Roses in December (6/14)
Okay, so I came up with another chapter. I think the plot will actually start moving forward in Chapter 7, so yay! I know some of you have been waiting for that to happen. So have I! ;)
In related news, I know I'm way behind on answering comments for Chapter 5. I am going to get to that ASAP, I promise!
Master Post
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
“You feeling up to an extra visitor today?” Brady is leaning one elbow against the door frame, smiling easily.
“Uh, yeah,” Sam nods. “Sure.”
He straightens carefully in his bed, fumbling with the controls so he can sit up. It takes three tries, his fingers refusing to move the way he wants them to, but he's thankful that Brady doesn't make a move to help him, just waits patiently until he gets it himself. Apart from Dean and Jess, Brady's pretty much the only visitor he has. Some of Jess' other friends (his friends too, he supposes, but it doesn't feel that way) drop by every so often, but mostly they're uncomfortable, have no idea what to say to him, and he doesn't know what to say to them either. He gets the impression that he met them all through Jess and not the other way around, that they're more her friends than his. Brady, though, doesn't seem to be all that bothered by the fact Sam can't remember him. Or, rather, he's being a lot more understanding about it than Sam thought anyone could be.
“Good day?” Brady drops easily into a chair, crosses one ankle over his knee, his expression mildly curious. Sam makes a noncommittal motion with one hand.
“Yeah, I guess.”
“You just guess?”
He shrugs. “I dunno. It's hard to tell the difference, sometimes.” He scrunches up his nose, scrubs at the bridge with his index finger. “I'm sorry. I must be pretty lousy company these days.”
“You're assuming you were good company before,” Brady smirks, and Sam lets out a surprised huff of laughter.
“Asshole.”
“And now you're insulting me on top of it. I honestly don't know why I put up with you.”
“Must be my natural charisma,” Sam quips, trying to find a comfortable position in which to settle on the bed, even though he knows there isn't one, not really.
“How's the pain today?”
He shrugs again. “Not too bad.”
“You levelling with me?”
Sam nods. Brady's the only one of his friends who ever wants to hear the unvarnished truth. It took a while to believe him -everyone else apart from Jess and Dean just wants to be reassured that he's doing better, whatever that means- but eventually he figured out that Brady genuinely wants to know how he's doing, genuinely wants to help in whatever small way he can.
“It's okay. I still get dizzy a lot, but it doesn't hurt, much. Mostly it's just uncomfortable. Beds here aren't made for someone my height.”
“You are freakishly tall,” Brady agrees. “I thought for sure you were here on a basketball scholarship, but it turned out you were here because you're even smarter than you are tall.”
“No team sports, then?”
“You told me you used to play soccer when you were a kid, and then you stopped, but you never said why.”
“Oh. Maybe Dean'll know.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
Sam looks up from where he's been staring at his hands, resting in his lap, surprised by Brady's tone. His friend's expression hasn't changed, still blandly cheerful, but there's something there that Sam can't quite put his finger on, something that strikes him as not quite right. He's being paranoid, probably, he tells himself. The therapist said it was common to overcompensate by attributing hidden motives and feelings where there are none, because it helps him feel like he's getting a handle on things. So, yeah. Paranoid.
“So, when are you getting sprung from this joint?” Brady changes the topic, although Sam isn't sure he likes the new one any better. He tries not to fidget.
“Pretty soon. Maybe another couple of weeks, depending on how things go. If I stop getting dizzy all the time, for one. Everything's healing up just fine, but they're kind of concerned about my fine motor skills. Turns out they're important,” he says wryly, trying not to sound as bitter as he feels about not being able to do something as basic as cutting up his own food without help. He twists his hands in his lap, staring at the thin hospital blanket.
“Right. How's that going?”
“You want the brave soldier answer or the frustrated trauma patient answer?”
Brady makes a sympathetic face. “I think you just gave me the answer anyway. If it's any consolation, you're taking this way better than I would, I think.”
Sam just snorts. “How would you know? I'm not me anymore, so if our positions were reversed, you wouldn't be you, so how could you possibly know how you'd take it?” he bites his lip, dangerously close to tears again, and God, can he please just have one day without a meltdown?
“Woah,” his friend leans forward, puts a hand carefully on his arm. “Okay, okay, I'm sorry. It came out all wrong, but I swear I was trying for light-hearted and encouraging.”
