Chapter Text
His fingers are black at the tips—covered in papercuts, ink and glue.
Stacks of books tower above his head as he crouches over one of their brothers, and he smiles. This—this is Dean’s happy place.
As much as he hates seeing one of these precious novels get destroyed, nothing beats the satisfaction he feels from fixing them. And he’s seen it all: moldy mountains growing from between the pages, food and gunk sealing both covers closed. Tears, chew marks, volumes that appear to have been read by the Hulk … there’s nothing he can’t handle.
He’s the master … the wizard … the overlord!
Well … at least when it comes to fixing books.
People on the other hand … not so much. People, they’re not as easy to read, as easy to fix—as easy to pile off to the side when he wants to be left alone, which seems to happen more and more these days.
Sam says that Dean has become a hermit, hiding between the stacks of his library, never coming up for air.
“You’ll die from some toxic mold one of these days and it’ll be weeks before anyone finds your body” his brother had said during their last phone call.
“Stop being so overdramatic” Dean groaned back, “Charlie would smell me rotting within the first couple of hours.”
Sam laughed. “True. But then she’d probably get distracted by some book she hadn’t read yet and leave you there.”
Dean smiled and then nodded at his phone. “Yeah—probably.”
Charlie was one of the few people Dean could actually stand to be around—well her, Sammy, and Uncle Bobby. That was about it; but unlike Sam and his Uncle Bobby, Charlie is a social butterfly. She’s bubbly and loves to chit chat and go out on “quests” as she likes to call them—aka: normal, everyday outings that aren’t at all exciting. She can be loud and crazy, and those characteristics usually drive Dean completely insane, but for some reason, Charlie is the exception.
They met nearly five years ago now, back when Dean was just a clerk in this library. This bouncing red head would always come skipping through the doors, and then leave with twenty books in her arms. And the time in between—she’d spend telling Dean about every single story she had read the week before (usually fantasies—not Dean’s favorite genre, but whatever) and Dean would just smile and nod and continue straightening the shelves or checking in books, or whatever it was he was doing at the time.
Maybe that’s why her personality never really bothered him. She didn’t expect a response—she didn’t really expect anything from him. She just wanted to share her joy with someone who might actually understand it, and Dean had two ears and a quiet library to do so.
Eventually, she began asking what kind of books Dean liked to read, so she could enjoy those too (plus, she had already burned through the entire fantasy section) so Dean started showing her things from his reading list—which had quite a wide variety. There was a lot of realistic fiction on there, stories that made him think about the people in his own life: his mom, his brother, or someone he forgot he even knew until some beautifully written sentence reminded him of the way they used to smile. He showed Charlie the adventure pieces that made his heart race, and that he’d usually finish in one go, because there was no way he could put it down for anything. He showed her non-fictions on science and war and true tales of regular people performing amazing acts to change the world—and Charlie ate it all up with a spoon.
Over the years—they came to know one another through each of these stories; and before they realized it, they were spending every day together just trading books and discussing the new feelings that they got to experience because of them.
So it was only natural that Dean offered her his old position as clerk once the librarian spot became available, and the girl jumped at the chance.
The rest, as they say, is history.
“Alright, man! I’m heading out … got a really special quest tonight!” Charlie blurts while busting in through the backroom door.
Dean jolts in his seat, nearly knocking over one of the stacks of damaged books that he has yet to fix. “Jeez—yeah, okay. Do you have to be so loud about it though?”
Charlie giggles and then loops her arms around his neck, popping her chin over his shoulder so she can see what he’s doing. “Uh—duh! I’m excited! It’s my third date with Dorothy, so you know what that means …”
“Your quest will end in Vagina Town?” Dean grumbles—grimacing immediately after he said it because he’s obviously been hanging around this girl too much.
“Exactly! I need to go brush my teeth and wash my … well, ya know. I need to be fresh down there! Like a daisy!”
Dean’s grimace deepens. “Okay, alright—thanks for that. Can I get back to work now?”
The girl snorts in amusement before giving him a squeeze and then standing upright once more. “Gah, Dean—you’re such a prude. Just because you don’t like vaginas doesn’t mean you’ll die from hearing about them. Besides, you brought it up!”
It’s true, he did stupidly turn the conversation down this road, but that doesn’t mean he can’t turn it right back around again. “Whatever, just go and do what ya need to do, and feel free to not share any of the details with me tomorrow.”
Charlie is already halfway out the door by the time he finishes what he’s saying. And with just a wave of her pale hand through the opening, Dean hears, “Oh, you know I will!” and then she’s gone.
Dean smiles in spite of himself. As much as Charlie can drive him nuts, it’s a drive that he enjoys taking. He chuckles as he goes over the last couple minutes in his head, blindly reaching to the top of the stack to pull down another damaged book to mend.
He starts to open it.
But the covers won’t come apart.
Probably syrup he starts to think to himself—knowing that quite a few people tend to read in the mornings while eating their waffles or French toast; but as he glances down at the book, really taking it in for the first time since he picked it up, he quickly realizes that the covers aren’t lackered with a healthy coating of maple, nor are they stuck because of some spilt glue or juice.
There, stabbing right through the letter O of this “Build it Yourself: Woodwork Made Easy” How-To book, is a thick, six inch nail.
“What the hell?” he chokes, flipping over the book to look at the other side. The back cover has only the tiniest of holes where the silver tip of the nail is just starting to poke through, but all-in-all, the book has been entirely nailed shut. “How … what … I don’t …” he questions aloud, turning the book over and over in his hands, trying gently several more times to pull the covers apart. “Why?” he finally exclaims to the dust, now noticing some large staples as well, like from a staple gun—imbedded in the back cover near the spine.
What appears to be wood stain is also dripped all over the top pages, and the entire gutter across the binding has been filled with wood shavings and debris. “Why the hell didn’t Charlie tell me about this?” he growls after another moment, thinking that there’s no way that girl could’ve missed such a wreck. Small rips and tears, mold spots and water damage—sure, those things can be easy to overlook—but this?
Dean knows Charlie has been distracted by this new chick she’s dating, but books always have, and always will be her first love, so seeing one go so mistreated had to have gotten her attention.
