Archive of Our Own

When he drives into San Antonio, Texas, Dean is expecting to be faced with the usual stuff. That is if you can call demons and black dogs and vampires “the usual stuff”.

And Dean Winchester certainly can.

This was going to be just another gig and nothing more: ride into town, salt-and-burn some evil motherfucker, save the swooning maiden and drive off into the sunset in an incredibly cool car.

That’s what he does. And he is fucking good at it. Even his father would have to admit it one of these days.

All Dean knows when he pulls into the lot of the cheapest motel he can find is that he hates big town gigs. The people tend to be way more suspicious even if he pulls his black-suited FBI-routine, the motels are way crappier and definitely more expensive and traffic is a bitch.

No, he’d prefer some small-town curses or hauntings. Still, his father has explicitly called him and asked (or rather ordered) him to look into this. And this is in freaking San Antonio, Texas, so he’ll cope. At least this shit-hole isn’t as horribly large as Dallas or something.

And the gig seems clear enough: Middle-class family found dead in their house, the father still clutching an iron poker and the mother collapsed inside a broken circle of salt. There were no obvious injuries, but the coroner concluded fatal heart failure for both of them. The only survivor is their only son, who wasn’t home at the time but off to some fancy law school or other. He rushed home after but claimed that he knew of nothing out of the ordinary with his parents, other than that they had seemed a little tense over the phone the last time he had talked to them. It reeks of vengeful spirit and apparently the poor suckers had some time to do some research and try to defend themselves, so the dead asshole had shown its ugly face before it went in for the kill.

All Dean has to do now is talk to the son, find out what kind of ghost his parents pissed off, find its remains, spice them up and set them on fire. It’s all in a day’s work. Or rather a night’s.

After taking a quick shower and putting on his best cheap black suit, Dean gets in his car and heads off. After the police has gone through the house and could not find anything suspicious they allowed the son to stay there and set his parents affairs in order. This means Dean might possibly still pick up some EMF at the house or find some other evidence of the thing he is after.

As it turns out the Enfield’s home is a nice little suburban deal in the middle of a sleepy cul-de-sac. It looks as if nothing more exciting could happen here than a quarrel between two house wives over the rose bushes, but Dean has learned long ago not to trust such obvious domestic tranquillity. Still, as Dean walks up the meticulously well cared-for drive way EMF stays as silent as the Sunday afternoon surrounding him.

The guy that opens the front door after he rings the neat little door bell has him taking a hurried step backwards.

Jesus, it’s true. Everything is bigger in Texas. Freakishly so.

He gets his act together real quick though and smiles his little professional smile.

“Dean Ulrich, FBI. Are you Mr. Enfield?”

“Sam, please. Mr. Enfield is my father.”

The lanky giant kid winces.

“Or rather was.”

“I am sorry for your loss. I am here to investigate the death of you parents and would like to ask you a couple of questions.”

The guy looks confused and a bit strained and Dean immediately pities him. He is a couple of years younger than Dean and obviously decades younger when it comes to dealing with the big shit.

“I thought the Coroner said there was nothing about my parent’s death that suggests anything other than natural causes. And the local police seemed to agree. Why is the FBI looking into this?”

“This is just a routine follow-up, Mr. Enfield. There is nothing to be concerned about.”

“Nothing to be concerned about, my ass. Something highly fishy is going on here and I would really appreciate it if people would start talking to me, for fuck’s sake.”

Ok, maybe not that naive after all.

Call-me-Sam lets him into a very stylish living room nonetheless and Dean has a good look around. This is where the bodies had been found, but still no ominous bleeping from his right hand pocket. Shame.

“Ok, you told the police that your parents seemed strange the last time you called them. When was that and strange how?”

“Uhm, it must have been a little over a month ago and I can’t really define it. It just....”

The way he trails of has Dean interested so he presses on.

“Just try to describe it as best as you can, please. Every detail might help.”

“Help what? Arresting the Natural Cause that has killed both my parents?”

But he goes on nonetheless.

“It was just that my mother... we talked for almost like 20 minutes and then, before we hung up, she told me to take care.”

Dean is a bit baffled at that, because sure he wouldn’t really know what normal family life would look like if it tried to kill him, but a mother telling her child that is half way across the country to take care doesn’t seem that far off. When he tells that to Sam, though, he kind of laughs bitterly and suddenly looks way older than only minutes before.

“My parents and I weren’t exactly... close. I mean we got along, but I spend most of my childhood at some boarding school or other. They weren’t bad parents; there was no abuse involved or something. They were just very absorbed with themselves.”

Looking around the room now Dean realises that it’s dotted with pictures in different sizes all displaying a happy couple through the ages but there is only one that actually features their son. It looks like a graduation thing. And hell that kid was already a giant when he was still in high school.

Ok, so Mr. and Mrs. Perfect Natural Causes weren’t exactly Mom and Dad of the year and overall not very compassionate people. Good to know and file away for later use. And it does explain why a guy that seems prone to wear his emotions on his sleeve seems to cope way better with his parent’s death than Dean would have expected. He lost those parents a long time ago – if he ever really had them.

Before he lets the awkward silence stretch further, Dean gets back to the business at hand, though.

“Is there anyone that would wish your parents ill? It doesn’t matter if it has been in the past.”

“Actually I have thought about this quite a lot after the normal cops asked me that. The fact of the matter is that I don’t really know. I am sorry but I don’t think I can be of much help there.”

Dean leaves the weird hollow house a couple of minutes later, equipped with the addresses and phone numbers of friends and co-workers of the victims that probably know more about the deceased than their own son and heads back to his motel.

While he tries to lay out a vague outline of his game plan for tomorrow, he can’t help but think about Sam. It’s pretty easy to fall into the habit to call him that, probably because the guy is close to Dean’s own age. It must suck to grow up with only a distant shadow of a family and no one to lean onto but yourself and yeah, definitely time to call his father. He’s the one who’s got him onto this deal in the first place after all.

“Dean, are you making progress with the job?”

Yeah, that’s good old Daddy all right, sappy as hell if you don’t stop him gushing. But Dean is more than happy to talk business with the guy, because wangsting about sad childhoods and how neglect is some kind of abuse, too....No, definitely not Dean’s style.

“It seems pretty clear cut to me. The loving couple croaks by natural causes at exactly the same time while trying some half-assed spiritual defence. It has vengeful spirit written all over it. And they don’t seem to have been the nicest people ever, so I just have to figure out who they pissed off so mightily and where the sucker is buried. And there have been no other similar attacks, so it seems connected to the family and...shit!”

“Dean?”

“Listen, I have to go. I will call you some other time. My dinner just nuked itself into oblivion, so I should just...”

There is absolutely no need to let his father know that he just potentially messed up spectacularly. Because if this thing is out for the family, then leaving the only surviving member of said family alone in the house where it happened might not have been Dean’s best move ever.

Before he heads out and flings himself into the Impala, he takes the time to grab a six-pack of beer from the mini-fridge. If Dean is off on this, the awkwardness of being stalked by a stranger in the middle of the night might just be lessened if the stranger offers alcohol.

As it turns out, Dean needn’t have bothered with the beer, because as soon as he heads up the drive he hears crashing and yelling inside and launches himself at the front door without slowing.

He manages to knock it down without breaking his shoulder and follows the noise into the living room, gun at the ready.

What he sees surprises him. Not because of the chaos around a panting Sam, but because of the iron poker the guy holds as if he has just lashed out at something with it.

When he hears Dean enter Sam swings around and Dean only avoids being brained by ducking.

“Whoa, take it easy there, buddy.”

“You! You are Mr. FBI-Guy with the ridiculous last name. What are you doing here?”

“Hey, no need to be all bitchy. Why don’t you calm down, loose the poker and tell me what exactly just happened here?”

“I...I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Just describe it. What did it look like?”

“I... It was a chick, but she was very pale and kind of... unclear and something was seriously wrong with her throat and when she came at me with a huge knife I grabbed the poker and ... she just vanished. And I don’t think this is anything the FBI can deal with. I think I need medication or something. I’m hallucinating.”

For a moment Dean wants to play it cool, confirm the crazy-angle, but the poor guy looks so miserable that he can’t bring himself to do that.

“Ok. Why don’t you let me decide what I can deal with, huh?”

“I... I think I just saw a ghost. And I think it tried to kill me.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right.”

“What? You believe me? And you are not going all...”

Sam makes weird floppy movements with his long arms an since he seems a bit uncoordinated right now Dean deems it wiser to take a step back.

“Going what? Flailing like a girl? I have a rule to absolutely not do that.”

“I am not flailing like a girl. And anyway, I just saw a dead person. Upright and holding a knife. I think I am allowed a small measure of flailing, thank you very much.”

Good, while probably still in shock, the panic seems to be slowly fading.

Sam groans and rakes his hands through his ridiculously girly hair and Dean doesn’t really know why he notices that the guy has really long fingers. And he obviously knows how to swing a poker. Not bad for a civilian.

“How come you knew wrought iron would hurt the bitch?”

“Uhm, I didn’t, but I heard my father was found still gripping the thing like a lifeline and when you are face to face with a homicidal... something your brain has to do some fast thinking.”

Dean doesn’t point out that the obvious flaw in Sam’s logic is that the poker didn’t do his father any good. Instead he just smiles a little.

“It probably saved your life, that quick brain of yours.”

“You... you think that thing killed my parents? A ghost? Who the hell are you and what the fuck is going on here?”

After as little explaining he can get away with - the kid still is a civilian after all – Dean stops and lets Sam take it all in.

“So, ghosts exist. And you can hurt them with iron. And you hunt them. How do you go about doing that? With some kind of bow and arrow-deal? Or a net?”

Dean just snorts.

“This is the 21^st century, Dude. I have a goddamn shot gun.”

“And what exactly does a bullet accomplish against something already dead?”

“Well, first off, a shotgun doesn’t fire bullets it fires shots and second, it does accomplish a lot if it’s loaded with rock salt.”

“Rock salt? Wait, my mother was surrounded with salt when she was found.”

“Yeah, although almost surrounded seems the operative word here. It hurts them, too, although it doesn’t banish them forever.”