“Shit,” Sam rests his forehead in his hand, covering his eyes. “I'm a mess.” He takes a couple of deep breaths, trying to keep himself from bawling like an infant, yet again. “Sorry. I don't -I feel like I should have a handle on this, but I don't.”
Brady just squeezes his arm. “Sam. Dude. You're recovering from traumatic brain injury. No one but you expects you to 'have a handle' on anything. No one recovers the same way or at the same pace, and it's shitty and frustrating for everyone, especially the patient. That's you. So cut yourself some slack, okay?”
Sam sniffs, tears leaking from his eyes in spite of his best efforts, and he wipes at his cheeks with the back of one hand. “I don't want to get out of here and need Jess or Dean to feed me on top of everything else. It's bad enough...” he trails off, shrugs.
“No, I get it. Look, I know it's not much, but I'll be around too. If you want a break from Jess and Dean, you just let me know. I'm not saying they're bad for you, or anything like that,” Brady holds up a hand before Sam can say anything. “It's just that they're the two closest people you've got, and, you know, sometimes just having them around puts extra pressure on you to live up to expectations. Not that they have expectations, but maybe you're telling yourself they do.”
“And you don't?”
Brady shrugs. “You might not remember it, but you were there for me during the worst time of my life, and I remember just fine. You didn't ask questions, you didn't judge, nothing. You were my safety net for, like, a year, man, if not longer. If you hadn't been there... I'm pretty sure I would have finished self-destructing. As it is, I'm still here, and I owe you. Even if I didn't owe you, though, you're still my friend, and I want to be there for you in what ways I can.”
“If your goal is to make me stop crying like a girl, you're failing,” Sam manages a small grin.
“Nah, that's not it. This way I get to look manlier than you, so you're doing me a favour.”
Sam huffs a laugh at that, feels his equilibrium returning, along with a rush of gratitude toward Brady for not making a big deal out of this. “You always like this?”
“Only when I'm not engaging in unspeakably depraved acts of evil.”
“So long as you do that behind closed doors, I think we're fine.”
Brady laughs. “You know, you may not realize it, but you're not that different now than you were before. I think -and this is by no means my medical opinion, for the record, just a feeling- that eventually you're going to get back to who you're meant to be.”
Sam looks up, knows he must look pathetically hopeful. “You think so?”
“Yeah, I do. I think there's no escaping it.”
*
The bar is pretty busy even on week nights, Dean discovers. The first night is a quasi-disaster, as he figures out how to handle multiple simultaneous orders, harassed wait staff, half-drunken women who insist on flirting with him when he doesn't want to be distracted, and impatient guys who are annoyed that their dates are flirting with him. It gets easier once he sorts out how the liquor is set up behind him: once he knows which bottles to grab without having to read all the labels, his job gets ten times easier. Not for the first time, he's grateful to his Dad for all the drilling he made him do, taking in his surroundings at a glance and then repeating what he saw, until it was practically second nature to know the layout of a given room, a clearing in a forest, a cave, anywhere. Applying the technique to the booze causes a bit of cognitive dissonance, but it works just as well.
The rest is easy after that. Harassed wait staff get a wink and an ass slap, or a clap on the shoulder if they're guys. The girls take it in stride, rolling their eyes and telling him that sexual harassment on the first day is going to get him fired, and the one guy who works during the week seems kind of awed by the fact Dean can get away with being handsy with the girls. Flirty drunken girls get a gentle nudge back toward their dates, unless they're single, in which case he usually gets a phone number that he'll likely use only once, if ever. No one night stands in the establishment you're working in seems like a pretty good rule, once Dean thinks it up. He's working four nights a week, Tuesday to Friday, and once he proves himself on the Thursday and Friday, Donna, his manager, hints that she'll probably let him work Saturdays too, if the need arises. Given that her current bartender, a skinny guy with scruffy brown hair who reminds Dean uncomfortably of Sam, has just graduated and is looking to be moving on by the end of the summer, he figures he's pretty much set.
By the time the first Friday rolls around, he's set up something that feels a little like a routine. Sleep until about ten, get in his morning run, then spend as much time as he can with Sam in between Sam's PT and his sessions with the hospital shrink. Jess comes by in the late afternoon or sometimes the early evening, once she's done with her job, and Dean usually heads directly to the bar, keeping his work clothes in a small bag in the Impala. It's only been a few days, but it feels surprisingly normal -and just the thought makes him kind of queasy, because Sam is the one who always wanted 'normal,' and now he's the only one not getting it.