He tilts to the side and rips his phone from his pocket, quickly scrolling through the few numbers he has saved to find Charlie’s, and the line is ringing just a second later.
“Hey, what did I forget?” she says upon answering, probably assuming that she forgot to lock the front door on her way out—a mistake that she’s been guilty of countless times.
Dean could laugh, and he would if the sight of the nail sticking out of that cover wasn’t just below his nose. “Oh, I don’t know—maybe it was the book that apparently Bob the Builder went ballistic on!”
“What?” Charlie mumbles, laughing innocently around the word.
“The How-To book, Charlie! The book that someone nailed shut! Like, literally nailed shut! As if it was a goddamn coffin! A six inch galvanized nail, bam! Right in the middle of the front cover!”
A small gasp tumbles over the line, and it sounds so genuine that Dean instantly feels guilty for raising his voice. “You didn’t see it?” he asks, lower, calmer than he was just a moment ago.
“No!” Charlie cries, equal parts surprised and horrified, judging by the squeak in her voice. “I would’ve noticed that!” A long pause follows and then an ever larger sigh. “Maybe it was Melinda who brought it in.”
Dean nods, eyes widening with the explanation. The janitor, Melinda is always trying to do extra little things to help them out in the library. She’s a true sweetheart, and Dean can’t help but feel bad whenever the place is a mess after some event or function, because that woman is so timid and kind—the thought of her having to break her back to clean up after others makes him feel like a total ass. Often times, he’ll stay later just to give her a hand, which she always insists isn’t necessary. “Dean, please—this is my job. I don’t mind it at all” she’ll say, but Dean will just shake his head and continue sweeping or mopping, or emptying the trash … anything to help her out.
Charlie carries on, “I know when the return bin gets really full at night, she’ll sometimes empty it out for us. She’ll stack the check-ins on my desk, and she sets the damaged ones on the stacks in the back for you. She probably didn’t know what else to do with a book like that.”
“Yeah—okay” Dean grumbles, still very upset about the book, but he feels a little better knowing that it wasn’t neglected on purpose. “So, you didn’t check it in yet?”
Charlie hums at that. “Nah, no—I would’ve noticed the big ass nail if I had.”
With another nod, Dean grabs the book again and starts walking towards the door so he can get to the circulation desk. “Okay, well—I’ll check it in now and find out who this book-destroying D-bag is.”
“Keep me updated! I wanna know too.” And then Charlie sounds like she’s about to say goodbye but quickly stops herself. “Um—although, do ya mind telling me tomorrow? I uh—I’m gonna be pretty busy tonight, remember?”
Dean smirks. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Enjoy your fish-dinner.”
“Fish? We’re going to a steakhouse—oh, ew. Oh my God, Dean!”
“What?” Dean laughs wickedly, walking up to the computer located at the front of the library.
“You’re so wrong!”
“What?”
With even more fervor, Charlie groans again. “I’m hanging up now. Have fun tugging at your nail.”
And before Dean can think of something clever to say back, the girl hangs up on him—which is probably for the best, because if he kept going, he’d most likely end up really pissing her off. He does have a tendency to take a joke too far, especially if he’s already in a mood. With a long sigh, he turns his focus back to the book, wishing that there was something he could do help the poor thing. Some way to get back all the words that the nail impaled; but as good as he is, there are some things that even the wizard can’t mend.
After another moment of quiet consideration, Dean logs onto the computer and then onto Destiny, the program they use to manage the books. It’s also the program they use to keep track of all their patrons, so with a few clicks and then a scan of the barcode on the back of the wrecked text, Dean is reading the name of the dubious culprit … the dastardly fiend, the malevolent villain. The asswipe who decided to ruin a wonderful creation that’s only intention in life was to help.
“Castiel Novak” Dean reads—he certainly sounds like a villain.
For a second, he almost picks up the phone to call Charlie again, wanting to ask her if she recalls anyone by that name, but then he remembers how she said not to disturb her tonight, and he really doesn’t need that redhead all fired up and pissed off at him for ruining her magical third date.
So he sets his phone back on the counter and continues clicking away at the patron’s profile. First things first, he’s going to add a fine to it—the total cost of the book, which only amounts to $19.95, but he really considers adding on another fifty bucks for pain and suffering.
He doesn’t … reluctantly.
With that done, he then clicks on the patron number—the seven digit ID that each person gets when they obtain a library card. However, usually when they get their card, they also get their photo taken, and that photo is then attached to their patron profile. Dean wants to see what this guy looks like so that he can be aware the next time he comes in.
Yeah, he hates talking to people, but he has no problem confronting them, and this fartwaffle certainly deserves a confrontation!
No picture.
Figures.
There are certain patrons who sign up for their cards online; so unless they choose to add a picture, one isn’t attached to their ID. Not many people even know about that feature on their website though—or know that the library has a website at all, so it’s rare to see a photo-less account. They are located in a small suburb of Lawrence Kansas. It’s an old town with even older residents—not really a tech-savvy bunch. The only time a lot of young people come in is when the nearby community college has their midterms and finals, and even then—there aren’t that many people signing up for cards.
It would just be Dean’s luck that this guy is one of the few in Lawrence to know his way around a computer.
“Shit” he mutters, really wanting to put a face to that name. “Castiel Novak” he says again, scrunching up his nose at the sound of it. “What kind of name is that?” he asks the empty library, as if one of the numerous books would explain it to him; and in all honesty, he probably does have a book about the origins of names somewhere in the 400s … or maybe the 900s?
The Dewey Decimal System is a finicky thing.
He lifts his head up and glances towards the tall shelves in the back— and his mind wanders, and soon he’s chasing it down the stacks and pulling down book after book to try and figure out the source of the name.
If he can’t see a picture of the guy, maybe he can read enough to form one in his head.
***
The next morning, Charlie arrived with bags under her eyes and barely brushed hair—but the huge smile on her face made the all of that hardly noticeable.
“Good night?” Dean asks, barely looking up from the desk calendar that he’s busily filling out.