“So, my parents knew, a ghost was after them. But how the hell did they learn about how to defend themselves?”

“The internet, probably. You can google almost anything these days.” Not that Dean knows much about that. He has to use it for research and yeah, maybe the occasional porn when he is in a place without Casa Erotica, but he could never dredge up any real enthusiasm for it.

Sam though, looks intrigued and dashes for his laptop that sits almost forgotten on the coffee table.

“Ok, if I just type in ghost and defence and supernatural I get... holy shit. 8.590.000 hits. Let’s see, what is this: Ghostfacers?”

Dean groans, but Sam isn’t distracted.

“Look, they have a video, labelled: In case of a supernatural attack, press play. It might just save your life.”

And of course the guileless sod just has to press play. Dean doesn’t watch, but the tacky, overly dramatic music and Harry and Ed’s obnoxious voices are enough to make him sick.

“As our many fans and followers all over the earth know, we, the Ghostfaces are not just idle thrill seekers.”

“No, we are not.”

“In fact we have devoted most of our lives to protect the innocent from the evil that is the supernatural.”

“And it is not enough for us to just step in and take immediate action.”

“It might not be as heroic as entering the haunted house and save the fair maiden from her evil fate but we believe we also have a duty to educate.”

“Because knowledge might be the only thing that stands between those you love and evil.”

“Therefore, we have created a very educational DVD that should teach you how to protect yourself and your family against the evil that lurks outside.”

“Ten easy lessons will be enough to hold your own until the professionals arrive and take care of your problem.”

“Just 16.45 $ to cover our expenses.”

“The fate of your family may reside in your hands.”

“And remember evil never sleeps.”

“Man, are those guys for real. I have never heard the word evil used so often in one ad.”

“Unfortunately they think they are.”

Dean sighs, but Sam has already scrambled up and over to the cabinet under the large flat-screen TV.

“Hold on a second. Oh my God.”

Sam turns back around and holds up an ugly DVD cover in a horrendous colour with Ed and Harry staring out at the world. Dean only just manages to suppress the comment that it hardly comes as a surprise that Sam’s parents didn’t make it.

“I really don’t believe this.”

“Listen, buddy, you better do, because there is a good chance this bitch is coming back. And she is definitely not in the mood for talking. We need to get out of here and figure things out.”

“But, where am I supposed to go. I have nowhere to stay.”

Sam looks so lost and confused and frazzled around the edges that Dean immediately takes pity on him.

“I have a motel room.”

He winces, because it sounds horribly like a sleazy come-on, but Sam doesn’t seem to notice. Instead he gushed gratefully and heads of to gather some stuff.

“Just make sure you don’t bring anything that belonged to your parents.”

Dean calls after him and settles in for the wait.

When Sam sees the car he is pretty awed which pleases Dean no end. That glow vanishes however when Sam takes a look at Dean’s tape collection.

“Seriously, dude, I thought you were just into classic cars, but I have to re-evaluate. You are just plain old-fashioned.”

“I want to inform you, that this music is just as timelessly classic as this car, thank you very much.”

“Yeah, sure. Just like this timelessly classic tape deck you got going. I can’t believe you lectured me about it being the 21^st century, because hello! And after seeing this timelessly classic Metallica tape I am guessing Ulrich might just not be your real name after all.”

“Winchester. And now shut up or I will bring your modern IPod ass back to your place where you can be turned into minced meat by a ghost that doesn’t give a damn about how many friends you got on MySpace.”

They are silent for a while both lost in thought. When they pull into the driveway Sam raises his head and looks at Dean without moving to get out.

“What are we going to do now?”

“Uhm, the first step usually is to identify the ghost and find out why exactly she is after your family.”

He deliberately leaves out the desecration of graves for now.

“Why is she? After my family, I mean?”

“Could be lots of reasons. Maybe your parents got a cursed object or it has something to do with the house or the place or...”

Dean hesitates but he figures Sam has to know so he plunges on.

“...or someone did something to her while she was still alive. Maybe even caused her death.”

“You... you think my parents killed her?”

Sam has gone very pale.

“No, it doesn’t have to be anything drastic like that. Maybe they unknowingly didn’t stop her from dying or something. Or it could be something else entirely. As I said, I have to do some research on this.”

“I want to help. Please, I am good at research. And I can’t just sit back and watch. It’s my ass on the line after all.”

And who could say no to such an eager puppy dog expression. So Dean nods although he knows it’s never a good idea to bring a rookie into this game.

“Ok, you could, like, research the history of your place; see if someone died there under unpleasant circumstances. And I need to know every detail about the ghost. But first, let’s go in and have a beer.”

After they are settled in, each on one of the queen size beds that furnish the room, Dean takes out his notebook and sneaks a look over at Sam.

The kid looks dishevel and exhausted but it’s best to get the story out while it’s still mostly fresh in his mind.

“Ok, dude. What can you tell me about your friendly visitor?”

“Well, she was a woman.”

Dean makes a scribbled note and mhms under his breath.

“She was about yay high.”

“Mhm.”

“She was very obviously dead.”

“Mhm.”

“And she attacked me with a fucking knife. I didn’t exactly ask her zodiac sign before I hit her with the poker.”

Dean sight impatiently and looks up. Yeah, civilians. Definitely not a good idea.

“Look, dude. I know it’s weird but I need to know as much about her as possible. I wasn’t kidding earlier when I said that every detail helps. Ok, why don’t we start that slowly? You said that something was wrong with her throat. What did you mean by that?”

“Well, actually it was kind of slashed open.”

“Was it a clean cut of more like ragged?”

“Clean, I guess. As much as something like that can be called clean.

“What about her age?”

“What about it?”

“Come one. Was she more like “Ma’m, may I help you cross this street” or like “Hey, there, let me buy you a drink””?

“Gross. But I guess she was pretty young. If a bit pale.”

It takes a while but Dean manages to coax a pretty detailed description out of Sam. At least some part of his brain didn’t shut down with panic.

“Ok, what was she wearing?”

“What the fuck? I barely remember what I am wearing right now. I’m a guy.”

“Sure. Right. But it is kinda important. Was it some kind of old-fashioned ball-gown or something with huge flowers and a self-made look or something that you would were.”

“More like something that I would... hey! Do you have to be an ass about this?”

Dean just grins and scribbles this new information into his notebook, too. So probably not some age-old haunting that just happened to wake up at an inconvenient time. Interesting.

“And was she cute?”

“What, how does that matter?”

“Every little detail.”Dean sing-songs and Sam sighs.

“Yeah, I guess apart from the horror that was her cut throat she was kind of attractive.”

“And well built?”

“Yeah, she had long legs and...”

“Eugh, Dude. You have been totally checking her out. She is dead you perv.”

“What... I...but you. Augh.”

It’s really funny to watch Sam blush violently and throw his hands in the air.

“Jerk!”

He grabs a pillow and chucks it at Dean who just plucks it out of the air and puts it behind his back to join his own pillow.

“Bitch.” he retaliates through a wide grin.

In the next couple of days Dean realizes that having a partner in this hunt – albeit a rookie civilian with a tendency towards the geeky – is really pretty cool.

And not only because Sam is real good at and seems to enjoy the whole research stuff that Dean hates.

When he first sets him on the task of finding out about the history of the house and place Dean is fully prepared to double-check everything the kid comes up with but Sam whips out his laptop as if he has never done anything else.

“I already know that our house was built in the early 1980s and that my parents were the first owners, so there shouldn’t be any creepy history of the house itself.”

“Ok. Verify this fact anyway and then start to look into the place. What was there before the house was built.”

“What, like, a native American burial ground?”

Dean shudders a bit, remembering a rather unpleasant encounter with a whole lot of bugs but smiles anyway.

“The way you described your hot-assed apparition has me seriously doubting that angle, but you never know with the vitally challenged.”

And what the kid manages to come up with... well, it is not really something that helps them on their case, but it is an impressive lot of useless information nonetheless.

Certainly more than Dean has managed to dig up about the parents, that’s for sure. These people are either damn saints or damn good at covering up.

It also helps a lot to bring Sam when he starts questioning the parents’ friends, co-worker and neighbours and not only because they are all more likely to whip out the “And one time, your father and I...” stories when the vics’ kid is around. But also because Sam does this thing with his eyes and his face and people who were on the verge of straight out rejecting him tend to do a complete one-eighty and almost fall over themselves to do everything he asks.

It’s only a little irritating that Dean is just as prone to falling for what he has internally dubbed the “Puppy Dog Eyes Of Doom”.

And Sam is seriously fun to be around, at least if he isn’t all moody and angsty which is totally understandable after what he has been through and tends to become less and less frequents.

Dean gets a kind of weird kick out of teasing him as if they have known each other for years.

Like one morning, five days into the gig.

He wakes up to running water and Sam mumbling and cursing in the bathroom.

Since the doors is open, Dean assumes it is save to interrupt without the fear of seeing something he really would not want to see and sticks his head round the door only to almost topple over laughing.

Sam is wearing a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up which seems like a wasted effort due to the fact that he is soaking wet anyways. He is bent over the tiny sink that is way too low for his ginormously tall frame and he is attacking a sock with a foamy bar of soap.

“Aww, Sammy you will make a lucky man very happy one day with all your housewifey skills.”

“Shut up you dick. How else am I supposed to get my stuff cleaned up, huh?”

“Well, I usually use a Laundromat but that’s just, you know, me being all practical.”

Sam huffs and tries to hide a rather obvious blush.

“Well, yeah, but it’s just a little underwear and it didn’t seem worth the money.”

Dean can’t help but roll his eyes at this obvious rouse.

“If you had just asked me, we could have thrown our stuff in together. I could do with some clean shirts myself.”

Sam huffs again, more irritated than embarrassed this time.

“And why the hell couldn’t you have told me just that when I complained yesterday that I am totally out of clean clothes?”

“I thought you just were in full-on bitch mode, you know “I just don’t have anything to wear”.”

He utters the last part in a high-pitched falsetto. “You get like that sometimes.”

“You...you jerk!”

Dean easily avoids the wet sock that is thrown in his direction.

“Come on, bitch, get ready for the manly ghost-hunting part of the day.”

