Sam putting on a brave front, Sam seizing.
Sam starts to push himself up and Dean gets a hand on his bicep, helps pull him unsteadily to his feet. A few pieces of glass still cling to the back of Sam's shirt. His arms are nicked and there's a cut on his cheekbone that looks like it'll need butterfly bandages. It's not the worst they've had, Dean has to remind himself. In fact, it's pretty damn tame. Doesn't take away the fear in his gut, though.
"You got everything, sweetie?" Joanne asks. Javier slips behind her to go back into the main room, probably to manage the bar until Joanne gets there.
"Yeah, thanks." Sam brushes himself off a little, leaning into Dean's hand on his back. "My stuff's under the bar."
Dean gives Joanne a pained smile. "Thanks for keeping an eye on him for me."
"He was great. Handled yourself real well, Sam."
Sam nods uncomfortably. "Thanks."
"I had a cousin with epilepsy. I know it's tough, honey."
Sam ignores her sympathy, instead gesturing at the glass on the floor. "Sorry about all this."
"Oh." She waves her hands. "Don't worry yourself a bit, sweetie. Glasses are a dime a dozen. I'm just glad you're okay."
"Take it out of my pay," Sam insists.
"I'm not going to do that, Sam," Joanne says, mouth a firm line. Her face softens and she glances between them as she says, "I'd give anything to just have this blow over, but... Sam, honey, I really do think you ought to think about whether you're doing the best thing for yourself by working here."
"I'm fine. I appreciate the concern, but really--I'm fine. This was a fluke thing."
"Are you on medication, Sam?" Joanne asks with the look of someone who has asked the same thing a dozen times before.
"We're looking into it."
"Sam, until you get this settled, I think you need to put yourself in environments where you're not going to get hurt."
Sam snorts a laugh. "We're actually kind of doing that."
"You want him to quit?" Dean asks.
"If it's a liability thing--"
"It's not," Joanne assures him. "It's a safety thing."
"Joanne, trust me, I can manage it." Sam shares a glance with Dean. "We'll figure something out, talk to my doctor again." Dean's face freezes at that, a rictus of something pleasant and assuring. "I really need this job."
Joanne takes a deep breath and lets it out. "Fine. But if it gets worse, Sam, I have to let you go. You know that."
"It won't get worse," Sam assures her, eyes sincere above the cut on his face. Dean doesn't know what his own face looks like, can hardly think as they duck out of the building, Sam sliding behind the bar to get his messenger bag, waving goodbye to the girl with red hair.
They get in the car and pull away, sitting in silence until they get past the grocery store. Then Dean asks, "How did she know about your head thing?"
"She caught me spacing out a couple times." Then, "It was pretty bad, once."
Dean nearly runs the stoplight. "You never told me. Did you tell me?"
"It wasn't a big deal, there was nothing you could do. And it was fine--I was distracted, moving orders slower. I took my break early. It passed."
"She said it like it happens a lot," Dean presses. "You told her you had a doctor."
"It happens the nights it gets busy." Sam thumps his head softly against the window, trying to settle in and get comfortable against the glass, like they're driving across state lines instead of just around the corner. "I see stuff, sometimes I forget things, dumb things, like where I put the can-opener. It's not a big deal. I can handle it. I've gotten better at handling it."
"It's busy almost every night, Sam." Dean looks over at Sam--who doesn't say anything. "Crap."
"It's not a big deal," Sam repeats.
"It is a big deal," Dean says, cutting incredulous glances at Sam as the light turns green. "Hey, it's not even happening to me and I'm man enough to admit that I'm a little freaked."
"I had a seizure," Sam says, jaw stiff. "People have the occasional seizure."
"People do," Dean agrees after a moment. "But they shouldn't have to." He pulls down their street, taking it slow. Usually they'd be in Stairway, Sam settling in to his shift, Dean trying to get Javier to put jalapeños on his burger. Instead, they're dealing with this. "We need to talk to Bobby about this, man."
"I'm sick. Cut me some slack."
"You shouldn't be having a seizure on the floor because you're sick, Sam. And forgetting things? That's bad news."
"It might be just a one-time deal."
"Sam--"
"What do you want me to do about it?" Sam explodes. "Huh? I can't fix this!"
"Then we need to find somebody who can. We go to someone who knows this stuff, we dig around, have Bobby pull some strings." Sam shakes his head. "Sam, I don't know if you've noticed, but we're barely treading water here."
"And I don't know if you've noticed but we're undercover. That means we keep our heads down and don't ask around for people who might know something about supernatural powers."
"Sam, come on, listen to yourself. This isn't the minor leagues here, we're talking about seizures."
"No."
"We'll be careful."
"Dean, no--"
"Sam, this is not up for debate."
"Well, it should be! I'm the one all the freaky is happening to, I get to decide whether I want to risk ourselves to go out and have some crazy poking around at me like I'm a psychic anomaly."
"So our other option is to, what, sit around and hope it goes away?"
Dean swings into their driveway and Sam takes a breath, glaring at the garage door. Finally he says, "Who would we even go to? I've tried praying to Cas, the bastard won't listen to me, or if he does he doesn't care. If Bobby asks around he's going to have hunters all over him. Who else are we going to call?"
"Missouri."
"Missouri?" Sam echoes. "From Lawrence?"