“The—best—night—EVER!” the girl yelps, immediately collapsing into one of the other swivel chairs. “Dorothy … I mean … wow. Dean, like really … WOW! She’s so pretty, and crazy, and—in bed, OMG, let me tell ya! She—”
Dean holds up his hand. “Please, please don’t tell me.”
“But—” Charlie protests, “Dean! Who else am I gonna share all the dirty details with?”
“Share ‘em with that nerd squad ya chat with online.”
Charlie sticks up her nose at that idea. “Ew, no! Those guys would end up just grilling me with a million questions about what it’s like kissing a girl—considering they never have before.”
Dean chuckles, figuring that she’s probably right.
“C’mon …” the redhead persists, “I listened to you when you went out with that Brad guy. Remember, you told me how when you two finally did the dirty, he had that twisted fantasy about putting a cucumber up your—"
Dean throws out his hand again, “Ehh! Okay, yeah—I don’t need to relive that, thank you very much! And in any case, you practically ripped that information out of me! I didn’t give it up voluntarily.”
Charlie folds her arms tightly around herself and pouts, probably because she knows she can’t argue with that fact. Any time Dean actually manages to land a date (a rare occurrence these days), the girl will grill him endlessly for every last detail—not letting him have a single moment of peace until he spills. But she continues to pout all the same, until the air in the small office is thick with it.
Dean rolls his eyes but eventually sighs and leans back in his chair, now focusing all his attention on Charlie. “Fine—you can tell me one thing. Just one. That’s it, so choose wisely.”
The girl’s pout turns into a screwed up expression of disbelief. “One? How the heck can I tell you just one thing? That’s impossible!”
“Ugh, fine! Three things!” Dean groans, thinking for the trillionth time how he’s too easily pushed over by the people he loves. “Three and no more! And if you try to tell me crap that ya know I don’t wanna hear, then I’m blocking your ID, and you won’t be able to check out any more books.”
Charlie jumps back in mock horror, but they both know that she can easily unblock her ID with just a couple clicks of a mouse.
It’s a Library, not Fort Knox.
“Okay, fine. Three things. Three glorious, sexy, fantabulous things …” Charlie then rests her chin on her fists and bites her lip a moment. “Hold on—let me think about how to word this so that you get the best picture of my night.”
“Please—I don’t wanna picture it.”
“Hush, you!” Charlie spits before staring up at the ceiling and throwing herself into a deep meditation.
Dean rolls his eyes once more but eventually goes back to his calendar. He needs to fill in next month’s agenda. Local organizations will often book the library for events and fundraisers, much to Dean’s chagrin. Crowded noisy places are exactly why he loves escaping to the library, so it just feels wrong turning his sanctuary into one; but in a couple of weeks, the town’s soccer team will be holding an auction here to raise funds for new equipment. After that, the local senior community wants to arrange a “Books and Brunch”. These kinds of things are obviously not at all Dean’s cup of tea, and he’d very much prefer getting rid of them altogether if he could, but he has to admit, they keep the doors open. Libraries are a dying breed, so he has to do everything he can to make sure that his stays afloat. The librarian that came before him, Mrs. McCallin, was much better at putting together these sorts of functions and everyone in town used to come to them just because she asked. She was a pillar in the community, but when her health took a turn, she passed the reigns over to Dean. She trusted him to run this place just as well as she did, and there is no way in hell that he’ll let his antisocial tendencies make him disappoint her.
She had given him the clerk job after he dropped out of college. He was originally going to try for a degree in History, but formally studying the subject was starting make him hate it, and he didn’t want to hate it. It was Ms McCallin however, that encouraged him to go back to school to get a degree in Library Science instead. So, with a few night classes and a bunch of online material, Dean was able to take over once that kind, old woman took her leave. But now, with the numbers slowly declining, and patronage at an all-time low, he fears that he may have been the worst thing for this library. It’s no coincidence that after his switch to management, traffic through this place considerably slowed. It picked up some once Charlie got settled in—she’s a people-person, and the people seem to enjoy seeing her face when they walk in the doors, but it still doesn’t appear to be enough.
Dean needs to do more—think outside the box—be a better librarian if this tiny building is going to keep its doors open.
“Okay, I got it!”
A sharp pen mark streaks across his calendar with a jerk. “Jesus, Charlie! Ya gotta yell?”
The girl giggles but doesn’t seem too concerned with the result of her outburst, and she begins spinning in the swivel chair gleefully. “Sorry, but I figured out the three things!” she squeaks as she goes round and round, turning into a blur of red and joy.
Dean sighs as he reaches for the whiteout on the other end of the desk. “And?” he asks, not pretending to be truly interested.
“Okay—so, the first thing …” Charlie says, stopping her spins and suddenly looking very serious. “I think Dorothy could very well be the woman that I will spend the rest of my life with, because, not only is she a big geek like me, she is also super adventurous and romantic and wants to travel the world, and we spent the first three hours of our date last night just listing off all the places that we want to visit—and I swear to God, Dean, our list matched almost perfectly … except for weird places like some small town in Idaho, but I think she said her Grandma lives there so I can’t really fault her for that, plus—”
“You realize that this is already way more than three things, right?” Dean interjects.
“No! This is all one thing—given, it may be the world’s longest run-on sentence, but it’s still just one thing.”
Dean rolls his eyes but then waves his hand lazily, signaling her to continue.
Charlie grins, obviously pleased that he isn’t fighting her on this.
The truth is, he’s too tired to, because he spent most of the night researching that damn name.
“Anyway—so she wants to travel, and so do I, and I am thinking we’ll have our wedding in Spain. Doesn’t that sound amazing? Spain?”
“You two are already talking marriage?” Dean asks, raising a curious brow at her while still focusing on fixing his calander.
Charlie blushes. “Well, no—that doesn’t count as one of the three by the way. That was just a random thought.” She clears her throat and then continues on. “The second thing is that she has a freakin’ Winne-the-Pooh quote tattooed on her hip! Winnie-the-Pooh, Dean! How cute is that?”
Dean pulls his head up and squints at her before setting the whiteout back where it was, having since rectified the cruel gash in his ever-so-meticulous plans. “Depends on the quote, I guess.”
