DW: Met my dad's dad for the first time
CB: Holy crap! How'd that go?
DW: He was a time traveler from the 50's and he died. Could have gone better
CB: Shit. I'm so sorry. You want me to call?
DW: Yea
DW: Sorry give me a minute Sam's here
—
Despite everything else, the bunker's a dream come true.
Okay, so it needs a little TLC. There's less dust than Dean might have expected for a place that's been abandoned for fifty years, but the guys who used to live here probably intended to return and eat the food they left behind before they disappeared off the face of the earth. The food has now, unfortunately for him, transformed into an unrecognizable black sludge caking the shelves of the fridge. Dean waits until day two to tackle that particular project with a box of heavy duty garbage bags from the hardware store, a bottle of bleach, and a gas mask he found in a closet. Once it's all clean, though, and with the power switched back on, the fridge is, miraculously, in working order. It's a perfect complement to the gas range stove. Dean's gonna be able to cook again. He's actually excited about grocery shopping.
First order of business is getting the layout of the bunker down, though. He's already claimed a bedroom—he tested all the mattresses, because he knows how to live, and whoever had the room Dean's set up shop in did too. Memory foam. Sam says it can't really be memory foam, because NASA didn't invent it until the sixties, but obviously the history books are full of shit, because that mattress cradles Dean's ass like nothing else. He sleeps straight through the night, seven solid unbroken hours, and wakes up feeling like he could punch the moon.
All of it together almost makes it feel worth the cost. He can't really wrap his head about any of it, Grandpa Henry, and Dad, and the Men of Letters. Abaddon. Dean copes by throwing himself bodily into putting his stamp on the bunker.
The dressers are still full of some old dead guy's clothes, white undershirts and boxers, white socks and honest-to-goodness sock garters, pressed black slacks and white button-ups, and a whole closet of sports jackets. Dean knows exactly where to look if he needs a disguise to infiltrate Pleasantville. He scoops up most of the clothes, relocating them to another empty bedroom until he can decide if he wants to thrift them or not, and leaves behind some of the things he might actually get some use out of. Once he's unpacked his duffel bag (for the first time since he moved in with Lisa years ago, and he's gotta try not to think about that too hard) the drawers are still two-thirds empty.
Even when he was with Lisa, his whole life was packed away into one borrowed drawer and one bedside table. Anything worth keeping always had to be able to fit in the car. He's been living on a week's worth of clothes since he was four. Now he's got more space to fill than he knows what to do with. He's got room to grow.
He looks around at the empty walls. He makes plans.
—
DW: I can't tell if this guy i just men is really gay or if he's just fucking with me
DW: Met not men
CB: Great hook, you got me right from the opener. Say more words now.
DW: He said he wasn't really flirting he was just tailing me and then we had to fight a bunch of nazis so it didn't really come up again but I thought he was really flirting. Would a guy flirt with me just for a job if he wasn't really gay
CB: You helped me flirt with a guy for a job…
CB: Also, nazis??????
DW: Shut up
DW: Yea nazis long story. I'll call in a min gonna do a grocery run
—
The thing about Lebanon is that it's about one square mile, and the only market in town isn't exactly fully stocked. They're also cash-only, which is good for staying unnoticed if they end up staying here awhile, but bad for Dean's dwindling pool fund. Dean won't turn his nose up, though, because the beef is local and looks kinda fucking amazing. He gets some essentials and the stuff he needs for a good burger and plans to make the hour-long trek out to the nearest Walmart some other time.
He works his ass off trying to make sure it's all perfect, grilling the onions and the buns with butter, and making test burgers all morning to make sure he's got the perfect balance of browned and crusty on the outside, juicy and mildly pink on the inside. It pays off when Sam groans into the first bite. Bet a lentil burger never got that kind of reaction, huh?
Sam's reaping the benefits of Dean's enthusiasm for homemaking, but he's not half as enthused about the bunker as Dean is. He keeps calling it a tomb. They waited a few days to pick up the abandoned teacups and spoons, to wash the old stains off in the sink. The sight of them was more than a little bit creepy, but it felt a little like disturbing a sleeping spirit to touch them. No ghosts, here, though, as far as they've seen. Just a lot of old books and artifacts, and room upon empty room.
Even Sam can't argue with the amenities, though. Dean's gone full tilt, drilling pegs into the wall of his bedroom to display his favorite weapons, putting out the family pictures he's had folded up in his wallet for years, while Sam still seems to be treating the place like a free motel. But Dean's seen the growing collection of toiletries in Sam's corner of the shower room, so he hasn't given up hope that Sam will come around.