He slips behind the counter, glad that Donna doesn't insist on his wearing anything but whatever shoes are comfortable. If he has to spend eight hours on his feet, he's definitely going to do it in footwear that won't leave him in agony by closing time. Even so, he keeps a stool behind the bar, and casually rests one knee on it when he has to, taking the pressure off his bad leg without it seeming too obvious. He wipes down the bar, sets himself up for the evening, and lets himself slide into the mindless thrum of taking orders, serving drinks, and making meaningless small talk with the first patrons coming in. By ten o'clock the place is packed with the regulars who've been pointed out to him as well as the college crowd, who only come out on weekends or during big events.
He's in the process of trying to pour an appletini while keeping a straight face -harder than it sounds, because, seriously, appletini?- when he comes face to face with Lauren over the bar. She's wearing a little black dress that hugs her ample curves in all the right places and then some, revealing very nice cleavage and legs that, while maybe on the short side, look like they could do some fantastic things, given the opportunity.
“Fancy meeting you here,” she says, in a way that makes it obvious she came here to find him.
“Funny how that works. What can I get you?”
“Beer's good. Whatever you've got on tap. How you liking the job so far?”
He doesn't answer right away, slides her a glass and fills out a few more orders before turning back. “So far so good, I guess. It's not exactly my usual sort of gig.”
“Right. The mysterious 'this-and-that' that Sam always refused to elaborate on.”
She grins, letting him know she's not going to press him, for which he's grateful. He's still trying to figure out how to explain the whole 'hunting' thing to Sam, who in spite of being literally brain-damaged, is still smart enough to have figured out that there's a lot more to their family than meets the eye. So far he's managed to put it off, but only because he's promised Sam full disclosure once he's out of the hospital. At best, he's bought himself a few weeks. He realizes with a start that Lauren is still talking to him.
“So what time do you get off?”
He smirks. “My boss says I have to get off on my own time,” he says, and she lets out a delighted giggle and leans across the bar to swat him on the arm.
“That was terrible!”
“I try.”
“So, I'll see you at closing time?”
“I'll be here.”
“Awesome,” she finishes her beer, smiles suggestively at him, and he watches her saunter off with a slight wriggle to her hips that promises a really good time later, if he takes her up on it.
Right now, he can't think of a good reason not to.
*
Jess has never been much of a deep sleeper, and living with Sam for a year and a half or so exacerbated that. She hasn't told him or Dean, but this isn't exactly the first time Sam has had nightmares so bad they made him scream himself awake. He always said he didn't remember his dreams, but she never believed him: the look on his face belied his words. She didn't press him, tried very hard to respect his need for privacy, even though part of her couldn't help but be hurt by the fact that he apparently didn't trust her enough to confide in her. Afterward, he'd huddle back down on the bed, turning his back on her, until she'd pull him, shaking, back into her arms, and hold him until the trembling stopped and he drifted back to sleep.
She wakens to the sound of a key turning in the lock of the front door, the soft padding of footsteps in the hallway. The light coming in through the window still has a pale, sickly pre-dawn hue, and a glance at the clock tells her that while it's still ridiculously early in the morning, it's also a lot later than she was expecting Dean to be home. Not that she's his keeper, or anything, but she's not used to having a roommate rather than a boyfriend anymore, and the thought that he's probably been out with some girl is a bit disconcerting. She slides out of bed, ventures to the door of the bedroom, and catches him as he's about to slip into the bathroom.
“Late night?”
He starts, and manages to look a guilty, defiant and nonchalant all at the same time. “I guess, yeah. Did I wake you?”
She shrugs. “I'm a light sleeper.” He smells of cigarettes and perfume and sex, although he's looking far too good for someone doing a good imitation of a walk of shame. She scowls a bit. “It's really unfair that you're completely unmussed after an all-nighter. What do you do, put on a layer of shellac before you go out?”
He grins, then huffs a laugh. “Just good genes. I'm, uh, gonna hit the shower. I may look fantastic, but trust me, you'll thank me later.”
She nods. “Okay. I'll make coffee. You coming to the hospital, or going to bed?”
“Hospital,” is the decisive answer. “I can catch a nap first. Donna doesn't want me in tonight, not until I've proved I can handle the crowds, so I can just hit the hay early.”