Charlie groans at him. “Uh- not really, because everything that comes out of that little bear’s mouth is pure love and sunshine, but if you must know, the quote is: ‘Sometimes the smallest things take up the most room in your heart.’ Isn’t that adorable?”
Dean shrugs, even though—it is pretty cute.
“I think it’s super adorable!” Charlie swoons, not giving a wink about Dean’s opinion anyway. “Dorothy said that she got it after her dog died. She had him since she was in the first grade, and he died just after she turned eighteen, so she wanted to commemorate his life. Doesn’t that tell you she’s a wonderful person?”
“Uh, not really. I’m sure there are plenty of creepers out there who loved their dogs like that” Dean says with a smirk.
Charlie subsequently picks up the “DISCARD” stamp from the box on the table beside her, and chucks it at his head. “Why are you always so negative?”
Dean deflected the projectile and laughs. “I’m just being realistic!”
“No, you’re being Dean-the-Downer, as usual! I’m trying to tell you that I think I’m in love with this chick, and you’re trying to make her out to be Freddy Krueger or something!”
“If the striped sweater fits.”
Another stamp is immediately flung at Dean’s head.
Charlie huffs. “Can I tell you the third thing, or not?”
Dean bends over and picks up the stamps, making sure neither of them are broken. They’re actually not as easy to replace as one might think. “Depends … is it gross?”
The girl rolls her eyes yet again, but shakes her head zealously. “No! It’s actually something that I think you’ll really respect.”
Dean stares up at her, expecting his friend to be making a face at him, but instead—she seems very sincere. “Yeah? What’s that?”
“Well, when she was sixteen, she had to drop out of school to take care of her younger sister. They didn’t know their dad, and their mom died in a freak accident at work, so Dorothy had to take over. She got a job and she saved up what she could, and when her little sister graduated high school, she was actually able to give her some money for college. I just thought that that was really admirable—and it reminded me quite a bit of some super grumpy, negative dude that I work with.”
Dean’s face heats up, and guilt begins to roil in his stomach but he clears his throat to try and will it away. “Oh” is all he can think to say.
“Uh huh” Charlie yips, sitting up straighter while glaring at him haughtily.
“Well—uh, yeah. She sounds … she sounds like a good one. Don’t screw it up.”
Charlie spits out a laugh before collapsing into her chair once more. “Wow, Dean Winchester—you should become a professional pep-talker. I mean really. A+ material. Astounding. Bravo!” She exaggerates a clap in his direction.
“What? Sorry, okay! I’m just saying, I’m happy for you is all.”
Charlie smiles more genuinely now before peeling herself from the seat. She then walks over to him and pats him on the shoulder. “Yeah, I know. In your messed up way—I know that you care.”
He tries to bat her arms aside, but still she succeeds in giving him a far too intimate hug. “Castiel Novak!” he suddenly yelps, short circuiting with the sudden heart-to-heart he’s found himself in.
“What?” Charlie asks, pulling away quickly so that she can look at the top of his head in confusion.
Dean’s face reddens even more. “The guy! The uh—the book nailer.”
Charlie snickers. “Heh, dirty.”
“Shuddup” Dean grunts, smiling despite his words. “That’s the guy’s name … the one who absolutely destroyed one of our books … Castiel Novak.”
“Oh yeah! Where is that book? I wanna see it! You didn’t throw it out already, did you?” Charlie asks, now sniffing around the tiny office like a bloodhound.
“It’s in the back” Dean says, gesturing to his right with his pen.
In a flash, Charlie is out and then back in again, now with the crucified text in her hand. “Cheese and rice! How the hell did he do this?”
Dean growls, getting angry all over now that the poor book is back in his sights. “It’s probably some jackass kid, trying to play a prank. Or—maybe some religious freak, trying to send a message.”
“What?” Charlie says once more, this time with a squawk. “Where’d you get that idea? I mean—I understand the kid-thing, but …”
Dean sighs and then leans back in the desk chair, tilting his chin towards the ceiling before rubbing at his sleepy eyes. “The dude’s name … Castiel. It means ‘Shield of God’. It’s also the name of the Angel of Thursday or some shit, but my guess is that the whole God-shield thing is more relevant to all this.”
“How so?” Charlie asks, still seeming very perplexed by Dean’s reasoning.
“The nail!” Dean blurts, feeling like this should all be so obvious. “The nail through the whole book—and it’s a carpentry book, well … kinda. But still—Jesus was a carpenter, and the nail represents the stigmata. And I’m sure the staples are symbolic somehow too. I’m guessing it’s a message from some bible-thumper who’s upset about God knows what, and decided to take it out on our library.”
The redhead stares at him for a long moment, just before she busts out laughing.
Dean feels the frustration billow up his throat. “What’s so funny?” he hisses.
“You! You’re hilarious right now! Oh my God!” The girl continues cracking up as Dean continues to stew.
“I don’t see anything funny about that!” Dean insists, but Charlie doesn’t pay him any mind.
After another minute or two, she finally settles down, sitting once more in the swivel chair so she can thoroughly inspect the book. “First of all, Dean—just because the dude’s name has religious meaning, doesn’t mean that he is religious, just that his parents are. And yeah, I suppose he could’ve changed his name to that, but that’s unlikely. Second of all—why the heck would a religious nutso decide to deface the book of some tiny, podunk library in the sticks? What good would that possibly do? If we were the Library of Congress, or even some prestigious college facility, fine—but the West Lawrence County Library? We’re not exactly a hotbed of social issues, my friend. And lastly, the only person who sounds crazy around here, is you with all those wild conspiracy theories. Where’d you even come up with all this anyway?”
He’s all but folded in on himself by the time Charlie is done with her speech, knowing that she’s right and really he does sound like a loon. Dean then proceeds to tell her how he spent most of the night obsessively scouring the stacks for information on the odd name, since the man’s patron profile didn’t do him any good.
“And you thought that the religious history of a biblical sounding name would help you understand why some guy was a careless ass with our book?”
Dean shrugs sheepishly.