But all the fun and games don’t really lead them to any new developments regarding the case and that is exactly what Dean has to tell his father over the phone that evening.

“What do you mean, you don’t have squat, Dean?”

“Well, no, not squat, but I’m still not closer to finding out who the spirit is and she hasn’t tried to attack Sam since I got him out of the house.”

“Listen, Dean, you know I don’t approve of you getting this kid involved in the first place, but now that you have, don’t you think you should use that to your advantage?”

“I don’t think I...”

“Come on, use your brain. The ghost is obviously after him, so maybe the way to get to her is to give her exactly what she wants.”

“Dad, you want me to use Sam as bait? But what if...”

But what if it’s dangerous, Dean wants to say, but he catches himself before he can. Because this? It’s ridiculous. Of course it’s fucking dangerous. That’s what he does and that’s exactly the reason why you keep random people out of it in the first place. Fuck!

“Yes, Sir.” It’s all he manages to say before he hangs up.

He tries to think up a way to tell Sam, that yeah, you know all your help with research is really appreciated, but right now I want to dangle you over the abyss like a shrieking virgin, trying to coax old King Kong out of hiding.

But after thinking about it for the better part of an hour he decides that no, he won’t do it. He tries not to dwell too much on the motive behind his decision because he can’t really afford to get attached to anyone especially a six foot something giant kid with girly hair and doey eyes.

He waits till Sam is asleep, snoring lightly then gets in gear as silently as he can and tries to head out stealthily. Unfortunately that is when he bangs his knee against the coffee table in the dark and causes an avalanche of crap cascading to the floor with a lot of loud clatter.

The lights behind him snap on and when he turns around feeling sheepish, Sam sits up on the bed and looks him up and down, taking in the dark clothes the black cap and the shotgun swung over one shoulder.

“Uhm, why are you creeping around at night, dressed like a cat burglar or a cop who seriously hasn’t gotten the whole undercover part?”

Dean sighs and barely refrains from face-palming himself. Instead he drags his hands through the hair at the nape of his neck awkwardly.

“Because I was going to break into your house to see if I could get that dead bitch out of hiding.”

“Ok, so why didn’t you just ask if I’d come with you?”

“What good would that have done?”

“Well, for one you wouldn’t have to break into anything but could have used my key and I could have come with you. In fact it’s not too late. Give me a moment to get my matching cat suit on and I’m coming.”

“I don’t think... wait, you got a cat suit?”

“I was joking, idiot. But not about the coming with part. I won’t let you go there alone. It’s my mess after all.”

And yeah, Dean knows he should argue, but there are the puppy dog eyes again and he is just not strong enough.

When they reach the house it is easier to just walk up the drive and push open the battered front door they had only cursorily replaced after Dean had barged through it, knowing that no nosey neighbour would call the police over this. Dean can’t shake the ill feeling in his stomach, though that this is so not a good idea.

Defying all logic the giant noob seems way less fazed by the whole scenario of them confronting Sam’s very first patricidal and matricidal vengeful spirit. Without even so much as a fucking back-up plan. And ok, maybe Dean is not usually all Mr. ‘let’s plan ahead and think this though’ but prefers the ‘barge in and start shooting’ direct approach, but right now he really thinks they should have put maybe a little more thought into this whole thing. But he can hardly chicken out now, can he?

Not when Sam even moves to enter the house in front of Dean who holds him back by grabbing his forearm and tugging.

“Come on newbie, let the guy with the gun take the lead.”

They creep forward slowly, moving along the hallway by the light of the flashlight Sam’s holding. Around them the shadows lengthen, shorten and sway as if alive and it is all fucking creepy until Dean finally gives an annoyed snort and reaches for a switch on the wall. Lights flicker on all around them turning their surroundings back into any normal hallway in any hunted house in America.

“God, I am so used to breaking and entering that I actually forgot how normal people enter a house.”

Sam grins a little at his embarrassment.

“Well, since I am just the newbie here, I thought acting like that was kind of required for the occasion.”

“Nah, the chick’s a stiff. Either she knows we are here and comes at us or she doesn’t. The actual amount of light has nothing whatsoever to do with this. It’s just a habit, really.”

“That’s good, because I felt kind of like an idiot creeping around my parent’s house like that.”

They share another little grin, then Dean focuses back on the task at hand. Maybe it’s not necessary to sneak around, but a little vigilance certainly can’t hurt.

They give the house a quick once over before they move towards the living room, the place were both known incidents have taken place. Dean figures that it’s most likely for Cut-throat Sally to reappear here.

Minutes pass and nothing happens and Dean is just about to call it an early night and head out when Sam beside him suddenly gasps.

“Dean.”

Dean whips round aiming the muzzle of his shotgun at the apparition.

“Got yourself a nice little friend there, Sammy. Care to introduce me?”

“That... That’s not her. Dean, that’s not the one I saw last time.”

Dean stares at the ghostly girl in front of them, holding something that looks a lot like a hammer. He feels just as confused as Sam sounds.

“Are you sure?”

“Hell, this is only my second ghost in one week. It’s not as if there are so many I start to mix them up. Besides the first one had a cut throat, this one looks as if someone seriously brained her.  Also knife not hammer. Not a detail you are likely to miss when someone is coming at you with it.”

“Good point. She look familiar to you?”

Even before Sam can shake his head Dean has cocked the gun and fired a load, causing Little Miss Brainy to disintegrate.

Sam shudders and clutches the iron poker he’s been holding.

Dean figured that he was nowhere near ready for any kind of gun and the poker had worked for him the last time, so stick with what you know, right.

Before Dean can decide on what to do the ghost blinks into existence once again, only this time she is not alone. They are surrounded by 5 girls, which wouldn’t be such a bad thing any other day of the week but really really sucks and blows right now.

“Please tell me at least one of them is the one you saw last time. This is beginning to look like dead chicks anonymous.”

Sam nods beside him.

“Over there, the one with the rather delicately cut throat.”

And right there she is, next to Mushy Brains and her hammer. The other three are similar lovely examples of who not to date, one with a vivid gunshot wound in her chest, the second with all the healthy complexion of a drowned rat and the third looking pretty with the bulging bloodshot eyes and bluish lips that come with being strangled.

“I’m guessing you have never seen any of them before, huh, Sammy.”

“No, I don’t think so. Uhm, what do we do now?”

Dean thinks about it. Their agenda has been to acquire more information about their haunting and hell have they done that.

“I say we get the fuck out of here as fast as we can, if that sounds good to you.”

“Yeah. Sounds good, real good. But how?”

Dean weighs their chances. Until now none of the dead girls united has done anything that could be construed as offensive, but he can’t be sure how they feel about them leaving. If they time it right, though, they might just be able to distract them and make a dash for it.

“Ok, Sam. You swing the poker and try to hit as many of them as you can then run like hell and don’t stop till you are of the perimeter, all right?”

“Uhm, and what about you?”

Dean tries hard not to feel a little bit of warmth spread through him at this. It is kind of nice to have someone actually care if he lives or dies.

“Don’t be sappy, man. I’ll be shooting my load and then I’ll be right behind you. I don’t much care for dying even if it would be in the arms of such charming girls as these. Ok, on three.”

Dean counts to three then Sam starts swinging and Dean fires. As soon as there is an opening in the circle of girls they both make a frantic break for it and don’t stop until they are across the street. They are not harmed, attacked or followed.

“Man.”

Sam’s panting but probably more from the shock than the actual extortion of running 10 yards.

“That was creepy.”

“Welcome to my world, dude. It never gets boring.”

“Are ghosts usually, I don’t know, flogging together like that?”

“Not unless they have a reason. We need to think about that, but first let’s go home and get really really drunk.”

It’s only when he is back behind the wheel of the Impala that he realises both his use of the pronoun ‘we’ and the term ‘home’ in one sentence and that freaks him out way more than all the ghostly prom dates in the world ever could.

Dean hasn’t been kidding about the getting drunk part. It is some kind of initiation for Sam after all. The first time he consciously went after a ghost. That calls for Tequila. Well, ok. His dad didn`t offer him booze on his first official hunt, but he had been only 12 by then and that would’ve hardly been appropriate. Not even in Winchester-world.

Anyways, Sam is definitely legal, err, of age and therefore: dadadadadadadaa  dadadadadadaa. Dean doesn’t sing it though, not before the 5^th shot anyway. After that everything is kind of unclear. He remembers having a very serious conversation with Sam about Astroturf. One of them was all for it and the other not so much, but he can’t really remember who was who. Maybe they had even switched sides about halfway through. It was kind of hilarious. Then Sam suddenly went all drunkenly serious on him, sitting down on his bed and looking at him intently through his bangs.

“I really don’t want to die scared and alone like my parents, Dean. I really don’t. Promise me they won’t get me. And if they do, don’t leave me alone.”

He had grabbed Dean’s face by then, both of his hands on Dean’s cheeks and eyes boring into his. It was really kind of intense. Dean couldn’t look away, couldn’t move under Sam’s gaze, couldn’t even form any more coherent thoughts than ‘Wow, his eyes are really pretty’.

“Promise me.” Sam repeated, shaking Dean’s head a little and then Dean’s gaze slid from Sam’s eyes to Sam’s mouth and ‘holy shit! What was going on here?’

Before he knew it he had whispered a toneless

“I promise, Sammy.” and leaned ever so slightly closer.

Before he could do anything even more stupid, Sam had released him and collapsed onto the bed, asleep before his head even hit the pillow.

Lying awake in his own bed right now and feeling more than slightly nauseous, Dean can’t help having a weird sense of Déjà vu, as if he had gone through some semblance of this scene before. But that is impossible.

Probably just the booze. Yeah, all of last night was just due to way too much Tequila and adrenalin. Drunken stupidity, Dean can live with that.

The body on the bed next to him emits a desperate heartfelt groan and Dean can’t help but feel his mood lighten.

“Morning bitch, how’s that huge head of yours? Given your size I wouldn’t have figured you such a lightweight.”

“Shut up, you jerk and let me die in peace. Or better, kill me right now, just make it quick and quiet.”

