Fic: Epiphany [3/9]
It's been so long since they hunted without the apocalypse behind them that they've almost forgotten how. They drive aimlessly for a bit while Sam searches the local newspapers of each town they visit, checking in with the waitresses as they get warm-ups on their coffee to see whether anything strange has been happening.
Strangely enough, the hunt they end up taking isn't mentioned in the newspaper at all. They're passing through some no-name town in Alabama when Sam sits up and grabs the dashboard and says, "Wait," in a voice that has Dean slamming on the brakes and pulling off the road. "Go back. There's something... I think there's a hunt here."
There is a hunt, as it turns out. Jeremiah Kennedy took a bullet to the head after his crops failed, but his spirit is alive and well, enough to keep them busy dodging pitchforks in their attempt to salt and burn the part of the barn where the deed was done. It's pretty much a given that they're going to have to torch the whole thing, but there's a small copse of trees not too far where they can stay to make sure only the barn burns and nothing else--and hey, one hunt down, no hunters around, and apparently Sam can do more than have visions and toast things with his mind.
"You've got some sort of ESP thing happening now, too?" Dean asks when they're settled a safe distance, empty gas can in tow.
"Guess so," Sam says, watching the roof of the barn go up in flames.
"Headache?"
Sam considers. "No. At least, not yet."
"So how'd you figure there was a hunt here?"
Sam shrugs. "It just felt wrong. I didn't know what it was until we passed the barn on the way out and everything sort of clicked."
"You knew it was a ghost."
"No, just that it was supernatural. But I think..." Sam hesitates and the barn's roof crashes in before he continues, "Knowing what it is? I don't think that would take too much practice."
Dean's eyebrows shoot up but he doesn't say anything more than, "Guess maybe you should practice."
-
As if Dean's given tacit permission, Sam takes to exploring his powers in the sanctuary of whatever motel they stay in each night. Lighting things on fire isn't a regular thing, so they guess that the big guns are reserved for times of greater stress, when someone's really in trouble. ESP, though, can happen with a fraction of Sam's concentration. So can reading auras. That quickly rises in Dean's estimation as one of his favorite powers: it leaves no trace and makes interviewing witnesses a hundred times easier.
"What do you think?" Dean asks after their most recent grill session.
Sam shakes his head. "He's lying. His colors were all wrong."
Two weeks ago that kind of phrasing would have been categorized under Crazy Talk. Now, it's become their kind of normal.
"Earlier this week you said he was the best lead we had."
"He wasn't lying then. Something's spooked him."
Dean waits a few minutes, long enough for them to pull into the parking lot of the diner and head for a booth in the corner, before he asks, "What color does lying look like?"
Sam quirks an eyebrow at him, unfolds his menu, and shrugs. "It's hard to explain."
Which is pretty much par for the course these days.
-
They get used to Sam casting out energy, looking for supernatural influences as they pass through towns, and then reading the auras of civilians to glean information about the hunt. It's more difficult to get used to the side effects that come with Sam's powers.
They're on a salt-and-burn in Maine, Sam digging, Dean keeping watch with the shotgun, when Sam straightens and says, "Dean!"
Dean turns and fires, used to trusting Sam's instinct without thought, and hits nothing but air.
"Sorry. I thought I saw something." Sam's staring at the space behind Dean, squinting a little, like if he focuses hard enough whatever he saw will come back. "Never mind."
A few minutes later, it happens again. Dean doesn't fire this time, doesn't want to keep wasting rounds firing at nothing, and Sam shakes his head and keeps digging. Sam pauses twice more before he reaches the coffin, but he doesn't say anything. He pries off the lid of the coffin and reaches for the lighter fluid, dousing the corpse and finishing with a layer of salt, before cringing and holding a hand to his ear.
"You hear that?"
Dean keeps an eye on Sam and surveys the area around them. "Hear what?"
"That ringing, it's driving me crazy." Sam winces and peels his hand away but keeps his shoulders bunched up. "Forget it, let's just finish this. Where're the matches?"