Sam also can't argue with the library. He's got it in his head that it needs to be organized, catalogued, digitized, and when they're not gearing up for a hunt Dean can usually find him with his nose in a book. Dad had a journal and a dozen off-the-grid survivalists, and that was it. Bobby had a whole network of hunters and a book collection that put John's journal to shame, and even that was less than half the size of what the Men of Letters have had sitting locked away in a hole in the ground all this time.
Dean thinks about trying to explain this to himself from ten years ago and laughs. He hadn't even believed in vampires back then. Seems pretty stupid now.
—
CB: Did you set up a PO box for your secret lair yet?
DW: No I keep meaning to but I keep finding more rooms in this place and getting distracted it's fucking crazy dude
CB: Well hurry up!
DW: Why
CB: 😇
—
They've got a whole library full of books, but they're all about monsters and crap, so Dean keeps a milk crate in the back seat of the car and starts filling it every time they go out on a job. A used bookstore they pass by in Nebraska has the Lord of the Rings series. Dean snaps a picture and sends it to Charlie. He finds a Bradbury and a Heinlein at a library sale in Illinois, and he sends her pictures of those, too, after he snatches them up for his collection. They pass a garage sale in Missouri and Dean scores the ultimate prize, Zepp on vinyl. He adds it to the jazz record collection some Man of Letters had been building. Not Dean's usual choice of tunes, but he's gotta admit there are some gems in there. He can expand his horizons.
Alone time isn't something Dean's been able to enjoy very often. He's had his nights on his own, sure, and he had that stretch of months without Sam and without Dad that he really doesn't like thinking about, but this feels different. He knows Sam's safe, cause he's right down the hall, but they're not in such tight quarters that they're basically on top of each other. Privacy is right there for them, both of them, whenever they want it. And yeah, okay, not to put too fine a point on it, but holy shit, Dean can have a whole drawer just for porno mags if he wants. He can jerk off in the comfort of his own bed, and he can do it whenever the urge strikes him rather than defaulting to a fully-silent speed-run in the shower before he uses up all the hot water and Sam bitches at him about it. He can take his time with it. That's good, because he's not getting any from anyone else anymore, and he's certainly got a more active imagination than ever, which is a gift and a curse.
The issue is that thinking about Benny makes Dean feel so guilty he can't think about anything else, but whenever he gets himself off these days, it's nearly impossible not to think about him. Women are safe to think about, and sometimes he can keep things focused enough that it's not an issue, but the second he ventures outside the familiarity of his go-to magazines and stumbles on a video of some guy with a thick build, furred thighs, a beard, his mind drifts back to Benny, and then he thinks about calling him, and doesn't, because that's over now. Benny probably tossed his phone anyway. He hates the thing—he only held onto it in case he needed to get in touch with Dean, right? That makes him feel like shit all over again, and usually he gives up on getting off entirely.
—
DW: Dude these comics you sent me are weird
CB: But good right?
DW: Yeah they're funny as fuck
DW: And kinda hot
CB: I knew you'd like Ranma. Takahashi's a legend.
DW: I gotta hide them from Sam though he's thinks it's porno
DW: I mean there's tits and stuff but it's not like sweet princess asuka or anything
CB: How do you know about Princess Asuka?? 👀
CB: Dean.
CB: DEAN
CB: DEAN TELL ME ABOUT YOUR HENTAI COLLECTION
DW: Shut up I don't have a collection Bobby used to have a bunch of bootleg anime tapes on a shelf he thought I couldn't reach that's it
CB: Ye Gods. Baby's first tentacles. 😂
DW: Your so fucking annoying
CB: No u
CB: 💖
—
When things get messy in his head, he can usually distract himself by working on Baby. There's a whole garage full of gorgeous, neglected classic cars begging for Dean to get under their hoods, but his main girl's always gotta come first, and she's overdue for some TLC. Clearing all the daily living stuff out of her has given him space to detail the interior a little, vacuuming up dirt and scrubbing out some blood stains he'd missed when they were fresh. He clears out the entire arsenal in the trunk, re-organizing and optimizing for utility, taking inventory of ammo and sharpening blades. He cleans up the devil's trap on the trunk door—you never know—and gives the whole thing a wash and a wax.
There's one thing he really needs to address, of course. He's been avoiding it since he got back from Purgatory.
The compartment in Baby's trunk still smells a little musty, but it's dried out in the years since Dean hid that old trenchcoat inside. The contents of the double-wrapped plastic bag inside are safe. He doesn't open it. He sets it in his closet and closes the door, then goes back to the garage to scrub the whole inside of the trunk out before he replaces the weapons and ammo.