“Oh, goodness. You really need to get out more, man. Seriously! When’s the last time you went somewhere other than here or home? When’s the last time you had a conversation with someone other than Sam or me?”
“I chatted with the sales guy when I ordered some books yesterday.” Dean offers, feeling even more embarrassed as soon as he says it.
“Jeez! You know that’s not what I meant! Really, let’s go out tonight. Let’s do something! Who knows, maybe you’ll make a friend—hell, maybe you’ll even get laid!” Charlie is already bouncing up and down with the thought.
Dean’s cheeks heat up as he grumbles. “Uh, no—I have a lot of work to catch up on” which is true, considering he spent most of his night doing nothing of real worth at all.
“C’mon, Dean! Please! Let’s do something!”
Dean turns his focus back to the calendar, immediately refusing to look anywhere else. “Shouldn’t you be unlocking everything by now? We open in ten minutes.”
He can’t see her but he knows that Charlie is frowning at him; and soon, the destroyed book is being slid onto his the desk beneath his nose. “Fine, but I will convince you one of these nights, just you wait.”
“Yeah, yeah. We’ll see” he mutters as Charlie’s steps turn around and fade out the door. He peeks up just as the last strands of her red hair are billowing away. “Oh, and keep an eye out for that Novak guy. If he comes in, I wanna have a word with him!”
“Whatever” Charlie hollers from somewhere out on the floor of the library.
Dean grunts to himself, “Yeah, whatever.”
***
Two weeks came and went. The soccer fundraiser was a success by all intents and purposes, and the days that followed were actually pretty busy, considering Lawrence High School just implemented a more rigorous exit exam for its seniors. Dean had been so swamped with work that he had nearly forgotten about that damaged book, and the infamous Castiel Novak—that is, until he sat down on Friday night to begin the weekly repairs.
The first few books were just the standard messes—loose hinges, bindings in need of reinforcement, and some serious stains that would take several wet wipes to remove, but nothing that Dean couldn’t knock out in just a few minutes each… but then, came the cookbook.
A seemingly normal looking cookbook, except—it had a rather horrifying smell coming from it.
Dean’s stomach twisted a little as he slowly opened it up, worried that there might be a dead mouse trapped in the spine (he’s seen it before) but when that front cover was finally pulled away, Dean found himself wishing it was a mouse.
There, right in the center of the title page like the thing was a target, was a whole and completely squashed hardboiled egg. The once yellow yolk was now a rancid looking green, and the whites of the egg were smooshed across the flyleaf in browning, goopy chunks.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Dean booms, flipping through a few more pages, to see if there were any other food items hiding between them. For the most part, there were only smudges at the corners of each recipe, and a few tears in the center of the papers, but nothing awful—until he reached page thirteen, which had almost been completely burned out of the book. There are just a few charred shreds left holding it to the woven signature.
“Melinda!” Dean calls out, knowing that he’s been here long enough now that she’s probably already out on the floor cleaning up.
“Dean? You’re still here?” Soon enough, the woman’s brown, curly head is popping into the back room. “Why aren’t you home yet? All this can wait until Monday, I’m sure.”
Dean smiles at her quickly, but then lifts up the cookbook and he sobers his face. “Did you put this back here?”
Melinda’s eyes narrow on the book as she takes a step closer, but then stops—probably because the smell of that awful thing jogged her memory. “Oh, yes. I’m sorry—was I not supposed to? It’s just, the bin was overflowing and I didn’t want to put something that smelled that bad out on the floor and—”
Dean stands up, shaking his head as he softly smiles at her, feeling horrible that he came off so accusatory. “No, no—sorry, I didn’t mean …” he sighs, “I was actually wondering if you happened to see who dropped this off. They must have done so after hours because Charlie usually empties the bin before she leaves.”
Melinda’s frown only deepens. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t see who dropped it off, I just remember that it came in the day before yesterday.” She sighs. “I wish I could be more help.”
“It’s okay, really. Please don’t feel bad—I just wanna catch the guy who’s doing this to my books.” Dean says, assuming that this has to be the same jackass who destroyed his How-To book a few weeks ago. It can’t be a coincidence. After another deep breath, he puts his hand on Melinda’s shoulder and rubs it softly with his thumb, which finally seems to take the edge off her concern. “But don’t worry, this isn’t your problem, and I really appreciate you going the extra mile for us. It doesn’t go unnoticed, I promise.”
The woman nods, and soon smiles a little before turning around to get back to her work. Dean watches her go, making a mental note to get her a thank-you-gift of some sort in the next few days. Maybe Charlie will have some ideas.
After one more second of thought, Dean scurries out of the back room to head to the circulation desk computer, wanting to know for certain if his suspicion is correct.
He logs on, pulls up Destiny, heads over to "Copy Status” and then scans the back of the foul smelling book.
“Castiel Novak” Dean growls under his breath, gritting his teeth so hard that his jaw actually cracks.
“Are you alright?” Melinda asks from across the walkway, probably noting the furious look on his face as she empties out the recycling bin.
He quickly tries to temper his rage, not wanting to accidently take it out on Melinda a second time. “Yes—yes, I’m fine. I just don’t understand why someone would treat a book this way … especially a book that’s not theirs!”
“Perhaps it was an accident?” Melinda offers, trying to find the good in the situation like she always does.
But Dean can’t help shaking his head. “I don’t think smashing an egg in it and then setting it on fire was an accident. I really think someone is trying to prank us—and doing so at the cost of our books.”
Melinda huffs in some air and then lets it out slowly, frowning a little as she meets Dean’s eyes once more. “I truly hope that isn’t the case, but I will keep a lookout for anyone dropping off their books after hours.”
“Thank you, Melinda” Dean says, once again feeling guilty that he’s asking even more of this woman.
“Of course. Now … you should head on home. You need your rest.”
He glances to the right and out the window—noting how dark it’s gotten. “Yeah, you’re probably right” he says, yawning immediately afterwards with the mere thought of his bed. “Let me just take care of this first.” Dean holds up the fetid book and Melinda nods, both of them knowing that something like that is far beyond saving.