Yes, his world is back to normal again. Maybe a freakish kind of abnormal normality, but for Dean Winchester it is a good normality nevertheless.

It takes them some time to get their act together that morning, since they are both hung-over and cranky but the thought of the next phone call to his father propels Dean to have at least something solid to present by then.

He is going over his file about the parents and Sam is bent over his laptop, researching frantically. Five dead young women should have made the news in some form, right?

Ok, back to reading. Mother: Mary Enfield née, Thompson, born 1959, College degree in history of arts but more than happy to be the trophy wife of Peter Enfield, born 1953, top-notch lawyer at a high ranking law-firm in San Antonio, only weeks away from being announced the new senior partner.

No criminal record, no speeding tickets, not even a fond memory of their wilder days in college. Dean is about ready to give it all up and accept that those corpse brides are just plain PMSy or something when he hears Sam’s sharp intake of breath and feels him stiffening although there is half a room separating them.

“What is it? Did you find something?”

“I...I think I did. Take a look.”

The toneless quality of Sam’s voice doesn’t sit well with Dean at all. He gets up and goes over to Sam where he is sitting at their tiny table, laptop in front of him. He doesn’t move to get up or turn the monitor towards Dean, so he just leans over Sam’s shoulder a bit, staring at what seems to be a newspaper article. And right there in one corner is a picture of corpse bride n° 1 only way more alive and smiling without the nastily cut throat.

The San Antonio Examiner grieves the loss of one of their own this week. Investigative Journalist Erica Waters was found dead in her apartment Tuesday morning after she hadn’t been seen by friends, family or co-workers since the 15^th of June.

According to the police, Erica died some time Sunday afternoon and the cause of death indicates foul play.

Ms. Waters was currently researching the case of the Angel Murders that had horrified the entire population of San Antonio. Four young women had been abducted and murdered in less than 3 months. Every woman was killed in a different fashion but their similarity in age, social class and physical appearance led the police to believe the city was dealing with a serial killer. Since all four women were both of extraordinary beauty and strict catholic background, they were soon known as the ‘Angels of San Antone’. A breakthrough in the investigation led to the arrest of Horace Fowler, a semi-famous San Antonio native and heir to the Fowler Inc. distillery. During the subsequent trial, Fowler could not be convicted beyond a doubt and was therefore found not guilty. His defence lawyer, P. Enfield, told the press that he was convinced that his client was innocent.

Prosecution is not so sure and neither was Erica Waters who might have paid the highest prize for her valiant quest for the truth.

She will be sorely missed and never forgotten.

“Fuck, Sammy.”

All Dean can think of is to rest a hand on Sam’s shoulder and squeeze lightly. They have come across their very own breakthrough all right, but Dean can’t help wishing that it was anything but this.

Sam looks up at him and his eyes are wide and pained. His voice is hollow, scarily devoid of emotions when he speaks.

“I remember that case. I... I have a subscription to the Examiner to keep track of things at home while I ‘m in California. This serial-killer deal caused quite a stir. Everyone seemed so sure that Fowler was guilty. He even almost acknowledged it one time at a press conference, but the killer took some trophies from his victims and they couldn’t be found in Fowler’s possession. Neither could any of the murder weapons. That’s why he walked free. And I remember my father talking about it on Thanksgiving. He said that Fowler was a very very rich and influential guy and if he played his cards right, he might be senior partner before his next birthday.”

“Sammy, that doesn’t mean anything. It might... there might be some other reason.”

Dean really wishes he could do something, anything to make it all right again and stop Sam from hurting this much. But truth be told, there is not much of anything he can do. Everything they know now points to one thing. Enfield got Fowler off scot-free although he was guilty as hell. Maybe he tampered with the evidence or got rid of Fowler’s trophies. However he did it, Fowler walked and Enfield was this close to making it senior partner. And then annoying little Erica Waters turned up and started digging... It doesn’t look good. And Sam knows that, too.

“Stop pretending, Dean, please. I know you mean well, but we both know my father did this. To further his fucking precious career. He killed an innocent woman.”

“Maybe that was Fowler, too.”

“Yeah, right. And even if he was, it is still my father’s fault for getting that monster out of his sentence.”

“Well, yeah, but that was his job as a defence lawyer.”

At that Sam’s patience finally breaks and he jumps up abruptly turning towards Dean, their faces only inches apart.

“Don’t give me that crap! We both know he wasn’t just doing his damn job. All my life I wanted him to acknowledge me. I even started to go to law school because of him and now I find out that he is just a corrupt little bottom-feeder with absolutely no integrity or conscience who stopped at nothing to get ahead. Fuck!”

Dean doesn’t really know how it happens or what prompts him into action because he is the first to admit that he is something of an emotional fuck-wit but somehow his arms act on their own accord and come up to embrace the raging body before him. He hooks one arm around Sam’s waist and the other around his neck, bringing his head down to rest against Dean’s shoulder. Sam doesn’t fight it but lets himself be held, his own arms coming up to loosely encircle Deans waist. They remain like this for a while both drawing comfort from the other’s presence and Dean wonders, briefly, if having a family is like this. The knowledge that there is someone there to offer support and a shoulder to lean on. He allows himself to relax a little and take in the sensation of physical contact and the way Sam gradually relaxes against him, too.

After way too little time for Dean’s liking, Sam takes a deep breath and straightens up. When his eyes meet Dean’s they are clear and focused and sure.

“We need to find those trophies and make sure that fucker gets what he deserves.”

Dean can’t fight the sinking feeling in his stomach anymore when they finally leave a crying Sherry McAllister, mother of Candace McAllister, the first ‘Angel’ Fowler killed, to the care of her husband. He has pulled his FBI routine with Sam hovering in the background. They started with Kirk and Sandra Waters and worked their way backwards through the victims, finally reaching the first vic’s family and so far every girl aside from Erica was cremated.

Fuck, he knew there would be trouble.

He has managed to stop Sam’s questions from spilling over so far, although he could tell that the other grew more and more suspicious about his line of questioning by the minute.

Now that they are finally back in the Impala, Sam obviously doesn’t feel the need to hold back anymore.

“Care to tell me what this is all about Dean?”

He really has a penchant for the knitted eyebrow and hurt/confused look.

“No, not really.”

“Dean, this is not a joke. What the fuck is your problem? And why is it so friggin’ important to you what happened to the girl’s bodies?”

Dean sighs and rakes one hand through his hair while keeping the other on the wheel and staring stubbornly ahead at the rapidly darkening road.

“Do you know what kind of trophies Fowler took?”

The question seems to puzzle Sam into cooperation because he stops scowling and seems to ponder the question with some consideration.

“Uhm, I don’t think that information was ever released to the public, but from what my father  insinuated I always gathered it was some... some body part or other, maybe hair. Why?”

The suspicion is back in his voice by then and Dean sighs again. There really is no way out of this. Apropos the reason for not picking up rookie civilians with an emo streak.

“Spirits can only linger here if there is something to anchor them in this world. Usually that something is their remains. The only sure-fire way to get rid of a vengeful spirit is to salt and burn said remains to send the fucker where it belongs.”

“I don’t get the problem here. All the girls apart from Erica were already cremated. That should be a good thing, right? Less...work.”

“It would be a good thing if the ladies would have had the common curtsey to get the fuck lost when they were torched. They didn’t. That means...”

“Something else is keeping them here. The trophies! So the only way to get rid of them is to find the trophies and then salt and burn them?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“But...we can’t do that. The trophies are the only thing connecting Fowler to the murders and the only chance to get him locked up for it. It’s our duty to see to it that those girls are finally done right by.”

Oh, boy. More like an emo freight train, still accelerating. Duty, Jeez.

“Listen, Sammy. There is nothing much we can do. My job is to get rid of the ghosts. Using any means necessary. Getting the killer is a job for the Police, or the FBI. Maybe they will connect the dots sometime in the future. If not, tough luck.”

“And what if Fowler kills again? We have to stop him. Besides, maybe just finding out the truth and making sure Fowler gets what he deserves is enough to put the girls at rest.”

“No. That is just not how it works. Their violent death and your father’s actions might be the reason they stuck around but at this point they are just set on destruction. They don’t listen to the voice of reason anymore. They will not stop haunting you just because you’re all nice and dutiful and adorable. They are not human anymore and they feel nothing but hate. They can’t be saved by group therapy or anger management or by giving them a hug. Only by burning.”

“But...”

“No! I won’t argue about this anymore. My job is to save you and that is what I am damn well going to do.  And the rest of the world can effing go and screw itself, because that is not my responsibility, thank you very much.”

An uncomfortable silence descends over them after that and Dean is overwhelmed by an almost tangible feeling of loss, so thick and cloying it makes breathing hard and constricts his chest in an odd way. Oh yeah, the other reason you don’t get attached to other people just made itself known rather brutally. Because it fucking hurts when they discover that you are not some freaking knight in shining armour but an emotionally retarded loner who mostly lives in his car (an amazingly cool car, but nonetheless), kills things and hustles pool for a living.

He isn’t quite sure why geeky, honest, law-school teacher’s pet Sam Enfield has gotten so thoroughly under his skin in such a short time. Or why he has the desperate wish to really be that morally sound protector for once in his life that Sam has made him out to be.

The only semblance of a situation like this he has ever experienced has been when he and his father had just separated and Dean was desperately lonely and got tangled up with a pretty girl a little too much. He had saved her, she got clingy and demanding, so he had shown his true colours, ditched her and moved on. He can’t bring himself to do the same now and drive Sammy away, though. He just can’t.

The silence stretches on until Dean decides to stop caring and climbs into bed, ignoring the soft light from Sam’s open laptop.

The stuffy, achy feeling in his chest doesn’t go away, though. It reminds him a lot of the feeling he had when he was still enough of a kid to actually give a shit about his father’s opinion. He felt this strange kind of loss and loneliness every Christmas, every Thanksgiving, every birthday since he can remember. Since his mom died. Growing up with a distant father who views his son more as a commodity at best or a hindrance at worst wasn’t so bad. After all, his father had taught him everything he knew and Dean had sucked it all up, like a good little soldier. And they had gotten along well enough after Dean had finally managed to grow up around the age of 9. Still, they had never been a family, there had always been something lacking to keep them together, something that would have to be both a kind of glue and a frigging lightning-rod. Some common concern they could connect about apart from hunting and something that would make them stop butting heads like enraged rams. He had always figured that it was his mother that was missing, but they never talked about it, so it didn’t exist.