Dean digs in his pocket for the box of matches and feels something icy clutch his shoulders. The next minute he's flying back and hits something hard enough to see stars. Sam shouts, grunting as he hauls himself out of the grave, then there's the sound of the shotgun blast.
When Dean finally sits up and focuses his eyes, Sam is crouched in front of him, his eyes wide as he reaches out and touches Dean's head at the center of all the pain. Dean hisses and jerks away.
"What the hell, man?"
"Sorry," Sam mutters, taking his hand away and looking at his fingers.
"I'm not bleeding."
"No, I know, I just..." Sam wipes his hand on his pants and looks at it again. "Thought you were."
They stay until the fire dies down, then they fill the grave back up and scatter leaves over the top so anybody happening past wouldn't immediately notice that it had been disturbed. Sam offers to drive back but Dean says, "Dude, I hit my head, I didn't get a concussion," and gets behind the wheel. A few minutes later, he asks, "Your ear thing go away?"
Sam stiffens, then shrugs. "Guess so."
"You have that often?"
"Nope."
Dean steals a glance at Sam. "Well, good. 'Cause if you did, I'd be worried."
Sam still doesn't give, and Dean sighs.
"If you're worried I'll get mad because it's about your powers, man, I don't care. Okay?"
"I didn't say it was my powers."
"You don't have to say it. It doesn't take a genius to put the pieces together. I'm just saying, I'm not blind. I get that you were a human EMF reader back there tonight. Right?"
Sam takes a breath, shoulders coming down a little. "Yeah," he admits.
"You knew the ghost was coming. That was your ear thing."
"And I saw..." Sam gestures at Dean's head. "It was red."
"I wasn't bleeding."
"No, I know, but it...looked red."
Dean considers for a moment, then says, "Okay."
"Okay?" Sam says, shifting in his seat to face Dean. "This isn't okay, Dean, this is crazy! I'm seeing lights. I'm seeing things that aren't even there! And I'm hearing things. In most people's books, I'm pretty much certifiable at this point."
"Our books aren't exactly the same as other people's books, Sam. You have visions, you can zap things with your mind. You're psychic, it comes with the territory."
"I'm more than psychic, Dean, I'm saddled with otherworldly abilities. This doesn't freak you out?"
"Man, where have I heard that before?"
"Dean, I'm serious."
"So am I. Look, Haley Joel, just keep me updated on the seeing and hearing things and we'll figure it out as we go."
There's a moment of silence, broken only by the sound of the Impala's wheels on the road. Then Sam breaths out and says, "Yeah."
They both pretty much ignore the way that Sam keeps staring at his fingers.
-
Bobby calls the next day with a hunt in Montana, a restless spirit unhappy about a family remodeling their house. Dean wakes up with a headache that even a handful of aspirin doesn't cure, but when they get to Montana it's Sam who's snappish and irritable, can't get his head in the game long enough to sweet-talk the civilians. Dean ends up finishing up the job himself and returns to the motel in the evening to find Sam bleary-eyed and sleepless because everything is "too loud" even though they're on the edge of farm country. A week of hunting down the quietest motels and relegating themselves to salt-and-burns gets Sam back on his feet but he's not one hundred percent and they both know it.
It's the second week of September when Sam wakes up in the middle of the night after a vision of a haunting in Oregon. Dean convinces him it can wait until morning, but he's up at 7 a.m. and packing his duffel by the time Dean drags on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and decides it's time to address the elephant in the room.
"Listen," he says, "I know you're gung-ho about this hunt and all--"
"I saw a kid, Dean," Sam snaps. "You'd want to get there too."
"I know and I get that. I'm just saying... What if we don't take it?"
"Why wouldn't we take it?"
"Why not let Dixon have it? Or call Bobby, pass it off to him. He'll find somebody."
Sam stops packing. "If this is about me and my...distractions, I'm fine. I've got it under control. They're getting better."