So once again, Dean turns to the computer and begins going through Destiny to pull up the book’s copy information. With another scan of the barcode, he deletes that poor, mistreated, innocent cookbook from his collection … or as they say in the library world—he weeds it out. Then he heads back into the office to get his DISCARD stamp from the box, quickly stamping all three sides of the pages as well as the back cover. And after that, he sharpies out the barcode and spine label so that there’s no chance the thing will be found and returned to the library.
Then, with one last look at the cover of “Culinary Masterpiece —Easy to Follow Recipes” Dean drops the book into the trash.
***
“Oh for Christ’s fucking sake! You gotta be kidding me!”
“What? What is it?” Charlie yelps, running in from off the floor, probably thinking Dean caught himself on fire with all that ruckus.
“Another one!” Dean shouts, holding up a book on oil painting—at least, that’s what he’s assuming it’s about considering it’s completely covered in paint. And where there isn’t paint, the ink has been eaten away by turpentine.
“Another Novak book?” Charlie groans, coming closer to take the colorful, flaky thing from Dean’s hand. She tries to open it, but all the pages are painted shut.
“Yeah! What the hell! What the fucking hell is wrong with this dude?”
Charlie clicks her tongue and shakes her head, eventually handing the book back to him. “I don’t know. This is the eighth one now.”
“And you said that he checked out all these books at the same time?”
That redhead nods somberly.
After the cookbook, Dean had asked her to go through the library stats and see what else this Novak-guy had taken, and they sadly, found quite a long list of titles—all logged on the same day, and no one has seen the guy since. “Yup—those plus three more; and so far, every single one of them has come back ruined. I think you were right with that whole prank-theory.”
“And you don’t remember what he looked like, or even checking these things out to him in the first place?”
“No—I wish I did” Charlie says, looking just as upset as Dean now. “It was probably during our busy-time; but if I had known what he was gonna do to our books, I would’ve paid more attention to his face, or just kicked his butt outta the library right then and there!”
Dean groans. “And all his fines are still unpaid?” He asks, but he already knows the answer to that.
“Yeah—and all the notices are going unanswered too, and he didn’t list a phone number when he signed up for the card. Just a home address and an e-mail address.”
“Then I should just go to his freakin’ house!” Dean growls, tossing the useless book onto the work bench before flopping back into his seat.
“You are not going to accost a patron at their home, Dean” Charlie scolds, side eyeing him like she’s actually worried he’ll do it.
And truthfully, he might. He’s certainly angry enough. This is madness! And the madness has to stop!
“Dean…”
“Fine!” Dean spits, throwing up his hands at the idea. “I won’t go there!”
“Good.”
“But I will stake the asshole out here, every night until I catch him dropping off the next book.”
Charlie laughs at that … until she realizes, he’s serious. “Wait … what? Really? You’re gonna have a stakeout?”
“Yeah. You got any better ideas?”
“Um—yeah, not doing that!”
Dean makes a face at her before turning back towards his stack of repairs. “Whatever … I’m stayin’ here, and watching the return bin. And as soon as something drops through the slot, I’m gonna bust through the back door and catch the bastard in the act! And then he can either apologize and pay up, or he can talk to the cops, because I’ll have him charged with the destruction of property or some shit. That’s a law, right?”
Charlie is gawking at him like he’s really lost his mind this time. “Dean …”
“Don’t even try, Charlie. I’m doing this! I’ll run home, get some shit to tide me over, and then I’m hunkering down right here!” He pounds the arms of his chair for emphasis. “Now, you’ll still be here for a while, right?” he asks her hurriedly. They closed about twenty minutes ago, but Charlie usually sticks around for another hour, catching up on things that she wasn’t able to finish with people on the floor.
“Yeah” she says cautiously.
“Good. Finish up, but don’t leave until I get back. I don’t want this fucker slipping by us again.”
“You’ve lost your marbles, dude. Like really—every last one. The lack of sex and all that mold has finally gotten to you. This is it—the end of Dean Winchester as we know it! Goodbye, dear friend! Goodbye!” Charlie bellows, before pinching her nose and humming whiningly at the back of her throat, sounding like a sad bagpipe at a funeral.
Dean rolls his eyes at her dramatics, but doesn’t stop to contest them. He just grabs his jacket off the back of the chair and goes bolting out the door.
***
Yeah, he knows he’s being irrational. It’s not like he’s denying it.
This is nuts.
But, he has a business to run, a job to do, and one of the main parts of his job is protecting the books! Now, he usually does so with plastic covers and magnetic strips, but … who said he couldn’t go the extra mile? There’s no rule in the Librarian-Handbook that says he has to be docile and timid in order to do well in this environment. No, he can be the badass librarian.
The Rambo of the Bookcases!
The Terminator of Texts!
Well … okay, that last one sounds counterproductive, but whatever. In any case, he will stay here in this dusty, overcrowded back room between the heaps of damaged books and the boxes of outdated material, just waiting for his moment to strike!
However, the moment doesn’t seem very eager to be present itself; and as the clock on his phone changes from 3:59 to 4:00 am, his will to strike is fading a bit.
“C’mon, ya freak. It’s been at least a few days since you last destroyed one of my books. I’m sure you’ve probably got to another one to bring back—so, bring it back already! Drop it in that slot and make my fuckin’ day! I can’t wait to see the look on your face when I bust outta here and catch your smarmy ass mid-run!”
He might usually get embarrassed talking to himself like this, but he’s too tired and too pissed to care right now.
He just wants this to be over.
His phone buzzes suddenly and it makes him jump.
“Who the hell …” he begins to ask out loud, but he stops, because he knows it has to be Sam. After another moment, he has his cell out and he’s answering the call. “So, how’s my insomniac little brother doing?” he says with a forced glee.
“Probably better than you” Sam snips, with no force at all. “I just saw this text from Charlie, saying that you’ve gone crazy and are staking out some dude at the library? What the hell, man? Is this a fetish thing? Are you a voyeur now?”
Dean rolls his eyes up to the ceiling. He should’ve known that girl would rat him out to his baby brother—that’s so like her. “No! And it’s not as insane as you think, okay? I just want to catch the douchebag who has been burning through my inventory … quite literally! We got one book back last week that looked like it was dropped in a river! Seriously, I found a slug in it!”