He feels stupid for it, but fuck, he misses Cas.
Sam doesn't trust Cas. He thinks something's wrong with him. Dean thinks he's right, but he's afraid to say so out loud. He's afraid to bring him up, to say his name. He's afraid to even think about him too hard. He still doesn't know how Cas got out of Purgatory, and he's been acting weird the whole time he's been back. He flits in and out without warning, but he hasn't seen him since Crowley nabbed that Weenie Hut angel. The whole thing left Dean feeling off-kilter. He can't spend every day worrying about Cas, and he feels like Sam would be the first to tell him they can't afford the risk of praying to him, but he'd kind of gotten into the habit. Dean doesn't know what to do if he's not worrying about Cas.
Two years ago he'd watched Cas sink into a river, watched him be devoured and all that was left of him wash away, and he'd thought, I missed my chance. His chance to what? It seems obvious in retrospect. He wasn't ready to name it back then. To save Cas was an undeniable part of it. To save Cas, like Cas had saved him. He'd kept trying, once he got Cas back, once he found him in Purgatory. Always, always, he had to save him. From everything else, or from himself. But that was only part of it. The other part was too big. An ocean he'd been treading water in, eyes firmly shut. He feels like he's been shown the scope of it from a distance now, if indirectly. The shape his want can take. The ways he can be wanted. What does he want from Cas?
An easier question might be what doesn't he want.
But he said it himself. Cas tried to care, and it broke him. Dean missed his chance.
—
CB: What's the caper this week, fellas?
DW: Nothing right now Sam's sick so we're taking a breather
CB: He okay?
DW: Yea he's fine just worn out from the last job. Loading him up on soup and game of thrones
CB: Sounds fun! ^_^
CB: Well if you're busy I won't keep you
DW: All good he passed out anyway I should pause it
DW: Wait a sec
DW: Check out sleeping beauty
DW: Downloading... [IMG_4274.jpg] [255 KB/273 KB]
CB: LMAO OMG
—
Dean unwraps the plastic bag in his closet like he's diffusing a bomb.
The door is locked when he spreads the contents out on his bed, but he still keeps glancing over his shoulder like someone might catch him. Eyeliner, mascara, lipstick, nail polish. He's not sure what the hell he was thinking with that shade of red, but he wasn't exactly using his best judgment at the time. The fishnet stockings are a fucking nightmare, and he shoves them back in the bag and plans to incinerate them the first chance he gets. The choker seems kinda juvenile now. He's not sure what he was thinking with that either. He's in his thirties, for fuckssakes. He tosses it back in the bag too. And the dress is…
Dean feels his face heat, and shoves it in the bag. He can't wear it now, anyway, so what's the point?
What's left are the boots, the shirts and jeans, and the underwear. He puts the boots in his closet. They won't fit him, but they're still a really nice pair of boots. It'd be a waste. Maybe Charlie needs a pair. He should ask what her shoe size is. He kind of told her why he would have women's boots, so it wouldn't be that weird. The shirts and jeans might be weirder. He could donate them or something. And the dress, he guesses. Maybe he'll just do that. Drop them off at a thrift store next time he goes out for supplies. Yeah. That'd probably be fine. He wraps them back up in the plastic and sets them next to the boots in his closet. He'll take them later.
That leaves…
He smooths his thumb over the material. He really had forgotten how nice they were. Silky. He can't wear them now—well, he supposes he could, but he shouldn't, because that would be weird—but even though he's not going to wear them, that's no reason he couldn't keep them, right? It'd be like a memento of that time with Rhonda, even though they weren't hers. Just a nice memory. If, for some reason, someone saw them, he could lie and say some hookup left them behind. They got mixed in with Dean's things. Nobody has to know that the last person he had sex with was a centenarian vampirate who still wears suspenders.
He shoves them, and the makeup, under a pile of socks in his dresser.
There. That's dealt with. Chapter closed.
—
CB: Hey bitch!
DW: Am I allowed to call you a bitch too or what
CB: Depends. You gonna turn back into a lady?
CB: ?
CB: You can call me Your Highness...
DW: What do you want
CB: Is that how you address your Queen??
DW: What the fuck do you want your highness
CB: I'll let that slide just this once.
CB: Moondoor does a mid-year jubilee every summer, and as your Queen, I cordially invite you. It's gonna be in honor of Ed and Lance. Wine and song, merrymaking, etc etc etc drunk nerds and foam swords.
CB: Pleeeeease tell me you and Sam will come?
DW: Yea ok sounds fun
DW: Can we bring real swords
CB: We're trying NOT to get anyone else killed this year Dean.