"It's not about that." At Sam's look, Dean admits, "Okay, it is, kind of. Just what...what do you say we stop. Just for a little."
"Stop," Sam repeats. "Stop hunting?"
"We'll pass this one off. Take a break for a while. I just think that it'd be better for all parties involved if we took some time off to let you get a handle on things, see what else crops up with your powers, and then get back in the game."
Sam looks at Dean. "You know, Dad would be rolling in his grave if he could hear you talk like that."
Dean shrugs. "Think about it, man, the world isn't ending. No one wants us to choose sides--" Sam snorts and Dean amends, "--except the angels, as always. But, Sam, seriously. We can do this. Hell, whether we can do it or not, I think we deserve it. Just for a little while."
Sam picks up the next shirt and folds it with exaggerated care, turning things over in his mind. Finally, he says, "Where do you want to go?"
Dean pulls a map from the side of his duffel and spreads it out on the side table. "You pick."
-
They're crossing the state line when Sam calls Bobby and tells him about the hunt in Oregon. "Whoever you send needs to get on it. I think what I saw happens this weekend."
"All right, I'll call, see who's in the area. If you boys are itching for something else, there's a poltergeist, looks like, down in Texas."
"Thanks, Bobby, but I think we'll pass."
"Something else catch your eye?"
Sam slides a glance at Dean and says, "Um, Dean wants to talk to you." Dean shakes his head, glaring, and smacks Sam when he puts the phone on speaker.
"Dean?" Bobby's voice is tinny. "Everything all right?"
"Everything's fine, we're just...dealing with some new developments."
"What kind of developments?" Bobby's voice takes on an edge.
Dean hesitates, waits for Sam's small nod before answering, "Perception, mostly. Seeing things. Hearing things. Generally acting as spacey as a gum-snapping teenage girl. Anything I'm missing, Sam?" Sam glares and Dean grins. "Yeah, I think that's it."
"All right. So where does that leave us?"
Dean shoots a glance at Sam. "Sam and I are taking a break. Temporarily. Holing up somewhere until Sam gets his whatever under control."
Bobby doesn't sound as surprised as Dean expected. "Where at?"
"Don't know yet."
"Well, call me when you do."
"Roger that."
He flips the phone shut and tosses it at Sam. "You want to be a bit more specific than east?"
Sam grins. "I'll tell you when we get there."
-
It's the close of the third week of September when they cross Virginia's border and pull into a town called Pooles. Sam gets out, takes a breath like he's been holding it the whole way, and says, "We're here."
They poke around a little, call Bobby and ask about what he knows. Pooles isn't mentioned in John's journal and Bobby's never heard of the place. There's a load of legends surrounding the town, of course, but they're genuinely bogus as far as Dean can tell. There's not a hunter in two hundred miles that Bobby knows of and none of Sam's alarms go off on their first and second drive-through.
They check in at the motel and pay cash. Dean nods at a bar as they drive past, says, "What do you say?"
"Hustling? We want to stay here, not get kicked out, remember?"
"Fine, fine. Actual jobs it is, then. See anything that looks appealing?"
"There was a garage down the way."
"Yahtzee," Dean says and turns them that way.
They're about to close for the day but the owner, a burly man with a handlebar mustache, takes one look at the Impala and agrees to give her a look-see. An hour later, Dean has a job.
"Cakewalk," Dean crows as they're pulling out of the garage. "I had it in the bag within the first fifteen minutes, but he wanted to know how I did the cassette player's wiring."
"So that's why you made me get out."
"Couldn't have your gigantic legs in the way of my good work, Sammy. All right, here are your options: diner or Chinese."
"Chinese," Sam sighs, "and let's take it back to the room."
Dean shoots him a concerned look. "Tired?"
"Kind of."
"Did you get any feelings about Rick? Any aura things?"
"He seems like a good guy," Sam says. "To be honest, I wasn't really looking."
"It's getting better?" Dean seems pleased.
"It's only been a day so all bets are off, but if I concentrate on keeping a lid on things, it's easier to not let everything--" Sam makes a motion that Dean guesses means powers, "--get in the way."