“Which book was it?” Sam asks calmly.
“Uh—a guide for beginning campers, but what does that matter? The point is, the thing was trashed!”
Sam exhales heavily into the phone, and the judgment permeating through it is so thick, Dean can almost feel it smacking against his cheek. “Dean … what good is going to come from confronting this guy in the dead of night?”
Dean flaps his mouth a moment, unsure of how to answer that, because honestly—he has no good response, at least … not one good enough for Sammy.
“Besides, who’s to say the next person to drop something off will be him? You might leap out of there and scare some old man half to death! Or completely to death! I know Mr. Wilkens walks his dog at night, so who knows. He could be out there right now, trying to do the right thing and return your property on time, only to meet his end because my crazy older brother has a vendetta against some college kid with a crap sense of humor.”
Dean is too embarrassed to admit that he hadn’t thought of that. A lot of people return their books at night— come to think of it, the majority do. Most of them, because they want to avoid their overdue charges, but some just find it to be the most convenient time to get it done. Just because a book gets dropped off through that slot, doesn’t mean Novak will the one on the other side. Dean needs to be careful with this; and he’s just lucky that this is apparently a really slow night, or else his little stakeout could’ve resulted in assault charges, or worse. “That’s not gonna happen, Sam” Dean says, adding a silent “now” at the end of the statement.
“Uh huh … it won’t now that I brought it to your attention.”
“Shut up.” His baby brother always did have a way of reading his mind.
Sam sighs loudly once more and then presses the phone closer to his mouth. “Just don’t give me a reason to worry about you, man.”
With that, Dean frowns and looks down at the workbench, hating the sharp turn that this conversation just took. “Hey, I’m the big brother. Worrying is my job—and speaking of which, why are you still up?”
There’s a long silence, and Dean’s stomach knots with all the worst-case-scenarios, but then Sam finally speaks again. “I just have a lot of exams this coming week, so I’ve been up late studying. I swear to God, this law degree is gonna kill me.”
Dean smiles, first with relief and then with humor. “Hey, hey, hey now! Uh uh, no dying before you walk across that stage! That’s the only thing I got to look forward to these days.”
“No pressure” Sam grunts miserably.
“None at all. Now go to bed! You won’t ace a single test if you’re sleeping through ‘em.”
“Yeah—true” Sam sighs, sounding younger now than he did just a moment ago.
He’ll always be young to Dean.
“You need to go to bed too, though. You aren’t gonna catch the guy who—”
Just then, a book slips in through the slot, causing a deep thunk to echo across the small room; and Dean is leaping from his seat immediately. “That’s him!” he shouts, dropping the phone onto the workbench as he goes bolting to the backdoor.
If he was paying attention, he’d be able to hear his brother yelling “Dean!” from the discarded cell on the tabletop, but he’s in too much of a rush to do anything now but carry out his attack while all of Sam’s warnings seep from his head.
Every concern he had about getting the wrong guy, are gone the second Dean busts through that door—but as he lays eyes on an absolutely petrified old woman, Dean recalls them all instantly.
“Oh—oh my!” the lady shouts, teetering backwards in the light of the street lamp, covering her face in horror.
Dean’s forward motion had just come to a stop, but the booming sound of him shrieking “GOTCHA!” is still ringing in his ears.
“Please, don’t hurt me!” the old woman shouts, holding out her purse with a shaky hand. “Take it. Take it and leave me alone—please!”
Dean is still—struck stupid with his own, monumental stupidity. “Oh god, shit—I mean—crap … mam, I’m—crap, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to … uh … I just … please, I won’t … I’m not—” he needs to get his head together quick before Sam’s premonition really comes true and this woman’s heart stops completely. “I’m not gonna hurt you! I’m sorry! I thought you were someone else, and—I’m an idiot. Please … I work here, I’m the librarian. I just—I didn’t think that you were gonna be, well—you.”
The shivering, terrified old woman—uncurls herself a little, taking a hesitant glance back up at Dean, and then, all at once, she stands up straight— her face, cold and stoned with fury. “Young man! What on earth were you thinking scaring me like that? I should have you arrested for this! At this hour of morning? Scaring an old woman half to death? Was this your idea of a joke? A prank? I would think someone in your position and at your age would have outgrown such foolishness, but apparently, I am very wrong!”
Dean is shrinking by the second, and he knows he deserves every harsh word this old woman has to cut him with. “Again, I am so sorry. I really wasn’t trying to be funny or cruel—I just thought you were someone else, someone who has been causing me a lot of grief. I apologize, please—how can I make it up to you?”
She huffs and stares down her nose at him, but she doesn’t continue with her berating. “Hm … alright then. If you do truly want to make it up to me, you’ll forgive the twenty eight dollar fine that I have accrued here. My last name is Winters, first name Deborah. Erase those and we’ll call is square.”
Dean makes a face, not expecting this old woman to be one of the “late night fine avoiders” but apparently, they can come in all shapes and sizes. “Yeah, sure—of course. I’ll take care of that right away. And, I’m sorry … again.”
Mrs. Winters nods curtly and then hobbles away, mumbling under her breath with every step about how she almost met her death at the library.
“Fuck” Dean mutters to himself, suddenly remembering that Sam was still on the phone when he rushed out here. He really hopes that his baby brother grew tired of waiting and hung up, because he really doesn’t feel like telling him about any of this.
“Well, that seemed like an unfortunate encounter.”
The deep voice rumbles out from behind him and Dean instantly spins around with a wild punch, already too shaken up to not be on the defensive.
The man is standing a little further than Dean is expecting though, so his punch hits nothing but air, and the momentum sends him stumbling forward until he’s nearly running headlong into the guy.
“Um, are you alright?” the strange man asks, taking a step back before Dean has a chance to smash into his chest.
Dean grunts as he tries to regain his footing, eventually stabilizing himself and straightening back out. “What the hell, man?” he growls, really wishing now that he’d listened to Charlie and forgot about this whole stupid idea.