“Okay. And, uh, thanks,” she says, feeling even more awkward than she sounds.
“For what?”
She makes a face. “Not bringing whoever it was home.”
He looks at her as though he's just stepped in something unpleasant. “I wouldn't do that.”
“Yeah, I get that now. But I appreciate it, anyway.”
“Whatever.”
He ducks into the bathroom, and she realizes that she's managed to insult him, possibly even hurt his feelings. It's a needling reminder that, even though they've been living in each other's pockets for the better part of two months, she still knows next to nothing about him, about who he is, about what makes him tick. She rummages in the kitchen, still finding her way around her new surroundings after less than a week. She already likes this place better: it's larger, and the kitchen gives onto the back yard with a sliding glass door, which means that sunlight streams in almost all day long.
She's sitting down to a bowl of cereal and her first cup of coffee when Dean ventures back in the kitchen, hair still damp, fresh clothes clinging to him ever so slightly. He gives her a nod, helps himself to a cup of coffee, and drops a couple of slices of bread in the toaster. He smirks a bit at her corn flakes.
“I have to introduce you to Lucky Charms. Your cereal is seriously lacking in sugar and marshmallows.”
She makes a face. “Yuck. No thank you.”
“Is it the sugar or the marshmallows you object to?” he hooks his bad leg around a chair rung, pulls the chair under him and sits at the table, sipping gingerly at the steaming coffee.
“Marshmallows. I like mine burnt but not soggy.” Meaningless small talk, again. She hasn't figured out a way to get him to talk about anything serious, unless it's directly related to Sam's care. Sam was always good at deflecting conversations about him, but Dean is in a different class altogether.
“So you're a s'mores girl. Good to know. Bet you were a Girl Guide when you were a kid.”
She flushes, not even sure why she's embarrassed, but she gets the feeling that Sam and Dean never exactly got the opportunity to be Boy Scouts. “Guilty.”
“Always hated camping.”
Jess chooses to ignore the comment. “Any word from your father yet?”
It's a hot-button topic with Dean, and it's probably unfair of her to spring it on him when he hasn't slept at all, not to mention she's pretty sure he would have brought it up if the elusive John Winchester had deigned to return any of the dozens of messages his eldest son has been leaving. She doesn't know for sure, but she's pretty certain that Dean leaves daily updates when he can, that is to say when the voicemail of his father's cell phone isn't full. She meets his gaze, steels herself for the mix of anger and hurt and confusion in his eyes that only his father seems to be able to put there. After a moment he looks away, down at the table, and shakes his head.
“Number's been disconnected.”
She blows out a breath, frustration bubbling just beneath the surface of her thoughts. “He disconnected his cell phone?” She can't keep the disbelief out of her tone, and Dean bristles.
“I didn't say that. I said the number's been disconnected. He probably didn't have a choice.”
“He not in the habit of paying his cell phone bills?” she asks pointedly.
“It's not like that,” Dean says calmly. “You don't know anything about him, so you don't get to judge, got it?”
She manages not to roll her eyes. “What am I supposed to think, Dean? It's been two months. His son almost died, and he hasn't bothered to so much as pick up the phone and call to see how Sam is doing. You've been making excuses for him from the start, and they're all starting to wear a little thin. I know there was bad blood between him and Sam, but I'm finding it really hard to wrap my mind around the idea that your father is going to hold that against him now, of all times. Most family wouldn't.”
There's a flash of anger in his eyes when he looks at her this time, so intense that she sits back in her chair, feels her heart rate quicken in spite of herself. As quickly as it appeared it vanishes again, and he simply presses his lips together. She can see a pulse point fluttering in his throat, the fingers of his right hand pulling reflexively into a fist, and for the first time in two months she finds herself a little afraid of this stranger living in her home. When he speaks, his voice is quiet, his tone even, and danger drips from every syllable.
“We're not talking about this.”
She nods, doesn't trust her voice enough to speak out loud. He swallows the last of his coffee, stands up.
“I'm going to catch some shut-eye. If I'm not up in an hour, wake me up?”
She nods again, doesn't watch as he brushes past her, heading toward his room, taking his secrets and his injured feelings with him. She pours herself a second cup of coffee, and takes it outside with her, letting the early August sun soak away the remnants of guilt and insecurity and fear that seem to cling to her. So much for trying to have any sort of meaningful conversation with Dean Winchester.