"Awesome," Dean says and doesn't seem to mind when Sam lets him head inside the Chinese restaurant and order for both of them, returning with plastic cartons full of kung pao and fried rice.
They're in the middle of dinner at the motel, TV turned to some talk show, when Dean cracks open his fortune cookie and asks, "What are you gonna do?"
"About what?"
"A job. Unless you're planning on sitting on your thumbs and letting me make a living for us both the way you normally do..."
"Shut up, I'll work. I don't know. Grocery store, maybe?"
"You're going to be a bag boy?"
Sam throws a piece of chicken at Dean. "Fine, come up with a better suggestion."
"I've already got one. Teaching."
"You have to be credentialed to teach, Dean."
"So get credentialed. Or don't. We can fake it."
"I don't want to fake it."
"Oh, come on, don't tell me you're going straight now just because we're settling down for few weeks."
"I don't want to teach," Sam says firmly, poking at his kung pao. "I don't think it's a good idea."
"Why not?"
"Because I'd be around kids."
Dean looks incredulous. "What, are you allergic to them or something?"
"No," Sam says quietly.
"So what's wrong with them?"
"Nothing's wrong with them," Sam says. "But there might be something wrong with me."
Dean's head rears back. "What?"
"We don't know how I'll react. I think it'd be best to keep a lid on things for a while. Until I'm sure."
"Sure about what? Sam, we have a social circle of almost none and we still run into kids all the time. You saw it driving past the school: there are definitely kids in this town. And there's gonna be kids in the next town and the next. I'm sorry but it's crazy to me that with everything that's gunning for us right now, you're worried about kids. Because yeah, they're dirty little snot-balls most of the time, but they're not exactly dangerous."
Sam rubs his thumbnail over his knuckles. "I think maybe I'm the dangerous one."
Dean's head jerks up. "You're not serious."
"I've only been around you and Bobby so far--"
"Yeah, but you're not exactly the axe-murdering type, Sam."
"I wasn't. Letting Lucifer ride me is kind of a big deal. It's not crazy to want to make sure I've got all the kinks worked out before I put myself as an authority figure over a bunch of kids."
"Sam." Dean almost laughs at how ridiculous this is, but Sam's face is serious.
"Dean, I know you want to think everything's normal up here," he taps his temple, "but it's not. Believe me, it's not."
"You're psychic. It's not the end of the world. You had this all before and didn't worry once about being around kids."
Sam shakes his head. "Trust me, Dean. It's not like it was before."
"Okay, fine. Maybe it's not," Dean allows. "But there's one thing I want you to remember." He enunciates slowly, pushing the words out like an offering. "You are not dangerous. You're not violent. I want you to get that through your head. If I'm going to be worrying about anybody's ass on this planet, it's not gonna be some kid's, it's gonna be yours."
Sam's frown quirks. "You're worried about my ass?"
"Real mature, Sam," Dean grumbles, tossing Sam's fortune cookie at his head. "Listen, if worse comes to worse, you can skip the job and we'll use the credit cards."
"At the same motel? For weeks on end?"
"We don't even know we'll be here that long. All I'm saying is that the garage can cover us until we decide to get back into it."
"I can work," Sam insists quietly.
"All right. We'll figure it out. Until then, let's just take it a day at a time."
-
They spend the next day at the Kinko's a few towns over, laminating fake IDs and getting info from Bobby about the paperwork he's going to send over for them with their new backgrounds as "fine upstanding citizens." They drive past the high school at 3:30 and Dean tries not to make it obvious that he's watching Sam out of the corner of his eye. Sam's fears aren't completely unfounded, but the only thing he sees is the way that Sam's hands are knit in his lap, Sam's eyes skittering over the crowd of teenagers like he doesn't know whether to acknowledge them or pretend they don't exist. Trying to be normal, his brain supplies, but Sam couldn't be normal if he tried.