DW: Ok we'll leave them in the car
—
Sometimes, Dean thinks about Mary Campbell.
Not Mary Winchester, the homemaker in a consignment shop sundress, the woman who sang "Hey Jude" when she tucked him into bed, the woman John Winchester mourned with violence for twenty years. Mary Campbell, the hunter's daughter. The girl who grew up with salt on the windowsills and holy water on the nightstand, just like Dean had. She had wanted more from life, and for a few years, she'd tried to have it. She packed away the knives and the crucifixes and lied, and lied, and lied, every day of her life, to give her family the normalcy she'd never had.
It didn't work out in the end. Dean knows how that goes. He knows that, like his mother, there's no escaping the life. He's got nothing else, and he's made his peace with that. He's had to.
The Demon Tablet, and these trials Sam's undergoing, hoping to close the gates of Hell, though. That's got him thinking. What if there really was an end in sight? What if they win? What if it sticks this time?
What if?
Sam gave him a hell of a speech after that first trial. Dean's been thinking about it a lot. A light at the end of the tunnel. It's hard to believe, but, god, Dean wants to.
It doesn't feel like a lie, living in the bunker, making it a home. He still hunts. He's surrounded by evidence of the occult every day. Whatever comes at them next, he's braced for it, and probably always will be.
But he's also filling the empty spaces with books, with art, with long showers and comfortable bathrobes, with the smell of a homemade meal wafting down the hall. He's been trying to learn to make pie. He's still never gotten the crust right, and every time so far the filling's bubbled over and filled the entire kitchen with smoke, but he's this close to getting something half a good as his mom used to make. He's just gotta keep trying.
And Sam was right. He wants to invite people in. He wants Charlie to come visit, to geek out with him about how he lives in the actual goddamn Batcave. He wants to call up Jody and see how she's doing, to drink too much wine with her and reminisce about what a weird old kook Bobby could be. He wants to give Kevin a real place to live, where he can do the work that needs to be done without sending himself to his grave before he's even 20. A place where his mother could know he's safe. Where Dean could make sure he's eating something besides coffee, hot dogs, and uppers.
Hell, he'd let Garth come over and visit if Garth ate his cooking and asked for seconds.
And he wants to call Benny, to apologize to him, to start by keeping a stash of blood bags in the freezer for him, to try to get Sam to see him the way Dean does. He wants Cas to come back. He wants to sit him down and make him watch all his favorite movies, to laugh at the oddball conclusions he draws from them, to mess up his hair and watch his puzzled stare soften into a secret smile.
He wants it all. Maybe that makes him greedy.
He looks at the weathered photograph propped up against his lamp, at the way his mother's smile creases the corners of her eyes, the same way as his. She had wanted more for her children. She let her past die and looked to the future.
Dean wants more. He wants to live through this. He wants Sam to live through this, to see what Dean sees in this place, to see what it can be for their family. All the mistakes they've made, all the loss, all of it can be another closed chapter in their lives. There's a future for them here. Dean just has to make it possible.
—
CB: Thanks for the anti-possession thingamabob. Don't think I'm ready for a pentagram tramp stamp yet.
CB: And no comments from the peanut gallery about my other tattoo lolz
—
CB: Did you get my last package yet?
CB: ?
—
CB: Someone re-shot a JJTrek scene with women in the lead roles and omg I'm in love.
CB: https://youtu.be/IX6KT1Ai07o
CB: I know you hate nuTrek and I share your reservations but counterpoint: HOT LADY KIRK
CB: Like I'm kinda going to my happy place thinking about LadyKirk and Gaila getting their freak on
CB: You there?
—
CB: Hey your voicemail is full jsyk
—
CB: Got a hold of Sam and he told me you're alive, so that's good, you asshole.
—
CB: Sam said something happened with a friend of yours?
CB: You okay?
—
Charlie tells him she loves him.
Dean tells her he knows, and kisses the crown of her head.
Dean says, rustling her hair, "You can stay awhile. If you want."
Charlie says, into his collar, "Yeah. Maybe," and then she's gone.
—
Charlie turns up at their door a few days later with a backpack, a cooler, and dark circles under her puffy eyes. "'Sup bitches," she says meekly.
She cracks herself open a beer and starts to work on hooking up satellite internet for the bunker. When she'd brought that djinn case to them the week before and went to connect to their wifi, she'd given Sam a look of pure horror when he told her he'd been using his phone as a hotspot until now. Charlie's no big fan of satellite, but when you live in a secret hideout in literally the dead middle of nowhere, there's only so many options, and she insists she's gonna (in her words) “pimp it out” for them. Dean assists—he may not know much about the internet, but he's good enough with electronics—and within a few frustrating hours, they've got a connection that doesn't rely on Sam's spoofed-credit-card wireless data plan.