"She's a psychic." Dean shrugs. "I figure she'd know something about this stuff. Plus, you trust her. She helped us out before."
Sam chews his lip, still staring at the garage door. Finally he folds, shoulders slumping. "Okay. But only if it doesn't get better."
"It's not getting better, Sam."
"It's not out of control yet. I can handle it."
"You dropped a bunch of glasses and woke up on the floor. I don't care how strong you are, you can't help that stuff."
"Dean," Sam's face is fierce, "let's give it a few more days, all right? Let's just give it some time. I was sick, I wasn't ready, I'll kick this cold and everything should go back to normal."
Dean hangs his wrists on the steering wheel, turning off the truck and listening to the engine click in the cool air. Sam has jammed his hands into his jacket pockets but Dean's sure they're balled into fists. "'Kay," he says, "fine." Neither of them makes a move to get out of the truck and eventually Dean says, "I'm sorry you had such a crappy day. But hey, at least you still have your job, right?"
Sam unfolds a little. "Yeah. I thought she was going to fire me. She probably should have. I wasn't really winning gold medals over there."
"Yeah, well, everyone thinks you're great. I mean, no one will call you Sam because they'll be calling you Timber, but hey, at least you'll be memorable."
Sam's small smile releases the last knot in Dean's stomach. He turns his attention to the fields and the dark sky, smoke from the Finley's house a smudge above the trees. "Looks like rain."
-
They wait. It doesn't get better.
Dean's turning the calendar from September to October and grimacing at the overly bright farm scene depicted when Sam shuffles into the kitchen, eyes bleary and hair flipping in every direction.
"Morning."
Sam grunts and fumbles in the fridge.
"Orange juice is by the sink."
Sam grunts again and drags out a glass.
"Carol called this morning. She's worried about Dale," Dean offers, putting his bowl in the sink. "I guess he had a cold last week and she was telling me how he's got a weak heart or something and she--"
"I know," Sam says, sliding some toast on a plate and hunching over the counter to eat. "He's too stubborn to take his meds. Says it's nothing. She hates it when he does jobs around the house because she worries one of these days he's going to have a heart attack out in the garden and she won't know."
Dean stares. "Did you have a vision?"
Sam doesn't say anything, just looks back at him and then bends his head over his breakfast, dark hair obscuring his face.
"You know more," Dean says. "Than before. You only got...feelings, pieces of information. You were just reading auras, right?"
"Right. Just colors," Sam affirms quietly.
Dean reaches for a glass from above the sink, needing something to wet his dry throat.
And so it goes.
When Dean wakes up the next morning, he finds Sam looking blankly at the coffee maker. "Push the button," he grunts, then goes upstairs to get dressed. Sam's still standing in front of the coffee maker when he comes back down, though, so he elbows his brother out of the way and punches the button, confused when ten minutes later nothing's happened. A quick check reveals that the tank had no water in it and Sam had spooned coffee grinds nearly to the top of the filter. "Holy crap, are you trying to give me a heart attack?" Dean grouses, pouring half the grinds into the jar and filling the tank. He hits the button and a few seconds later comes the satisfying growl of the water heating.
Sam comes back downstairs after his shower, hair dampening the collar of his sweatshirt, and he takes in Dean's mug with a quick smile. "Oh good, coffee."
Dean's half-formed joke dies on his lips. "You don't remember."
Sam sobers just as quickly. "What?"
"You already... You were trying to make the coffee just a few minutes ago."
"Huh," Sam says, shrugging and stepping forward to pour himself a cup, but his hands aren't as steady around the mug as they usually are.
He has his usual shift at Stairway that night and Dean sets himself up in the back corner with a pack of cards to play a game of solitaire and keep a surreptitious eye on Sam. Now that Joanne mentioned it, Dean notices the way Sam's eyes sometimes trace things in the air the way he used to when he was still getting used to his powers. He has tiny tells, ones that most people wouldn't pick up on. The first half of the night goes easily, all things told, Sam making jokes and joining Dean for a game of war when the flow of patrons slows to a crawl.
Sam is back behind the bar, pulling a beer, and Dean can see the minute he forgets. Wide eyes, sharp intake of breath, mouth impassive as he takes in his surroundings, doing his best to keep a straight face. He sets a glass mug topped with foam on the bar with steady hands, nods at the man he's serving, and turns to arrange the glasses. When he looks up again, Dean can tell, his memory is all back, like it was never gone in the first place.
Dean doesn't know what to make of that.
He watches Sam more closely after that. It could be aftereffects from the seizure or maybe just bad luck, but it happens more often than Dean would like, the moments when Sam's checked out growing longer until Dean realizes they're dealing with thirty-second spans where Sam loses track of reality, strong enough that he can't pull himself out of the haze to remember where he is or what he's doing, long enough for him to be silently panicking. Twenty-seven years of juggling cover stories and alternate identities has given Sam a pretty fair poker face and Dean figures most people watching wouldn't pick up on the fact that a couple times a week Sam, for half a minute, is frozen at the bar mechanically wiping glasses without the faintest clue where he is.
Dean waits out the week, then tosses Sam's duffel bag on his bed. "We're going. Call Joanne and the school, tell 'em you'll be gone all weekend."
It doesn't make Dean feel any better that Sam puts away the papers he'd been grading and packs without argument.
One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine
Master Post | Author's Notes