They get meatloaf sandwiches for dinner and put their badges and aliases in the Impala's trunk, replacing them with new driver's licenses with the names Sam Campbell and Dean Campbell. Sam's complaining about the picture Dean used on his license when the phone rings. Dean checks the screen, then puts it on speaker.
"Yeah."
Bobby's voice comes over the line. "Is Sam there?"
Dean looks over at Sam. "Yeah, you're on speaker."
"This gonna be overheard?"
"Aside from the two of us, no."
"Good. I'll make it quick. Word got out about Lucas Martin. I've had two phone calls and a personal visit about you boys, particularly Sam and his apparent return from the dead."
Dean's face hardens. "You tell them to shove it?"
"I told them I don't know anything about it, you idjit. I don't want my house burned down by a bunch of angry hunters with a bone to pick. You boys still in Pooles?"
"For the time being, yeah. We were planning on staying at a motel for a few weeks."
"Well, make it longer. I'd say it's going to take more than a few months before this thing blows over. Better hunker down and blend as best you can."
"Okay. Keep us updated."
Bobby grunts and says, "Call me with your address as soon as you get settled. I'm sending something over."
Dean flips the phone shut. "Guess we're sticking around."
"Guess so," Sam says.
"Did you see a real estate place when we drove through town?"
Sam looks surprised. "What do we need a real estate office for?"
"Because if I have to look at this wallpaper for more than a few weeks, I'll shoot myself."
-
It's brisk when Dean goes out for breakfast, enough that he appreciates the steaming coffee and the warm muffins he finds at the bakery down the street. Sam's still asleep when he gets back to the room, although the smell of the coffee wakes him up.
"Which muffin is mine?" Sam asks.
"Neither until you shower."
"Jerk," Sam mutters, but he rolls out of bed and rummages in his duffel before disappearing in the bathroom. Dean waits until the shower starts running before cracking open the door and leaving Sam's dress shirt and tie hanging from the hook.
He's not surprised when, ten minutes later, Sam storms out with a towel around his waist, the shirt and tie held up accusingly. "What is this?"
"They're the kind of clothes people expect you to wear to interviews."
"Why were they on the door?" Sam bites out.
"Because at nine I'm going to drop you off at the school and you're going to go in and ask them for a job."
Sam narrows his eyes, jaw set. "Why?" he asks again, voice lower.
"Because the garage isn't going to be enough for a month or more and we need to find a house."
"We don't need a house, Dean!"
"Sam," Dean says, "the game plan has changed. Hunters are looking for us, and it's not just Gordon, and it's not just Walt and Roy, okay? This isn't a game of house we're playing, this is doing what Dad taught us and keeping our heads down so we can hide in plain sight. We don't do this right, we got no chance. Our cover's got to be bulletproof. As much as I hate to say it, I think we ditch the Impala, we both get jobs, and we find ourselves a permanent address and make nice with the townsfolk. Anybody comes poking around, we need them on our side."
"Fine, but I'm getting a job on my own."
"Fair enough. Just so long as you're doing it because it's something you'd rather do instead of something you think you should do because you're afraid you're going to rip some kid's head off."
Sam's jaw tightens. "This isn't a joke, Dean. I wasn't kidding when I said that."
"And I wasn't kidding when I said it doesn't matter," Dean counters. "Think about it, man. Hell, Heaven, Lucifer, demon blood? I think you've made it clear that none of those things gets a say in what you are. So why let this?"
It's not what John would have expected to break Sam--he always thought it was a strong hand and a loud voice--but Dean's not surprised when Sam glares and shakes his head, emerging from the bathroom a few minutes later with the dress shirt on.
"You better hope somebody's there, 'cause I'm only gonna do this once."
"Attaboy."
-
Dean drops Sam off at the high school and gives Sam a thumbs up through the window after Sam firms his jaw, gets his LSAT scores and Stanford transcript from a lockbox in the trunk, and goes inside. He comes out sheepish but grinning.
"They hire you?"