"The tech in this place is insane," she says over celebratory pizza at the map table. Sam's looking a little less peaked after resting a few days, and Dean even manages to convince him to eat an extra slice of pepper and sausage pizza without picking all the sausages off. "You said they built it in the thirties?"
"And vacated in the fifties," Sam says, dabbing grease away from his lip with his thumb.
"Un-freaking-believable," Charlie says. She cranes her head around, admiring the architecture. "These Letters dudes must have had, like, infinite dollars."
"Yeah, and all it took was one demon to take down the whole operation," Dean says, working his way through slice number six.
"Well, you guys stopped a whole apocalypse, and you did that without a dime to your names," Charlie says. She slaps Sam on the shoulder firmly enough that he winces. "You got this!"
"Yeah, thanks, Charlie," Sam coughs. "Right now, we just have to focus on trying to find Kevin and getting the third trial done."
"Does being a prophet give him, like, special stealth powers?"
"No, but being a twitchy little genius does," Dean says.
"He's a smart kid," Sam says. "He had his future all planned out. And this, all this… being a prophet, it upended his whole life. I mean, I get it. I used to want to run away, too." His face is pale, his lips thin, and he won't look up from his hands, clasped in his lap as he slumps. Something in Dean rages.
The thing is, Dean knows he's been a shit to Sam. He knows. He told him not to bother getting attached to the little friends he made in school, because it's not like they were gonna remember Sam when they didn't have an address to write to or a yearbook picture to look at. He told him not to worry so much about getting good grades, because it wasn't like they were gonna mean anything in the long run. And when Sam had confided in him that he'd taken the SAT, that he'd applied for some scholarships, that he had been accepted to three different schools, instead of telling him good job, that he was proud of him, he'd yelled at him about spending their money on the applications, because he knew he was gonna have to come up with the difference somehow or else Dad was gonna find out. And Christ, if their dad found out, Dean knew he was gonna go nuclear.
Fact is, his brother had always wanted more from life than Dean could give him, and that hurt more than he wanted to admit. Dean had been the one to drag Sam back into this life, kicking and screaming. Now Dean's finally starting to see his perspective, and here's Sam, worn down to practically nothing, saying he's done running from it, and all Dean wants is for him to run as far away as he can get. He'd give anything for Sam to throw in the towel, to say he quits, that he's giving this all up to go back to school. Or hell, anything else. Sam's smart and he works harder than anyone when he sets his mind on something. Sam should be a lawyer, or a teacher, or a goddamn alpaca farmer. He shouldn't be killing himself trying to slam the gates on Hell.
Sam's swaying in his seat, so Dean tells him to go to bed early. He's half a step from helping him hobble down the hallway to his room, but Sam waves him off. He and Charlie stuff the rest of the pizza into one box and pack it away in the fridge, but they linger in the kitchen with their beers.
"Is he gonna be okay?" Charlie asks, eyes lingering on the empty doorway. "He's really giving 'butter scraped over too much bread' vibes."
"I dunno," Dean admits. "I… I didn't want him doin' this, but he's stubborn as shit. He thinks getting it done will… you know, make him feel better. Hopefully he's right."
"I don't guess your dreamy angel pal Castiel could flap in and heal him, huh?"
Dean cringes. "Why do you keep calling him—what, are there pictures in those stupid books?"
"Only on the covers. I gotta say, their artistic vision is… not entirely accurate." Charlie grins, looking Dean over. "But the descriptions are so flowery. It's all, 'Oh, the sharp knife's edge of his cheekbones', 'Oh, his piercing blue gaze,' 'Oh, his smoky, gravelly voice,' and stuff like that. And you guys are always gazing at each other."
"Shut up," Dean grumbles. Jesus, he's going to burn every copy of those books he can find. "I can't believe you fuckin' read those things." He huffs, setting his empty bottle in the sink and getting himself a new one from the fridge. He twists the lid off with his flannel and aims for the trashcan from across the room. It lands on the floor with a clink. "Lot happened after those books left off, though."
"Yeah, they didn't even get to the best part, where your dashing, supergenius hacker friend is introduced."
Dean reaches over, ruffles her hair, and she shoves him away, snorting.
"Sam said something happened with one of your friends while you were ignoring my texts, you big jerk." Charlie's expression sobers. "That was super cool and vague of him, but I kinda didn't want to push."
Dean sinks down onto a stool at the kitchen table. "Thing is, I can't narrow it down for you at all, because I dunno if he was talking about Cas, or Bobby, or—or Benny."