*
Chapter 7
In related news, I know I'm way behind on answering comments for Chapter 5. I am going to get to that ASAP, I promise!
Master Post
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
“You feeling up to an extra visitor today?” Brady is leaning one elbow against the door frame, smiling easily.
“Uh, yeah,” Sam nods. “Sure.”
He straightens carefully in his bed, fumbling with the controls so he can sit up. It takes three tries, his fingers refusing to move the way he wants them to, but he's thankful that Brady doesn't make a move to help him, just waits patiently until he gets it himself. Apart from Dean and Jess, Brady's pretty much the only visitor he has. Some of Jess' other friends (his friends too, he supposes, but it doesn't feel that way) drop by every so often, but mostly they're uncomfortable, have no idea what to say to him, and he doesn't know what to say to them either. He gets the impression that he met them all through Jess and not the other way around, that they're more her friends than his. Brady, though, doesn't seem to be all that bothered by the fact Sam can't remember him. Or, rather, he's being a lot more understanding about it than Sam thought anyone could be.
“Good day?” Brady drops easily into a chair, crosses one ankle over his knee, his expression mildly curious. Sam makes a noncommittal motion with one hand.
“Yeah, I guess.”
“You just guess?”
He shrugs. “I dunno. It's hard to tell the difference, sometimes.” He scrunches up his nose, scrubs at the bridge with his index finger. “I'm sorry. I must be pretty lousy company these days.”
“You're assuming you were good company before,” Brady smirks, and Sam lets out a surprised huff of laughter.
“Asshole.”
“And now you're insulting me on top of it. I honestly don't know why I put up with you.”
“Must be my natural charisma,” Sam quips, trying to find a comfortable position in which to settle on the bed, even though he knows there isn't one, not really.
“How's the pain today?”
He shrugs again. “Not too bad.”
“You levelling with me?”
Sam nods. Brady's the only one of his friends who ever wants to hear the unvarnished truth. It took a while to believe him -everyone else apart from Jess and Dean just wants to be reassured that he's doing better, whatever that means- but eventually he figured out that Brady genuinely wants to know how he's doing, genuinely wants to help in whatever small way he can.
“It's okay. I still get dizzy a lot, but it doesn't hurt, much. Mostly it's just uncomfortable. Beds here aren't made for someone my height.”
“You are freakishly tall,” Brady agrees. “I thought for sure you were here on a basketball scholarship, but it turned out you were here because you're even smarter than you are tall.”
“No team sports, then?”
“You told me you used to play soccer when you were a kid, and then you stopped, but you never said why.”
“Oh. Maybe Dean'll know.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
Sam looks up from where he's been staring at his hands, resting in his lap, surprised by Brady's tone. His friend's expression hasn't changed, still blandly cheerful, but there's something there that Sam can't quite put his finger on, something that strikes him as not quite right. He's being paranoid, probably, he tells himself. The therapist said it was common to overcompensate by attributing hidden motives and feelings where there are none, because it helps him feel like he's getting a handle on things. So, yeah. Paranoid.
“So, when are you getting sprung from this joint?” Brady changes the topic, although Sam isn't sure he likes the new one any better. He tries not to fidget.
“Pretty soon. Maybe another couple of weeks, depending on how things go. If I stop getting dizzy all the time, for one. Everything's healing up just fine, but they're kind of concerned about my fine motor skills. Turns out they're important,” he says wryly, trying not to sound as bitter as he feels about not being able to do something as basic as cutting up his own food without help. He twists his hands in his lap, staring at the thin hospital blanket.
“Right. How's that going?”
“You want the brave soldier answer or the frustrated trauma patient answer?”
Brady makes a sympathetic face. “I think you just gave me the answer anyway. If it's any consolation, you're taking this way better than I would, I think.”
Sam just snorts. “How would you know? I'm not me anymore, so if our positions were reversed, you wouldn't be you, so how could you possibly know how you'd take it?” he bites his lip, dangerously close to tears again, and God, can he please just have one day without a meltdown?
“Woah,” his friend leans forward, puts a hand carefully on his arm. “Okay, okay, I'm sorry. It came out all wrong, but I swear I was trying for light-hearted and encouraging.”