In the end it had been his father who decided that they should better go their separate ways as soon as Dean was old enough. That way they could cover more ground, save more people, be more efficient. It had only soothed the rage a little that dad had given him the Impala, although Dean kind of knew that it was pretty much a confession of love in the world of John ‘da man’ Winchester.

Dean had still felt abandoned and alone. And in some way it still bothered him.

But Sam hasn’t left, a little hopeful, foolish part of his brain pointed out almost timidly.

Yet, supplied the cynical part that really made him a Winchester, too.

The next morning was awkward to say the least. Sam looked bleary eyed and tired as if he hadn’t slept all night and he still wasn’t talking to Dean. Despite all the guilt and hurt it really started to annoy the fuck out of Dean. He wasn’t used to cater to someone else’s whims, unless he wanted to get into that someone else’s pants, for god sake! And he wasn’t going to start now. All the wangsting about feelings and pain had to stop or he could just as well buy a dress and some tampons and be done with it, for cryin’ out loud.

“Listen, Sam. If you want to be all bitchy and moody you can do so on your own time. I am going to your parent’s house and I am going to find those effing trophies because it is pretty obvious your father hid them there somewhere, seeing as that house turned into dead bitch central. So you can either come along or help me or you can stay here, write a letter to some Agony Aunt about the unfairness of the world, eat some ice-cream and watch a chick-flick. I don’t care either way. Your call.”

“I’ll come with you, but I won’t let you burn the only evidence connecting Fowler to the murders!”

“We’ll see about that.”

Sam might be taller and not entirely built like the nerd that he was, but Dean still figures he can take him should need be.

They spent a good part of the day systematically destructing the Enfield household, tearing open every drawer and cupboard, turning entire rooms inside out, slicing open mattresses and rolling away rugs, even going so far as to knock holes in the walls because they might disguise hidden hollow spaces. And so far they came up with exactly nothing.

They are still not really talking and that only adds to the level of their mutual frustration. By the time noon crawls around into afternoon, Dean is ready to climb the friggin’ walls or just demolish everything with a large sledgehammer.

They are taking a little break in the utterly destroyed living room, both staring into space angrily and scowling. So far no ghost has shown its face and Dean catches himself thinking that the girls actually want them to find the trophies. But that is just not possible. That fucking stupid rookie starts to actually affect his brain. He will be so glad when he can finally get rid of him and move on. Just him, his car, his music without some smart-assed bitch and his screwed sense of morale. And why can’t he even convince himself that this is going to be a good thing?

“Dean?”

“What!”

Ok, maybe that came out harsher than strictly necessary but Dean is having a little annoyance fit here, so that’s really understandable.

“I...I am sorry. About yesterday.”

Oh for fuck’s sake. Can’t a man even hold a little grudge nowadays? Those eyes should really be ruled out by the Geneva Convention or something.

“I mean, I know that you know more about ghosts and haunting than I probably ever will, but it just doesn’t seem right.”

“Listen, kid. Right and wrong are all nice and peachy for civilians, but for hunters, who battle the supernatural every day, sometimes it is more important to do what’s best.”

“I get that, it’s just...”

Sam’s frustrated sigh echoes Dean’s feelings perfectly.

“Listen, Dean. Let’s make a deal, ok. We just concentrate on finding the trophies and stop arguing until we have them. All I ask is that you maybe keep an open mind that there might be other solutions than just setting the stuff on fire.”

Dean doesn’t say that he is pretty sure that there are no other options. There is no need to upset their not-even-quite-formed truce already. Instead he huffs out a breath and nods catching Sam’s beaming smile out of the corner of his eyes.

“You know, I’ve been thinking...”

“Yeah? What a shock.”

It feels good to tease Sam again, maybe too good, but Dean can’t bring himself to care right now.

“I think we have gone about this all wrong. We can’t just tear open the entire house. We need a plan.”

Dean looks around himself, slightly amused.

“Might have saved you a huge redecoration bill if you had that mighty epiphany a tiny bit earlier.”

Sam waves it away impatiently.

“Doesn’t really matter. I’m going to sell the place anyway. Look, we have been focusing on my father the whole time and we haven’t come up with anything. How about my mother? She must have been involved in this, too. At least in the vengeful spirit part.”

“So what? You think she took the trophies and stowed them in the freezer in a nice Tupperware thingy labelled “Dead Human Meat”?”

“I doubt that, but I think she might have had some semblance of a conscience, unlike my father. She once told me that she is regretting some things in here live. And that she has a kind of box she uses to stow memorabilia of those things so that she won’t ever forget them. I was very little back then. It was the night before I left for my first boarding school and I never got what she was saying. Now I think she might’ve actually said ‘I’m sorry’.”

“Touching. You don’t happen to know where she kept that box, huh?”

“Dunno, dude. Bedroom?”

Groaning they both rise to climb the stairs to the upper levels of the house for the umpteenth time that day.

After a little rummaging around in the already almost empty wardrobe Sam produces an old wooden box, decorated with flowers and glitter.

“It looks so obviously not like my father’s that I didn’t spare it much thought earlier.”

They set the box on the bed and Sam opens it with obvious trepidation. The lid reveals a whole pile of junk ranging from pictures of Sam in various age brackets over old letters to college brochures and job applications. And on top of it all lays a neatly folded letter saying ‘Sammy’ in shiny blue ink.

Sam takes the piece of paper and unfolds it with shaking hands. Dean can hardly hold back his impatience while he watches Sam get paler by the minute while he is reading his mothers last letter.

“God, Dean. It’s all true. My father and Fowler killed Erica Waters because she suspected that they hid Fowler’s trophies here. In this house. Erica wanted to get my mother to give them to her to use against Fowler and she was almost swayed to do it before Waters was killed. After that she was too scared to do anything about it and then the haunting started. The trophies must still be here. In a waterproof container hidden in the sand of the fish tank in the living room.”

After that it is ridiculously easy to pry open the aquarium, traumatize the fish and anemone and retrieve a small package containing the sad remains of once lively beautiful girls.

They sit side by side on the living room couch, both staring at the collection of small bones and hair and teeth in front of them. Dean plays absently with his lighter and watches Sam wince every time he flicks it on.

He feels guilty as hell now, knowing that the monster who did this, human or not, will live out the rest of his life as a happy free man. It still throws him no end to be reminded that actual human beings can be just as vile and evil and corrupted as any demon, vengeful spirit or wendigo he’s ever met. If only Erica Waters could have followed through with her plan to use those trophies to make sure Fowler got what was coming to him. And then suddenly it is as if someone whacked him upside the head and shouted ‘duh!” in a very loud voice, because the solution to their problem is oh so very obvious. Erica Waters was on the right track after all, alive as well as dead.

“Sammy, you are so going to love me for this."

Breaking into the villa is surreally easy giving the fact that it belongs to a cold blooded serial killer. A rich serial killer, nonetheless. But Dean is good at his job and disarms the security system in no time. They sneak in silently, both wearing black and armed for every occasion, both natural and supernatural in origin. Even Sam carries his shot-gun like a pro. Dean just hopes he doesn’t end up with a volley of rock salt in his ass.

Dean is still in the flow of complimenting himself upon his wit, sneakiness and general amount of awesome when suddenly all lights flare on around them and a handsome young man appears before them, aiming a mean-looking handgun at Sam’s head.

“Don’t move, you filth, or I blow the little toy boy’s brains out.”

Dean swallows forcibly and drags a smile across his face.

“You must be Horace ‘shit head’ Fowler. Nice to finally meet you in person. I am most familiar with you work.”

“Are you now, dickhead? What do you want? And you better keep me pleased or your little lover boy is dead before he hits the floor.”

“Ok, no need to be impolite. We are just here to give you something that’s yours. We found it recently and wanted to give it back.”

Fowler looks both puzzled and intrigued and lowers that gun a fraction, now pointing past Sam’s ear instead of directly at his forehead. Dean decides to take the risk and throws the package with the trophies at Fowler who catches it clumsily in a knee-jerk reaction. He stares at the package non-plussed and then all hell breaks loose.

The dead girls flicker into existence one after the other, surrounding Fowler, closing in. He screams and starts to fire at them, screaming louder when he realises his shots pass right through the angry apparitions. The bullets ricochet from the walls and bury themselves into the furniture so Dean grabs Sam and pulls him away, tipping over a massive oak dining table and ducking behind it. The screaming and shooting goes on for a while and the silence that follows it possibly the most eerie thing Dean has ever heard. And he has quite a large sampling group to compare it to.

He risks raising his head a fraction to look over the upturned table and freezes. Fowler is down, pretty obviously for good, but the ghost girls are still there. And they don’t look like happy campers. In fact they look like campers who are about to go lynch the lunch lady. And they are all turning now, focusing on Dean and Sam. Before they attack, though, Dean catches the eye of Erica Waters. He can’t help but feel that she doesn’t look as raving mad as her peers, but rather sad and maybe even apologetic. But he can’t concentrate on that now, because they are coming and he needs to protect Sam. In one smooth movement he manoeuvres his body between him and the approaching bitch-brigade and fires a round of salt at them. It slows them down, but it won’t stop them.

“Sammy, listen. You need to get to the package and burn it. I will draw them away. Whatever happens, don’t stop.”

With that Dean starts to move away from the fallen figure of Fowler that is still clutching his trophies in his lifeless hand. Fortunately the spirits don’t seem to mind whom they kill next, because they follow Dean slowly down the hall. He knows he is almost out of shots, so he just fires at them if they really get too close for comfort and then he runs dry, reduced to his bare hands and dumb luck.

Hurry the fuck up, Sammy, will ya?

The moment, the girl with the hammer – Helen Clemens, he now knows, but that isn’t really a great comfort - is close enough to brain him, the whole ghostly entourage suddenly goes up in flames, leaving nothing behind but a weird, smoky smell. Erica Waters is nowhere to be seen, either.