"Benny?" Dean glances up to see the worried look on her face. Evidently she remembers Dean mentioning him. His stomach turns.
"Long—" His throat catches, his voice guttering out. "Long story. Long, bad story."
"Okay. What happened to Castiel, then?"
"The angels happened to him," Dean says through his teeth. "Second verse, same as the first."
"Is he…?"
"No, they—they reprogrammed him. He broke out of it, but he—I dunno where he is. He's running. Not answering his calls. Got every feathery-wingéd dick in Heaven after him." He sniffs, sucking on his teeth. "He never lets me—never lets us help, and it always gets him in trouble. He doesn't trust me. Even after everything we've been through, he doesn't trust me. He nearly killed me, and I still didn't—" He grits his teeth, holding it back. Charlie doesn't need to hear this.
"Slow down a sec," she says. "He did what?"
"It wasn't his fault," Dean says, and he feels her mounting a protest without even looking. He doesn't need to explain it to her, explain that he could feel his bones cracking under Castiel's fist, that he knew with certainty in that moment that those words would be the last he ever said to Cas if he didn't stop. It would just make it sound worse. He hadn't even told Sam what Cas did, not all of it. And Dean's mad at him, but he's not trying to make Cas sound like one of the monsters they hunt. That's not the point. The point is that the other angels are dicks. "That, that wasn't his fault, that was Heaven. They've done it before, I know they have, they fuck with his head, and I know that wasn't—that wasn't really him. I don't blame him for that. But he broke out of it. He was back in the driver's seat. And he still fucked off."
That's the part that really stings. Not the blood welling up in his mouth, the split of his skin under Castiel's knuckles. That Dean could literally go to his knees before him, begging him to come back, knowing that he might be bargaining with his last breath, and Cas would still leave him. He'd escaped with his life, but the part of him that still hoped he and Cas could be… he doesn't know anymore, because he left that part of him behind in the crypt.
"He's gone," Dean says. "I can pray to him all I want, but it's a waste of breath. We're on our own."
"Not completely," Charlie says, and hops down off the counter. "You've got me."
Dean shakes his head. "You can't tell me you wanna take this on now. Not after all the crap you've been through. It's too dangerous."
"Yeah, why not?" Charlie frowns, fists on her hips, staring him down.
"Don't. Don't be stupid, Charlie."
"Why is it stupid? Why can't I wanna help people? Why can't I wanna help you? To do something... meaningful with my life?"
"Because you don't have to!" Dean barks. Charlie flinches, but she stands firm. "This isn't your responsibility. You got a life. You got a choice."
"I've got a choice to bury my head in the sand and go back to—to coding apps for billionaires, you mean."
"Yeah! You do!" Dean slaps his open palm down on the table, pushing himself to his feet, because if he looks at Charlie's pale, earnest face right now, he's gonna lose it. "God damn it, I don't—I had to bury Benny, you know that?"
He hears her voice behind him say, "Dean," too softly. He scrubs his hand back through his hair, unable to turn around all the way, but he lowers his voice. He shouldn't wake Sam.
"We're supposed to burn 'em, I know, but I—I couldn't—Because what if he finds his way back outta Purgatory again, you know? What if he—"
"Dean," she says again, and he feels her hand on his arm. He turns around, but he doesn't look up to meet her eyes. She sits him down at the kitchen table. "What happened?"
He can't seem to bring himself to tell her all of it. The vague outlines, the sketch of it—that he'd had to kill him himself, that he'd smiled at Dean and held him, like it was a kindness, that he'd stayed behind to save Sam's life and Bobby's soul—these things he can force himself to tell her.
But the rest of it—trying to carry the solid weight of Benny's body into the backseat of his car on his own. Laying a blanket down for the blood. Having to make a second trip for his head. Driving for days, back up to Maine, trying not to think of the shape in the backseat as a corpse. Sam coming back with Bobby in tow, but no one else. Picking a spot he'd be able to find again to dig a grave, just in case. Every time he tries to explain it, it comes out so broken and weak, he thinks he must sound like a whiny little brat. Just some soft little idiot who still wants someone to hold his hand every time he gets a boo-boo. He's gotta get over it. If he's gonna keep it together long enough to get this done, he's gonna have to get over it.
"I've just had to lose too many goddamn people," Dean says. "I dunno if I can do it again. I—and Sam, he's—I dunno, Charlie. I dunno."
He feels the sharp press of Charlie's shoulder into his bicep. Her hand slips into his, squeezing. His jaw trembles, and he shuts his eyes tight, willing it to stop. She lets him breathe, gives him time to collect himself. The kitchen is quiet, aside from the faint ticking of the clock on the far wall, and the low hum of the fridge.