“Shit,” Sam rests his forehead in his hand, covering his eyes. “I'm a mess.” He takes a couple of deep breaths, trying to keep himself from bawling like an infant, yet again. “Sorry. I don't -I feel like I should have a handle on this, but I don't.”
Brady just squeezes his arm. “Sam. Dude. You're recovering from traumatic brain injury. No one but you expects you to 'have a handle' on anything. No one recovers the same way or at the same pace, and it's shitty and frustrating for everyone, especially the patient. That's you. So cut yourself some slack, okay?”
Sam sniffs, tears leaking from his eyes in spite of his best efforts, and he wipes at his cheeks with the back of one hand. “I don't want to get out of here and need Jess or Dean to feed me on top of everything else. It's bad enough...” he trails off, shrugs.
“No, I get it. Look, I know it's not much, but I'll be around too. If you want a break from Jess and Dean, you just let me know. I'm not saying they're bad for you, or anything like that,” Brady holds up a hand before Sam can say anything. “It's just that they're the two closest people you've got, and, you know, sometimes just having them around puts extra pressure on you to live up to expectations. Not that they have expectations, but maybe you're telling yourself they do.”
“And you don't?”
Brady shrugs. “You might not remember it, but you were there for me during the worst time of my life, and I remember just fine. You didn't ask questions, you didn't judge, nothing. You were my safety net for, like, a year, man, if not longer. If you hadn't been there... I'm pretty sure I would have finished self-destructing. As it is, I'm still here, and I owe you. Even if I didn't owe you, though, you're still my friend, and I want to be there for you in what ways I can.”
“If your goal is to make me stop crying like a girl, you're failing,” Sam manages a small grin.
“Nah, that's not it. This way I get to look manlier than you, so you're doing me a favour.”
Sam huffs a laugh at that, feels his equilibrium returning, along with a rush of gratitude toward Brady for not making a big deal out of this. “You always like this?”
“Only when I'm not engaging in unspeakably depraved acts of evil.”
“So long as you do that behind closed doors, I think we're fine.”
Brady laughs. “You know, you may not realize it, but you're not that different now than you were before. I think -and this is by no means my medical opinion, for the record, just a feeling- that eventually you're going to get back to who you're meant to be.”
Sam looks up, knows he must look pathetically hopeful. “You think so?”
“Yeah, I do. I think there's no escaping it.”
*
The bar is pretty busy even on week nights, Dean discovers. The first night is a quasi-disaster, as he figures out how to handle multiple simultaneous orders, harassed wait staff, half-drunken women who insist on flirting with him when he doesn't want to be distracted, and impatient guys who are annoyed that their dates are flirting with him. It gets easier once he sorts out how the liquor is set up behind him: once he knows which bottles to grab without having to read all the labels, his job gets ten times easier. Not for the first time, he's grateful to his Dad for all the drilling he made him do, taking in his surroundings at a glance and then repeating what he saw, until it was practically second nature to know the layout of a given room, a clearing in a forest, a cave, anywhere. Applying the technique to the booze causes a bit of cognitive dissonance, but it works just as well.
The rest is easy after that. Harassed wait staff get a wink and an ass slap, or a clap on the shoulder if they're guys. The girls take it in stride, rolling their eyes and telling him that sexual harassment on the first day is going to get him fired, and the one guy who works during the week seems kind of awed by the fact Dean can get away with being handsy with the girls. Flirty drunken girls get a gentle nudge back toward their dates, unless they're single, in which case he usually gets a phone number that he'll likely use only once, if ever. No one night stands in the establishment you're working in seems like a pretty good rule, once Dean thinks it up. He's working four nights a week, Tuesday to Friday, and once he proves himself on the Thursday and Friday, Donna, his manager, hints that she'll probably let him work Saturdays too, if the need arises. Given that her current bartender, a skinny guy with scruffy brown hair who reminds Dean uncomfortably of Sam, has just graduated and is looking to be moving on by the end of the summer, he figures he's pretty much set.
By the time the first Friday rolls around, he's set up something that feels a little like a routine. Sleep until about ten, get in his morning run, then spend as much time as he can with Sam in between Sam's PT and his sessions with the hospital shrink. Jess comes by in the late afternoon or sometimes the early evening, once she's done with her job, and Dean usually heads directly to the bar, keeping his work clothes in a small bag in the Impala. It's only been a few days, but it feels surprisingly normal -and just the thought makes him kind of queasy, because Sam is the one who always wanted 'normal,' and now he's the only one not getting it.