“God, Sam, you really took your time there. Was that the bitchy revenge for earlier?”

But Sam already barges down the hallway at top speed, nearly bowling Dean over but instead dragging him into a fierce hug.

He could really get used to it, Dean thinks, while he is squeezed within an inch of his live. It feels good to be hugged like this and Sam is all warm and actually smells good.

He is so lost in these confusing sensations that it takes him some time to realize Sam is muttering words into his hair.

“...thought I’d lost you. I can’t believe you’re ok. Thank god that you’re ok.”

And Dean knows he should stop him, say something derisive about him blubbering like a girl and that God, whoever he is, has definitely nothing to do with this, but right now he can’t get himself to care about befitting macho behaviour, because all he wants is to bury his face in Sam’s shoulder and rest a while, maybe sneaking his hands under Sam’s shirt to feel warm skin and make sure that they are really both still alive and whoa, motherfucking hell.

Dean draws back twitching a little, caught between the urge to lean in and to run away. He tries to make light of the situation, forces amusement into his voice while ignoring Sam’s confused and befuddled facial expression.

“Come on now, Sammy. There is one more thing we need to do tonight. There is nothing like desecrating your first grave to make you really feel like a hunter.”

It is surprisingly easy for both of them to fall back into their easy banter, forgetting or at least ignoring the weird and unsettling emotions that boil just beneath the surface.

“I am still pretty surprised that you didn’t object to my plan, Sam. It certainly wasn’t the most morally sound thing to do.” Dean observes while resting his back against a headstone, watching Sam digging with slightly diminished enthusiasm.

“Pfft. The bastard just got what he deserved. And it was the only way to get rid of Fowler and the spirits. I saw those girls attacking you. They really couldn’t be stopped any other way. What did you say earlier? Sometimes a hunter has to do what’s best, not what’s right.”

Dean can’t help but think of Erica Waters’ sad, mellow eyes. Maybe he must really be a bit more open minded about the things he is facing. Some of them actually were people once. That won’t stop him from salting and burning Erica’s remains though, as soon as Sam is done diggin’. But he took a little moment to silently apologize, although he felt a lot like an ass for doing so. He can’t dwell on all this metaphysical mumbo-jumbo right now. He needs to lighten the mood.

“By the way, dude, you’re a real natural with the shovel. Maybe I’ll keep you around as my very own oversized little hunchback.”

Sam huffs and straightens indignantly. It is late August and freaking hot in freaking Texas, so his shirt kinda sticks to his skin in interesting places.

“Why is it anyways, that I am the one digging the hole while you are just sitting there, fanning yourself like a giant pussy?”

“Because I am the boss-man around here, Sammy and you are totally my bitch.”

He laughs and ducks the shovel full of earth that is throw his way. Sam mutters something that sounds suspiciously like ‘megalomaniac jerk’ under his breath, but keeps digging.

Dean sighs and rubs the back of his neck with one hand. God help him, but he really likes Sam. And he knows that now that the gig is over he should have dumped him and run for the hills. But instead of dropping him off at his parents’ place with a short, manly goodbye and maybe even a lie about calling tomorrow, he has brought Sam along to the graveyard. He told himself that it’s just because the rookie deserves some closure or because he doesn’t feel like digging tonight but if Dean is really honest with himself – something he usually avoids like the plague, because it just gets you into the sticky stuff and never anywhere good – it’s because he can’t bring himself to part with Sam just yet. There is this weird warm feeling in his stomach he gets when he looks at Sammy, digging up a bunch of bones like an oversized puppy. A feeling that turns to icy lead every time Dean so much as thinks about their impending separation. Which, seriously, one more reason to get the fuck out of Dodge before this whole mess blows up in his face. He can practically hear his father admonishing him in his Son-you-are-an-idiot-voice Dean hates so much. Truth is though, Dean wants to keep this. He wants to keep their easy camaraderie, their playful banter, the hugging, the feeling of not being so fucking alone. He wants to keep Sam. He has never felt like this before, has never allowed himself to, not even when he was still young and slightly less cynical. It is overwhelmingly scary especially since he has to face the fact that he doesn’t see Sam just as a buddy or some kind of little brother-substitute like he has tried to tell himself the first couple of days of their acquaintance. The way his heart beats a little faster every time Sam laughs, his inability to say no to the puppy dog eyes, the telltale flutter in his stomach when their eyes meet for a little too long or the liquid pull in his chest when they touch, all this is enough even for Dean to figure out that he likes Sam in a not entirely selfless or immaculate way. And if all this hadn’t been enough there is also the way his eyes are constantly drawn to Sam’s mouth when he smiles, talks or so much as breathes, really, the way Dean can’t get Sam’s smell out of his head and would pretty much use every lame excuse for a hug and let’s face it, the way his body reacts to the sweaty, muscular vision in front of him. All this leads to only one single conclusion: He is pretty much fucked.

Because no matter how much he wants this and even if he doesn’t take into account the very real possibility that Sam doesn’t think of him the same way, he could never do this to Sam. Sam is smart and nice and decent to the core and even a couple short days in Dean’s world have been enough to tarnish him maybe irreparably. If Dean would give in to this selfish craving and drag Sam even deeper into the darkness of a hunter’s life it would damage that part that has Dean so inescapably drawn to him. No, Sam deserves a normal life, a happy future and a loving family, all things Dean can never provide.  Not to mention the horror and strife of his battle against all things supernatural. No, self-sacrifice is the Winchester way and Dean is going to follow that path to a bitter lonely end. Tomorrow he will be back on the road and Sam will have the chance to forget Dean ever existed.

Dean has to admit though, that Sam has taken the whole desecrating of graves and digging up dead bodies to enflame them rather in stride. This thought makes him smile a little and he manages to stuff all these depressing feelings away for just a little while longer. Maybe Sammy’s not such a rookie civilian anymore, after all. Dean is forced to reconsider this, when Sam insists on saying some kind words about Erica Waters supposed virtues before lighting up the whole deal. Although Dean has to admit that he grumbles more out of habit than any real opposition towards the sentiment.

When they are back in the car and on their way away from the cemetery, Sam is visibly restless and in a talkative mood. It’s nearing 4 in the morning and he almost bounces in his seat. Those flashes of adrenaline are definitely perks of the job, at least in the beginning. The giddiness wears off after fighting your 50^th ghost but at the moment it is almost too cute to watch Sam fidget, trying to get rid of some of that excess energy. Dean ponders to switch on the tape deck and blast them with something loud and rocky but before he can suggest it, Sam speaks. He sounds more thoughtful that excited now.

“So, that’s what it’s all about? Ride into town, solve some haunting, salt and burn some body and then ride out again? That’s what you do?”

“Well, yeah, basically. Only if the case involves a ghost, of course.”

“What? What else is there?”

If he weren’t driving, Dean would face-palm himself to death right about now. All this time he has managed to keep most of the truth away from Sam so that he has the chance of a normal life in the future without constantly looking over his shoulder for something out to get him. As long as he thought spirits were the only supernatural things around he wouldn‘t have to fear every dark corner, every mysterious noise in the night. But no, Dean just had to go and divulge it all now.

“Well, Sam, I don’t think you really want to know that.”

“Yes, I do. In fact I need to know it. Come on, spill it. If you don’t I will have to rely on sources like those Ghostfacers and you didn’t seem to like them a whole lot.”

And although Dean knows with absolute certainty that he shouldn’t, he can’t help it but give in to that weird effect Sam is having on him and his resistance.

“Well, if you must know. There are other things. Quite a lot of other things, actually...”

And then he tells it all, lays it all bare just so that Sam knows. Just so that he knows what Dean Winchester’s world really is like, even when Dean himself is nothing more than a vague memory of a strange guy that he spent some weird days with. Because Sam may forget Dean but he won’t be able to forget the truth about the supernatural. And just knowing that Sam will remember something about Dean as long as he lives stirs a guiltily pleasant feeling in his gut.

They end up watching the sun go up, sitting on the hood of the Impala and sipping from their beers. After Dean has finished with his tale about Vampires and Wendigos and Black Dogs and Tulpas and heaven and hell for good measure they have both gone quiet and thoughtful. It isn’t uncomfortable, though, sitting like this, side by side, legs occasionally touching when one of them shifts and watching the sky in the east turn from black to blue to red.

“So...”

It’s the first thing Sam has said for maybe 20 minutes and his voice sounds a bit husky and maybe also a little drunk.

“If you use the old come-on line: `You are so beautiful, heaven must be missing and angel’ and the girl actually slaps you in the face, she is probably another hunter.”

“Or she just is smart enough to recognise a very cheap line if she is subjected to one. But still, for a hunter, being compared to an angel isn’t really such a nice thing.”

“Are they really that bad?”

“Well, there are some exceptions but mostly? Yeah, dicks with wings.”

“Hmm. Oh, I got another one.”

“Another what?”

“Come-on line a hunter shouldn’t use.”

He leans in close to Dean until their faces are only inches apart and Dean gets a whiff of his smell. Sam smells nice and warm and slightly of bear and sweat. And when his breath ghosts across Dean’s ear, Dean is hardly able to fight down the very natural shiver that runs down his spine.

“You are so pretty that I fear I must hunt you down, because your beauty is just supernatural.”

Sam whispers those words in a sultry voice that is easily an octave deeper than his usual tones and Dean really has difficulties to reply past the roaring in his ears and the tightness in his chest. He has no idea how he manages to sound so normal when he speaks although he wants to lick a trail up Sam’s neck to his ear while Sam reads him the dictionary for all he cares as long as he uses that tone of voice. Forever.

“Well, nobody should ever use this line, hunter or no hunter. Because it is awful and every girl with an ounce of self-respect would sock you for it.”

Whereas there is a certain guy who wants to attack you in an entirely different way right now, his not so very helpful mind supplies. God, he must really be more drunk that he thought, despite the fact that he had only two beers. Or maybe it’s just because it has been quite some time since he got any. Yeah, that might just be it. He is just a little high-wired right now and Sam is just so damn nice and warm and smells so good...

“Uhm, duly noted. Come on, your turn.”