The other man just tilts his head at him, like a dog perking up at the sound of its own name. “Yes?”
“You can’t just sneak up on people like that!” Dean hisses, trying desperately to calm his still-racing heart.
“Well, that seems to be the pot calling the kettle black, doesn’t it?”
Now the blood rushing in his neck—runs up to his face, and he can feel his ears get hot with anger. “Look—that was an accident! I didn’t mean to scare that old lady!”
“And I didn’t mean to scare you” the stranger says coolly.
“Yeah but—”
“If you don’t mind,” the other man interrupts, stepping around Dean in one, swift motion, “I would like to return this book, and I would prefer to get back home before sunup.”
Dean gawks at the guy, wondering where the hell he gets the nerve to be so callous. “Look, I—” but then he spots it, the book that the other man is holding … at least, it was a book. But in the orange glow of the lamp overhead, Dean sees that now it’s just a mushed up mess of brown, wrinkled paper. In a blink, he is ripping out of the stranger’s hand.
“Excuse me!” he growls, staring at Dean with bright blue, furious eyes. “Is this a habit of yours? Attacking people who come to return library books?”
But now Dean isn’t too flustered to respond—he has the upper hand here. “No, just the assholes who like to return my books, destroyed! I mean what the fuck, dude?” He holds up the wadded text for emphasis. “What did you do to this one? Flush it down a toilet?”
“No …” the man says flatly. “I accidently fermented it.”
Dean’s face twists in on itself. “You what?”
The stranger—now known to be the notorious Castiel Novak, sighs—as if explaining all this is completely unnecessary. “I was attempting to brew my own beer, but the hops weren’t boiling down correctly, so I was reading the book and looking over the edge of the vat to see where I had gone wrong, and then I set the book down on the edge of the vat to check the temperature gauge, and I must’ve knocked it in with my movement. I didn’t realize it was in there until a few days later, which of course, had a poor effect on my beer. In any event, the book was illegible at that point, so I couldn’t figure out how to rectify the process; then I gave up on it, and now I’m here.”
Dean stares wide eyed at the man, completely taken aback by every word that came out of his mouth—and it takes him a long moment before he can even form one of his own. “The beer?”
Castiel cocks his head to the side again. “Yes?”
“The beer is what you’re hung up on?”
Castiel continues to look at him, as if Dean is now speaking another language entirely. “I’m not quite sure what you’re getting at.”
Dean’s mouth hangs open, and he grunts and growls, and even laughs a time or two at the sheer audacity of this guy. “My book, you fucking nimrod! You ruined my perfectly good book!”
And, that apparently, was the least of the other man’s concerns, judging by the way he smiles and sighs with relief. “Oh, yes—that. Well, it’s just a book; therefore, I don’t think it warrants you calling me names.”
It takes every ounce of Dean’s strength not to take the remainder of that book and smash it over the guy’s head. “Uh, fuck yes it does! You asshat! You dickweed! You—you, smarmy mouthed titty nugget!”
Castiel blinks a few times and then flares his nostrils. “I don’t think that last one was an insult as much as it was, plain nonsense.”
“Look, man—”
“Are we done here? I really do need to be getting home.”
But Dean stomps in closer, until he’s almost nose to nose with the other man. “No! No we are not done here! You have racked up quite a hefty amount of fines with all the books that you’ve been destroying, and I’m not letting you leave here until you pay them! It’s either that, or I call the cops and have them help me get through to you!”
Once again, Castiel is laughing. “Money? That’s what all this is about? Well, fine then—here …” after another moment, the strange man is pulling a money clip out of his back pocket, containing quite a large wad of cash. “How much do I owe in fines—roughly? I don’t want to bother with change.”
And Dean is once again gawking at this guy, wondering what freaking planet he just touched down from. “I don’t—”
“You have to have an estimate” Castiel grumbles, squinting his eyes at Dean. “Fifty dollars? A hundred? Two hundred?”
Dean continues to stare, unable to speak at all with those large, icy blues trained on him.
Castiel sighs. “Fine, here’s three hundred. I am certain that will cover it, with some to spare. Now, if there’s nothing else …” He shoves the money at Dean’s chest and holds it there until Dean finally lifts his hand to take it.
“Good” Castiel confirms with a huff. “I will be on my way, then. Have a good evening, Mr …”
“Uh …” Dean’s baffled mind resets, working strictly on default now and canceling out all the vile, angry things he should be saying, “Winchester. I’m Dean Winchester.”
“And I am Castiel Novak—but I’m sure you already knew that” he says, a smug smile pulling at the corner of his lip. “Have a good evening, Dean. Well, I suppose it’s more correct to say have good morning at this point,” and with a tilt of his head, Castiel gestures towards the horizon—where the sun is rising at the edge. “It appears I won’t be making it home before sunup after all” he mumbles, more to himself than anyone.
“Uh, yeah—sorry ‘bout that.” Dean replies lowly, instantly cussing himself out, because he really doesn’t need to be apologizing for anything.
Castiel shrugs a little before glancing up the road. “No worries. I suppose I’ll be seeing you around—that is, if you plan on playing jack in the box the next time I come by.” From the corner of his eye, the odd man peers back at Dean and smiles slyly, before turning on is heel to walk away, casually slipping the money clip back into his pocket as he struts.
The motion causes Dean’s eyes to drop below the man’s waist, and now he is finding himself transfixed on the plump, perky ass that’s highlighted perfectly by Castiel’s handsomely-fitted jeans. “Damn” Dean mutters to himself, looking Castiel up and down over and over again. His shoulders are broad and his thighs are thick and muscly. His arms look toned and tan beneath the rolled up sleeves of that white button up shirt. And now that Dean’s thinking about it, the first two buttons on that shirt were undone, exposing a rather delicious bit of collarbone. Blue eyes, dark hair, pink, pink lips—if this guy wasn’t such an asshole, he’d be straight out of Dean’s wet dreams.
No.
He’s not gonna do this! He’s not going to find something redeeming about this fucker. Dean clenches his fist as he watches Castiel disappear around a corner.
“I’m not gonna have the hots for a book murderer.”