He slips behind the counter, glad that Donna doesn't insist on his wearing anything but whatever shoes are comfortable. If he has to spend eight hours on his feet, he's definitely going to do it in footwear that won't leave him in agony by closing time. Even so, he keeps a stool behind the bar, and casually rests one knee on it when he has to, taking the pressure off his bad leg without it seeming too obvious. He wipes down the bar, sets himself up for the evening, and lets himself slide into the mindless thrum of taking orders, serving drinks, and making meaningless small talk with the first patrons coming in. By ten o'clock the place is packed with the regulars who've been pointed out to him as well as the college crowd, who only come out on weekends or during big events.
He's in the process of trying to pour an appletini while keeping a straight face -harder than it sounds, because, seriously, appletini?- when he comes face to face with Lauren over the bar. She's wearing a little black dress that hugs her ample curves in all the right places and then some, revealing very nice cleavage and legs that, while maybe on the short side, look like they could do some fantastic things, given the opportunity.
“Fancy meeting you here,” she says, in a way that makes it obvious she came here to find him.
“Funny how that works. What can I get you?”
“Beer's good. Whatever you've got on tap. How you liking the job so far?”
He doesn't answer right away, slides her a glass and fills out a few more orders before turning back. “So far so good, I guess. It's not exactly my usual sort of gig.”
“Right. The mysterious 'this-and-that' that Sam always refused to elaborate on.”
She grins, letting him know she's not going to press him, for which he's grateful. He's still trying to figure out how to explain the whole 'hunting' thing to Sam, who in spite of being literally brain-damaged, is still smart enough to have figured out that there's a lot more to their family than meets the eye. So far he's managed to put it off, but only because he's promised Sam full disclosure once he's out of the hospital. At best, he's bought himself a few weeks. He realizes with a start that Lauren is still talking to him.
“So what time do you get off?”
He smirks. “My boss says I have to get off on my own time,” he says, and she lets out a delighted giggle and leans across the bar to swat him on the arm.
“That was terrible!”
“I try.”
“So, I'll see you at closing time?”
“I'll be here.”
“Awesome,” she finishes her beer, smiles suggestively at him, and he watches her saunter off with a slight wriggle to her hips that promises a really good time later, if he takes her up on it.
Right now, he can't think of a good reason not to.
*
Jess has never been much of a deep sleeper, and living with Sam for a year and a half or so exacerbated that. She hasn't told him or Dean, but this isn't exactly the first time Sam has had nightmares so bad they made him scream himself awake. He always said he didn't remember his dreams, but she never believed him: the look on his face belied his words. She didn't press him, tried very hard to respect his need for privacy, even though part of her couldn't help but be hurt by the fact that he apparently didn't trust her enough to confide in her. Afterward, he'd huddle back down on the bed, turning his back on her, until she'd pull him, shaking, back into her arms, and hold him until the trembling stopped and he drifted back to sleep.
She wakens to the sound of a key turning in the lock of the front door, the soft padding of footsteps in the hallway. The light coming in through the window still has a pale, sickly pre-dawn hue, and a glance at the clock tells her that while it's still ridiculously early in the morning, it's also a lot later than she was expecting Dean to be home. Not that she's his keeper, or anything, but she's not used to having a roommate rather than a boyfriend anymore, and the thought that he's probably been out with some girl is a bit disconcerting. She slides out of bed, ventures to the door of the bedroom, and catches him as he's about to slip into the bathroom.
“Late night?”
He starts, and manages to look a guilty, defiant and nonchalant all at the same time. “I guess, yeah. Did I wake you?”
She shrugs. “I'm a light sleeper.” He smells of cigarettes and perfume and sex, although he's looking far too good for someone doing a good imitation of a walk of shame. She scowls a bit. “It's really unfair that you're completely unmussed after an all-nighter. What do you do, put on a layer of shellac before you go out?”
He grins, then huffs a laugh. “Just good genes. I'm, uh, gonna hit the shower. I may look fantastic, but trust me, you'll thank me later.”
She nods. “Okay. I'll make coffee. You coming to the hospital, or going to bed?”
“Hospital,” is the decisive answer. “I can catch a nap first. Donna doesn't want me in tonight, not until I've proved I can handle the crowds, so I can just hit the hay early.”