It takes him a moment to even realize that Sam has spoken, and in his normal tone, unfortunately.

“Huh? My turn to what?”

“Come up with a cheesy hunter’s line. I bet you have plenty, so please share with the rookie, hm?”

“Oh, well... How ‘bout ‘if I were a Vampire I would totally suck you right now’?”

He winces a bit, because that might not have been the best thing to say when talking about picking up girls and Sam really doesn’t need to know where his thoughts were going just now, but Sam only chuckles and shakes his head.

“Oh, please. That was pathetic. A cheesy line needs to be delivered properly. This won’t get you anywhere without some performance, dude.”

And ok, that is something that Dean can’t leave at that because he is the freaking king of picking-up girls and he certainly can’t be outdone by some goody-two-shoes with the experience of a virgin grass-hopper. And only that is the reason why he puts one hand against the frame of the windshield right by Sam’s head, leans in closer until he can look into huge doggy eyes and drops his voice to a low growl.

“If I were a Vampire...”

He pauses for effect, then tilts his head and smirks slowly and deliberately, his eyes never leaving Sam’s.

“I would totally...”

He takes another pause, less for effect and more for the need to wet his dry lips with his tongue. It’s then that he catches the way Sam’s gaze flickers down to his mouth and he swallows hard, realizes how Sam’s breath has quickened considerably and that Sam’s lips are parted slightly, invitingly. It’s then that Dean knows that he is absolutely done in for and that he really doesn’t care anymore, that he really can’t help it but lean even closer, closing the distance between them with one sharp intake of breath. And then they are kissing and Sam parts his lips under Dean’s and actually moans into the kiss and Dean really couldn’t give a shit about the rest of the world at the moment.

It feels way to good to finally slide his hands up under Sam’s shirt to feel the muscles of his belly quiver under the touch, feel the warm taunt skin of his back as he moves one hand up while the other is buried in Sam’s hair. He dimly wonders how it happened that he lost control to a degree where he is pinned between Sam and the car, their legs slotted together in a perfect fit, but when Sam starts to move above him, his lips never leaving the skin of Deans face, his cheeks, his temples, his jaw, he decides that he doesn’t really care about that either and instead throws his head back and groans deeply, exposing his throat that Sam instantly attacks with mouth, tongue and teeth.

Later they lie side by side on the hood again but with no space between them, touching from ankle to shoulder. The early morning sun is fully up now and very soon people will appear who will ask questions or look strangely at two guys basically cuddling on the hood of a classic car. But that is later. Right now all Dean can do is grin broadly and chuckle a bit about the irony of his life. Sam nudges him lightly with his head while idly lacing their fingers together.

“What are you laughing at?”

“I was just thinking how the worst ever pick-up line known to man actually got me some action. I mean, the whole thing you said about delivering totally worked.  I so need to hit a pub tonight and try it out. Girls loved me before; they will be all over me now.”

He can feel how Sam’s entire body literally freezes beside him and when he risks a glance, Sam gapes at him wide eyed and positively horrified.

“Relax, I was joking. The only bitch I intent to take home tonight is you.”

“You really are such a jerk.”

Sam drops his hand to smack him in the arm, but when Dean leans over to kiss him again Sam willingly parts his lips and traces lazy circles on the skin at the small of Dean’s back. And kissing feels even better this time, because Dean was afraid the easy closeness they had been sharing for the last couple of days would be gone, buried under this new weirdness. But it’s still there. It has transformed into something more, something deeper, but it still feels right.

It is good to know that for once in his life Dean can have both. He can have all he ever wanted.

Of course the feeling of exhilaration only last until Dean’s cell phone rings in his pocket and he knows with absolute certainty that it must be his father calling. Just as he knows what John Winchester would say about what he’s doing right now.

No ties, no attachments. Nothing wrong with catering to your needs now and then, but nothing that will distract you or entangle you or lead you away from the straight and narrow path of eternal self-sacrifice, revenge and isolation that is the Winchester way.

 And although they haven’t talked about it yet, Dean knows that this thing he has with Sam is both entangling and mighty distracting and he isn’t ready yet to just move on and forget it.

He even ponders, briefly, to ignore the call but he is just too much of his father’s very own Pavlov’s dog to do that. Instead he rolls away with an apologetic smile and picks it up.

“Dean, since you don’t seem to make any progress in the case I decided to come by and take a look at it myself.”

Fuck! And it sounds as if he is currently driving, probably already more than half-way there.

“Uhm, actually, Dad, we just torched the last ghost and are pretty much done with the whole thing.”

It irritates Dean no end that his father still seems to assume he needs to be let by the hand like a goddamn toddler all the time. A week isn’t such an unreasonable amount of time to spend on a job for fuck’s sake. But of course he can’t say that. Instead he says nothing and waits for the inevitable scolding.

“We? Dean, who is we? Did you drag the damn civilian even further into this? Even after I warned you not to?”

Warned me not to? You did tell me to use him as bait, remember? Again, he doesn’t say it. Instead he says nothing. Again.

“Whatever. You could just have informed me that you have finally completed this gig. Then I could have avoided a massive waste of time. I’m already too close to San Antonio to turn back now. I’ll meet you at your motel.”

They hang up without another word and Dean turns to Sam with a heavy feeling of dread in his gut. This is just so not cool. In fact it has the potential to turn into one enormous fuck-up.

“Hey, Sammy. What do you say? How would you feel about meeting my dad?”

The drive back to their motel is awkward to say the least. Dean is silently cursing himself, his father, his life and everything and Sam seems to realise that neither small nor big talk would be welcome right now, so he just stares out of the window at the increasing traffic, brow furrowed in a way that makes Dean feel guilty as hell every time he sneaks a glance at Sam.

He really doesn’t know what he had been thinking getting so damn attached to that guy. Apart from being pretty much male, he is not even really Dean’s type. Way to emo and nice and morally sound. Dean prefers it easy and superficial. He can’t afford to lose sight of his duty and now he sounds like his fucking father for God’s sake! But John’s presence has always had this effect on him. The further away he gets from him the more Dean starts to question his father’s rules and opinions and values. Duty before Happiness. Revenge before one’s own Needs. There are days when Dean is sure that this way of life is just beyond fucked up and is almost ready to take a chance. Who says a hunter can’t be happy or have friends or even a fucking life beyond the next case and the next kill?

But every time – every single time he reaches that decision his father contacts him. He calls him on the phone. He meets him somewhere on the road. It’s almost uncanny how his father knows when to yank his chain good and proper. And it’s more than frustrating how Dean tends to fall in line.

As soon as he pulls into the motel parking lot and spots his father’s slightly rundown pick-up (John seems to have come to the conclusion that only the Impala is a car worth taking care of) his throat is dry as parchment and guilt coils ever tighter in his stomach. He even ponders asking Sam to catch a cab back to his own place just to spare them the impending discomfort but when he looks up at Sam’s worried face he can’t do that either. Caught between a damn rock and a fucking hard place he just squares his shoulders and leads the way to their room.

Of course his father is already in it, rising from his perch on one of the rickety chairs.

“Dean, I hope you don’t mind that I let myself in. I have a long drive behind me and I didn’t much feel like waiting on the parking lot like a cheap whore.”

The reproach in John’s voice makes Dean clench his fists at his sides and grit his teeth.

“You know that you are always welcome to break into my room.” His voice sound strange in his ears, gravelly and harsh. John seems to hear that, too because he blinks in irritation before his gaze moves over to Sam. After appraising him without so much as a greeting John’s gaze returns to Dean with disdain obvious in the arch of his eyebrow and the set of his jaw.

“And who is this?”

It sounds as if he is talking about something nasty he found in the basement instead of an actual human being and Dean really wants to yell at him to leave them the fuck alone already. Instead he takes a deep breath and tries to rid his voice of emotions to not refill his father’s already impressive arsenal of things he can use to bring Dean to heel.

“Dad, this is Sam. He helped me with the hunt. Sam this is John Winchester, my father.” And a real dick remains unsaid.

“It is nice to meet you, Sir. Dean told me it was you who suggested he should look into my parents’ death, so I guess I should thank you.”

Dean marvels at the friendliness in Sam’s voice despite John’s crappy behaviour and his heart clenches painfully at the flicker of confusion that crosses Sam’s face when John just nods curtly and ignores his outstretched hand.

“Well, Sam, if you could excuse us now, I would like to have a word with my son. In private.”

“Uhm, sure. I just... I just go over to the diner and have myself a little bit of breakfast, then. See you later Dean.”

God, this is just so fucked up. Dean knows that Sam must be exhausted and close to collapsing right about now and doesn’t need crappy diner food but a couple hours of sleep, but instead he leaves with slightly reddened cheeks and a worried look in his expressive eyes. And his father is such a dick. He ponders saying just that for a couple of silent seconds but his father beats him to it.

“What the fuck do you think you are doing, Dean? It is bad enough that you tend to think with something that is certainly not you brain when it comes to a pretty face, but this is really a new level of ridiculous, even for you. You know I don’t care about your preferences, but why the fuck is this kid still tagging along when you should have gotten rid of him as soon as you didn’t need him anymore and you could assume he was safe?”

“Because I didn’t feel like being a cold-hearted asshole this time. He helped me. A lot. He deserves to be treated like an equal.”

“Dean, I am not stupid. And neither are you even if you currently display a rather good likeness. You don’t do this because you think it is the right thing to do. You don’t do this for him. You do this for yourself. Plain and simple.”

John’s voice as turned less biting and almost gentle, certainly understanding but before Dean can cut in, he raises one hand to silence him and continues.

“I know how it is, Dean. I know it is hard to always be alone. And I can admit that I have made some mistakes myself. Mistakes other people are still paying for. But you know deep down that I am right. If you care about this kid you will leave him behind and never see him again. This is not what I would want for you if I had the choice, but it is how it has to be. And you know that, Dean, don’t you?”

“No, it doesn’t have to be like that.”

He absolutely hates that he sounds like a petulant child and he hates even more that yes, he knows his father is right. John could always tell the second Dean caved and now is not an exception.

He sighs deeply and a little smile pulls at his lips that Dean wants to smack off of his face.