"My mom's sitting in a box in the trunk of my car," Charlie says. Dean looks down at her sharply. "I, uh. It went really fast. After they disconnected the machine. I read to her for a little bit, but around the time they got to Mirkwood, I looked up, and she, uh… she was…" Dean can hear her throat working. He squeezes her hand, and feels her squeeze back. "She, uh. She already kinda didn't look like my mom. Like, the way I remember her, she was so—so vibrant, and laughing all the time, I can remember her laugh so well, and then there's just this person lying in a bed, looking so gray and sunken. Like, when I first checked in and they let me in to see her, I thought, oh my god, you know, she already… she already looks dead. But I was wrong. I was wrong, because when she was dead, I could tell. It was different. I could tell. I thought maybe it would be harder. To tell. If someone dies kinda peacefully, like that, in bed, but. Her face was..."
Dean releases her hand to tuck her hair behind her ear, trying to see her face. She keeps her head tilted down, gazing at her feet on the linoleum.
"I had to sign all this paperwork. Release stuff. And I guess I could set up a funeral for her, but I don't really know anyone that I want to invite to something like that. I never told anybody about this stuff. I don't know anyone she was friends with before the accident. We don't have any other family. It was just me. And everyone in Michigan, they all still think my name is Carrie Heinlein, you know?"
"You want me to call you Celeste?" Dean never thought to ask. Seemed rude to call someone a name they hadn't given you by choice.
"I'll fight you if you try it," Charlie says, nudging his arm. He catches a pale imitation of a smile on her mouth, barely a twitch. "They cremated her. They gave me a box that weighs less than a bag of groceries, and that's my entire mom. And I don't know what to do with her. I guess I'm supposed to—to bury her next to my dad? I don't even know if they set aside a plot next to his for her or not. But you get it, right?" Charlie looks up at him then, big hazel eyes rimmed with red. "You know."
Dean wipes his hand over his mouth, feeling the scrape of his stubble. "I mean. Yeah. And no. I didn't… there wasn't anything of Mom left to bury, after what that demon did. The police, they didn't know what to make of that, cause, you know— just a fire like that, there should be bones, or something, but… And Dad, he was just out of his mind, trying to figure it out. He didn't have a funeral either. Some relative of Mom's we never met put up a stone for her, but there was nothing buried under it. And then, when Dad… You know, typical hunter's funeral. Nothing to take with us but his dog tags. But if you're asking me if I get what it feels like… then yeah. I get that. And I'm sorry."
"Then you know," Charlie says, steeling herself. "You know. So don't… don't talk to me like I don't get what you're doing. You know I can't just sit around and do nothing. And if Sam's really as bad as… I just. I wanna help. If you'll let me. I'm not saying you have to give me a grenade launcher and put me on the front lines, just. I mean, I'm kind of attached to you guys now." She gives him a wet smile, and shrugs one thin shoulder. "You got me all invested and stuff. And who else is gonna talk about tentacle porn with me if something happens to you?"
Dean snorts. "I'm sure there's like, half a dozen little geeks in Moondoor that are dying to talk to you about tentacle porn."
"Not the ones I want to talk to," she grumbles. Dean bites back a smile.
"Okay, kiddo. I mean. You can stay here. Long as you want. Not like we don't got room. And I'm pretty sure Sam wanted to steal that monster-ID-app from you."
"Oh, I've got ideas," Charlie says, dabbing wetness away from her eyes. "Your whole system here needs to be digitized, that's a priority."
"Christ, the two of you together are gonna be a nightmare," Dean says, fondness coloring his tone.
She knows where her guest room is already, but she asks Dean to help her get set up and ropes him into watching Resident Evil with her, her laptop propped up on his legs, because she claims that Milla Jovovich is her "security blanket." He quietly extricates himself from the bed when she starts snoring against his shoulder, shutting the laptop and lowering her to the pillow with the carefulness with which he'd put Sam down after finally getting him to nod off when he was little and still in his night terrors phase.
In the morning, Dean makes coffee. Charlie emerges with very impressive bedhead, pours herself a cup she splashes liberally with milk, and then starts dumping sugar in while Dean gapes at her in horror.
"What?" She blows on the steaming mug. "You're gonna tell me you actually like drinking it black?"
"Yeah, because I'm an adult man and not a thirteen year old girl at Starbucks," Dean scoffs, and sips his coffee. He holds Charlie's stare while he does it, willing himself not to blink. Yeah, it's bitter. It's supposed to be. Besides, Dean had stopped stealing sugar packets and half and half from diners after his stint at Sonny's, and that meant training himself to enjoy the taste of black coffee.