“Okay. And, uh, thanks,” she says, feeling even more awkward than she sounds.
“For what?”
She makes a face. “Not bringing whoever it was home.”
He looks at her as though he's just stepped in something unpleasant. “I wouldn't do that.”
“Yeah, I get that now. But I appreciate it, anyway.”
“Whatever.”
He ducks into the bathroom, and she realizes that she's managed to insult him, possibly even hurt his feelings. It's a needling reminder that, even though they've been living in each other's pockets for the better part of two months, she still knows next to nothing about him, about who he is, about what makes him tick. She rummages in the kitchen, still finding her way around her new surroundings after less than a week. She already likes this place better: it's larger, and the kitchen gives onto the back yard with a sliding glass door, which means that sunlight streams in almost all day long.
She's sitting down to a bowl of cereal and her first cup of coffee when Dean ventures back in the kitchen, hair still damp, fresh clothes clinging to him ever so slightly. He gives her a nod, helps himself to a cup of coffee, and drops a couple of slices of bread in the toaster. He smirks a bit at her corn flakes.
“I have to introduce you to Lucky Charms. Your cereal is seriously lacking in sugar and marshmallows.”
She makes a face. “Yuck. No thank you.”
“Is it the sugar or the marshmallows you object to?” he hooks his bad leg around a chair rung, pulls the chair under him and sits at the table, sipping gingerly at the steaming coffee.
“Marshmallows. I like mine burnt but not soggy.” Meaningless small talk, again. She hasn't figured out a way to get him to talk about anything serious, unless it's directly related to Sam's care. Sam was always good at deflecting conversations about him, but Dean is in a different class altogether.
“So you're a s'mores girl. Good to know. Bet you were a Girl Guide when you were a kid.”
She flushes, not even sure why she's embarrassed, but she gets the feeling that Sam and Dean never exactly got the opportunity to be Boy Scouts. “Guilty.”
“Always hated camping.”
Jess chooses to ignore the comment. “Any word from your father yet?”
It's a hot-button topic with Dean, and it's probably unfair of her to spring it on him when he hasn't slept at all, not to mention she's pretty sure he would have brought it up if the elusive John Winchester had deigned to return any of the dozens of messages his eldest son has been leaving. She doesn't know for sure, but she's pretty certain that Dean leaves daily updates when he can, that is to say when the voicemail of his father's cell phone isn't full. She meets his gaze, steels herself for the mix of anger and hurt and confusion in his eyes that only his father seems to be able to put there. After a moment he looks away, down at the table, and shakes his head.
“Number's been disconnected.”
She blows out a breath, frustration bubbling just beneath the surface of her thoughts. “He disconnected his cell phone?” She can't keep the disbelief out of her tone, and Dean bristles.
“I didn't say that. I said the number's been disconnected. He probably didn't have a choice.”
“He not in the habit of paying his cell phone bills?” she asks pointedly.
“It's not like that,” Dean says calmly. “You don't know anything about him, so you don't get to judge, got it?”
She manages not to roll her eyes. “What am I supposed to think, Dean? It's been two months. His son almost died, and he hasn't bothered to so much as pick up the phone and call to see how Sam is doing. You've been making excuses for him from the start, and they're all starting to wear a little thin. I know there was bad blood between him and Sam, but I'm finding it really hard to wrap my mind around the idea that your father is going to hold that against him now, of all times. Most family wouldn't.”
There's a flash of anger in his eyes when he looks at her this time, so intense that she sits back in her chair, feels her heart rate quicken in spite of herself. As quickly as it appeared it vanishes again, and he simply presses his lips together. She can see a pulse point fluttering in his throat, the fingers of his right hand pulling reflexively into a fist, and for the first time in two months she finds herself a little afraid of this stranger living in her home. When he speaks, his voice is quiet, his tone even, and danger drips from every syllable.
“We're not talking about this.”
She nods, doesn't trust her voice enough to speak out loud. He swallows the last of his coffee, stands up.
“I'm going to catch some shut-eye. If I'm not up in an hour, wake me up?”
She nods again, doesn't watch as he brushes past her, heading toward his room, taking his secrets and his injured feelings with him. She pours herself a second cup of coffee, and takes it outside with her, letting the early August sun soak away the remnants of guilt and insecurity and fear that seem to cling to her. So much for trying to have any sort of meaningful conversation with Dean Winchester.
*
Chapter 7