“Look, son. Why don’t you come with me? We could hunt together. Or you could take a break. Go somewhere nice and enjoy yourself for a while.”

“No, Dad. I am fine.” He knows that defeat is evident in his entire body, face and voice but he doesn’t care anymore. He doesn’t care about anything right now, because the only thing he could care about is going to be taken away from him.

“Ok. Listen, Dean. I have something I want to look into. It might take me awhile and I don’t know if I can be in touch regularly, but I will contact you should need be.”

That’s John Winchester for you. Back to business in no time, because everything is business for the Winchester’s. Even family.

“Sure, Sir. Take care.”

They share an awkward handshake/one-armed hug that even Dean finds painfully ridiculous in it’s silly manly bravado and John exits without so much as a backwards glance at his son.

Dean sighs forlornly and drops down onto his bed, rubbing his eyes. It doesn’t take long until Sam slinks back into the room and looks around carefully.

“Hey.”

“Hey, Sam. How was the diner?”

Sam wrinkles his nose adorably and adds a little more weight to Dean’s chest.

“It was exceptionally horrible. Even worse than I expected. Are you ok?”

God, the gentle concern makes Dean feel even more like the dick that he is.

“Look, Sammy. I think we need to talk.”

It goes terrible and it’s all his fault, Dean knows that. He tries to stay calm. To not let his emotions bubble to the surface and yeah, epic fucking fail. Before long they yell.

Sam yells that he is a grown man and knows what he wants. And what he wants it to stay with Dean and definitely not return to his normal life that holds nothing but a whole lot of average. It stuns Dean to hear Sam say that. Even in those short moments he had let himself dream he had never really considered Sam could actually want that. The most he had hoped for had been a couple of weeks together before Sam would have finally been fed up with him. When he started this conversation he had expected Sam to be annoyed or pissed off that Dean treated him like what felt a lot like a commodity, tossing him to the side and leaving like Sam didn’t mean anything to him. He thought he knew Sam enough to know that he wasn’t the kind to kiss someone he didn’t at least feel some kind of affection for, he had figured that Sam expected him to stick around for a while after what had happened this morning. He hadn’t expected the raw pain in Sam’s voice, the actual heartbreak in his eyes and it kills him. Instead of drawing Sam close though, he steels himself and yells back. Yells that Sam doesn’t know what he gets himself into, that Dean doesn’t have time to drag a fucking civilian along. It feels like tearing his own heart out of his chest and he can’t do it. He trembles when he stares at Sam and rakes his hands through his hair in frustration.

“Listen, Sammy. I’m sorry. I know that I’m being an ass, but I can’t do this, ok? I can’t do this to you. You deserve so much better than this. Than me. And I can’t be the one that takes everything away from you. You would hate me one day and I can’t stand that.”

“Dean.” Sam’s voice is desperate as he surges forward and cups Dean’s face in his hands.

“Dean, please, give me a chance. I don’t want to leave you like that, please believe me.”

It really blows Dean’s mind that even after being such a SOB Sam still doesn’t hate him, still hasn’t given up on him. He nearly caves to the puppy dog eyes once again but steels himself, reminds himself that he is doing this for Sam.

“No, Sam. I can’t do this. You...you mean too much to me. And you don’t really know what you are asking for. This hunt? It was easy and clean cut in comparison. Most of the time it is far worse. There is blood and pain and darkness. Hunters live sad and lonely lives; they don’t get old and live happily ever after surrounded by grandchildren and dogs. Nobody should have to live like that.”

“You do.”

“But you deserve better. You deserve everything you could ever want.”

“I want you, Dean.”

It sounds so simple when he says that. But Dean can’t give into what feels right for him, but what is best for Sam. Best for Sam.

“Sam, I want you, too. But it is just not possible. I can’t do this to you. Please don’t make me do this.”

He sees it in his eyes the second Sam gives in. It is as if his entire face shuts down and he hangs his head in defeat.

“Fine, Dean. You win. I give up. But I know I won’t change my mind. Not ever. And I hope that one day you will see that this is a mistake. We are right together, Dean, and I am pretty sure under all this stubborn defeatist heroism you know that. I want you to know that when you get over you guilt trip I will be there.”

Dean really really expects it to be all over when he drops Sam of at the airport. He knows it will hurt a little. Ok, a whole lot, but they will both go on with their lives and that is the best he can do for Sam. If you love someone set them free and all that schmoopy crap.

What he hasn’t figured into the equation is Sam’s stubborn persistence and grasp of modern communication technology. Yes, sure in theory Dean has known that things like text messages exist but he never had someone to text to before. His father would laugh his ass off if he even suggested it. So when his cell bleeps but it is not the usual ring tone, Dean is taken aback for a moment until he catches on.

Hey, there. Just wanted 2 let u know I got here alright.

Uhm, ok. He had promised himself not to keep in contact with Sam at all, but one little text can hardly hurt, can it? And it would seem just plain rude not to answer. It’s only later that he realizes that this is exactly the dangerous appeal of texting. That false sense of security that lures you in and that Sam is probably more than aware of.

It takes Dean more than 20 minutes to formulate a response, for various reasons including but not limited to the fact that his finger seem way more useful with tools and guns than with tiny little buttons.

Good 2 know. Take care.

Well, it’s not freaking Shakespeare but Sam seems to take it as a sign that texting is allowed and sends him little texts ever so often.

Most of them are quite harmless and make Dean grin and want to respond in kind.

Hey, dude. Went by a costume store today and saw a ghost costume. Took me a lot of restrained not to barge in and tell the chick behind the counter: Lady thats not what ghosts look like!

Yeah, it can be quiet a strain 2 be so in the know when the rest of the world is just oblivious. Oh woe is us.

Went in anyways and bought neat werewolf costume. Werewolves are cool.

So, you got a kink about hairy people who want to bite you?

You can bite me, jerk

only if you ask nicely, bitch

Others are considerably more rattling. Those tend to come in the middle of the night. At least in the middle of the night where Sam is. Dean doesn’t know why he keeps track of time zones like that but he does. And they tell of inebriation.

My life sucks. I don’t want to be here.

or

Dude, I miss you so much. Even your jerkitude.

or just

please

Dean usually doesn’t answer those but that doesn’t stop Sam from sending them. And Dean is not unaffected by this either. He tends to send 3 or 4 texts long ramblings about his latest hunt and all the things that have gone wrong like the time the damn vamp he was after had a wing man and Dean hadn’t or the haunting he couldn’t figure out until the victim count had risen dramatically. And Dean realizes that he isn’t just telling about his day then and Sam seems to get that because he usually answers with something along the lines of:

Dude, I know how you feel.

or

Yeah, dude, I miss you 2.

Dean has started to wonder if maybe the word ‘dude’ has a whole set of meanings that he hadn’t figured out so far.

It gets to the point where Dean gets nervous and agitated if Sam doesn’t text him for too long, like an entire day. And only the next text, when it finally comes, can calm him down. And instead of getting better and less painful and shit, it just gets worse and Dean knows that if this goes on he will cave eventually, but he can’t seem to stop.

He finally breaks on Halloween of all days. And how fucking cliché is that, huh? He is all cooped up in a shabby motel with a six-pack and the urge to shoot the next trick-or-treater that dares to knock on his fucking door. Seriously, what kind of parents let their kids knock on sleazy motel-doors, begging for sweets? When his cell bleeps he figures it’s Sam with some cheesy line about a hunter’s favourite holiday.

It’s Sam all right, but it’s in no way the cheery or light-hearted banter he’s expected.

Fuck, dude. When are you freaking done pretendin and finally fucking come to get me?

10 sleepless hours later Dean is in Stanford and effortlessly breaking into Sam’s apartment. Hell, he should‘ve really gotten more suspicious about now.

It is the middle of the night and Dean is pretty surprised to encounter the glow of a small lamp illuminating the living room. If he hadn’t known already that Sam has a roommate named Jessica, the girl that had fallen asleep on the couch might have been enough for him to change his mind. As it is he stealthily moves past her and barely registers the book that lies open on her belly. It seems to be some kind of thriller-deal and the bright orange flames that adorn the cover move in the light of the lamp and make it look as if her stomach is on fire.

He sneaks over to what he figures must be Sam’s room and opens the door to slip into velvety darkness again, closing the door inaudible behind him. Before he can let his eyes get re-accustomed to the dark, though, someone grabs him from behind and pins him against a tall frame.

“Dude, for someone in your line of work you really suck at sneaking.”

Dean huffs a sigh of relieve and relaxes a bit into Sam’s hold.

“And I didn’t even knock anything over this time. And got past your little friend out there.”

“That doesn’t count. Jess sleeps like the dead. The dead that stay dead, that is. A clumsy one man band couldn’t wake her. Besides I’ve been waiting for you to turn up.”

“Have you now? How come?”

“Well, I send you that text and I figured...”

“Cocky, much, huh?”

“You are kind of here, though.”

“True enough.”

Dean turns and adjusts their position so that he can wrap his arms around Sam’s hips, resting them at the small of his back drawing him closer.

“There is this gig I could kind of use you help with, you know.”

“Is that so?”

Sam has bent his head a little to nuzzle at the nape of Dean’s neck.

“Uhu. So if you don’t mind ditching your girlfriend out there and throwing your bright future away for some adventures on the road and an emotionally underdeveloped jerk with more issues than pairs of socks, I’d appreciate it.”

Dean’s eyes have finally adjusted to the dark enough to make out Sam’s grin when he draws back and grabs an already packed duffle back from the bed.

“Let’s go.”

“Boy, you had me all figured out like a children’s cross-word puzzle, huh?”

“Ah, you know, just hopeful me.”

Sam laughs a little and Dean tries to raise his eyebrow wryly but well, Sam pulls him closer to press his mouth hungrily to Dean’s and Dean parts his lips and feels Sam nibble at them and it’s way too late and too dark for any amount of facial sarcasm right about now.

They get in the car and drive off, Zep blasting out of the speakers and Dean doesn’t really know what will happen and his father-  wherever he is- certainly won’t approve, but what the fuck Sam is here with him and they are in this together and it feels exactly like it’s supposed to be.

The end/ beginning