"Dude, who are you trying to impress?"
Charlie stops teasing him after that, but his ears are still burning. When she gets up to pour herself another cup, he sneaks a spoonful of sugar into his.
Sam doesn't stumble out of his room until it's already past noon. Charlie's been poking around their library, sorting through the catalog cards, but once Sam's there, Dean can't focus on anything but how he doesn't look any better than he did last night. He's got a cough, and dark circles, and he looks sallow and damp with sweat.
"What about soup? You want soup? I got all the stuff. Dad's soup always used to knock the hell outta my sinuses whenever I got a cold. Yeah?" Sam makes a noncommittal noise. "Soup? Charlie? Soup?"
"Soup's good," she says, smiling encouragingly at him. "Don't worry, I'll keep an eye on young Master Winchester."
"Thanks, Alfred," Dean says, rolling his eyes and biting back a smile.
"Sam, you mind if I check out your setup?" Charlie points at the laptop. "I promise I won't go through your browser history."
"Oh, don't worry. I got nothin' to hide," Sam says, grimacing his way through a shiver. It must be some kind of little brother superpower, being able to give Dean shit while looking like he's about to keel over. "Right Dean?"
Dean freezes in the doorway. "What? No. I mean yes. Shut up." He dips out, heading for the kitchen.
He scans the pantry. He's got stacks and stacks of soup cans, because they stay good for years, and Dean figures they're good to have in an emergency. This definitely qualifies. He's got two cans of Campbell's tomato-rice, the kind their mom used to make for Dean when he was little. Dad was the one who, in later years, added whatever else they had lying around, whether that be other cans of soup or leftover takeout cartons of stir-fried vegetables, to make it stretch further. And Dean did it just the way their father had done in his memory, dumping condensed soup out into the pot and following that with two canfuls of tap water and whatever spices they had on hand to dress it up. Packets of red pepper flakes always went a long way in the past. Dean doesn't have any of those, but he does have powdered garlic and cayenne. That's bound to help Sam clear out that cough of his, right?
They get Kevin's email not long after Dean brings out the bowls on a tray. Then the afternoon turns into one of agonizing over Kevin's notes, trying to track down Metatron, trying not to think too hard about Kevin, not on the run, but taken.
All the clues point to Colorado. When Charlie stands up to trail after them, Dean stops her in her tracks.
"No. We talked about this."
"I can help," she protests.
"You can help here," Dean insists. "We're trusting the Batcave to you. Look for anything we might have missed in Kevin's notes, and keep an ear out if I call, in case we need intel. And you can get the word out to the others if we go dark, or if Garth turns up. Okay?"
"Dean…"
"Okay?"
Charlie purses her lips, but nods once, sharply. "Fine. Okay. But be careful. I'll check in with you."
"That's my girl," Dean says, and then he's off, with his half-delirious brother.
—
CB: You guys made it there yet?
DW: Yea we're here
DW: I'll keep you posted
—
DW: Kevin's alive
CB: Oh thank god
DW: Lot happened but we'll go over it when we get back. Heading out now
CB: Drive safe.
—
CB: You make it to St. Louis okay?
DW: Yeah all good
CB: Castiel is really worried about you.
DW: Ok
CB: Just thought you might want to know.
CB: I tried to get him to settle down and help me file, but he's not the best study buddy atm.
CB: I asked him to go out and pick up snacks because he was starting to distract me with all the fidgeting and pacing around and asking about you and Sam.
CB: He's really not what I expected an angel to be like. He's kind of a dork.
DW: We're kind of busy right now let me know if something actually important happens
CB: Dude
CB: Fine.
—
CB: Dean look I know you're pissed at Castiel but he hasn't come back from the store yet and it's been a while and I'm kind of worried. Does he have a cell? Should I pray to him or something???
CB: Dean come on.
CB: Pick up the phone
CB: You'd better be in life-threatening peril or else I'm going to kill you!!!!
DW: Detour in SD gotta deal with something. Also Cas always fucks off I told you that's just what he does don't waste your time
—
DW: Cas is here you can relax
CB: Great. Thanks.
DW: On our way back via angel train don't piss yourself
—
CB: The bunker is on full lockdown and there's a freak meteor shower all over the news and I feel like that's you guys. Is it you guys? Did Sam do it?
CB: I'm trying to figure out how to reset the alarm.
CB: Kevin is flipping his shit.
CB: Call me when you get this.
—
DW: At the hospital
CB: Calling now.