"Writing tutor." Sam beams. "It's only part-time, mostly one-on-one meetings and grading I can do wherever and send back by email."
"That's awesome."
"No, listen, since it's part-time I asked if somewhere else in town was hiring, maybe a restaurant or something, and the principal said Stairway might."
"Where is this place?"
"That bar on Main. Can't miss it."
The bar is a few shades nicer than the dives they usually frequent, but it's got enough of a rough-edged feel about it for Dean to nod approvingly as they look through the windows. "Bet the jukebox actually works, too."
"One thirty is pushing it a little, don't you think, gentlemen?" The voice comes from behind them and they both whirl guiltily.
"Oh, no, we're, uh... We're not here to drink. We're new in town." Sam sticks a hand out for the woman with bleached hair piled haphazardly on the top of her head. A few strands showing hints of gray are loose enough to curl by her face in a zigzag fashion. She brushes them away impatiently, taking Sam's hand in a firm grip.
"That still doesn't explain what you're doing at my bar."
"You're Mrs. Hubert?"
"Joanne, honey. Mrs. Hubert is my mother-in-law."
"Joanne, then," Sam says and gives her his warmest smile, dimples and all. "I'm Sam Campbell. This is my brother, Dean. Principal Henry up at the high school told me you were looking to hire."
"He's not wrong. What kind of practice you got?"
"Busboy, mostly. But I filled in as barback on busy nights or if someone was sick."
Joanne looks him over and then nods decisively. "You look like you can haul a rack of glasses no problem, and that's mostly what we need right now. Not a lot of men around here to do the heavy lifting. We'll start you there and see what you've got behind the bar on a slow night. Wanna check out the place?" She nods her head to the door and Sam looks at Dean and shrugs.
The inside is the same as a thousand other places they've seen. Wood floors scraped by chipped stools, a few scattered tables, a few booths. Pool table in the middle, jukebox on the side, and a wraparound bar shiny enough to slide nickels down. Neon signs are dark in the windows. A short flight of stairs leads to a closed door--probably living quarters or a storage room.
"Nice place," Dean says and Joanne smiles, years falling from her face.
"Stairway is the third love of my life, aside from George and Kara."
"Family?" Sam asks.
"Husband and daughter." Joanne points to a picture tucked in the mirror siding behind the bar where a man in military gear stands next to Joanne and a preteen girl with braces.
"How long have you had the place?"
"Me and George used to run it before Kara was born, and the two of us have kept it up since the military called him out."
"Why Stairway?" Sam steps behind the bar and bends down, checking out drawers and cabinets with a somewhat practiced eye.
An impish gleam lights Joanne's face. "Two hundred years ago, the place above this used to be a brothel. Well, true or not, it was too good to pass up. Its full name is Stairway To Heaven." She winks at Dean. "Free shots to who can guess why."
Dean laughs at that. "I dunno, Joanne, Sammy here is a bit of a prude to be working at a place like this."
She smacks Dean's arm with a dishcloth. "It's a very reputable establishment, I'll have you know. Now, anyways. This old place has character, though, I'll tell you."
"Yeah?" Sam grins.
"You can hear all the stories when you come in on Monday. Three o'clock okay for you? I'll run you through where everything is and get you comfortable with the place."
"Uh, yeah, three's fine on Monday. I might need to switch a little later when I get my schedule from the school. I'm the writing tutor after hours, so I might not be able to come in until four thirty some days."
Joanne waves her hands. "Totally fine. You get your schedule and we'll work out your hours then. I'll save all the heavy lifting for you." She grins and makes shooing motions with her hands. "All right, tour's over. I've got a pot roast to get on. It was good to meet you, though, Sam and Dean. Campbell, right?"
"That's right." Dean shakes her hand with a wink and she shakes her head at him, curly hair flying.
"You're going to be trouble, I can tell."
"No, ma'am," Dean says and Sam rolls his eyes.
"Bye, Joanne, and thanks."
"No problem," Joanne says, holding the door for them. "Glad to have some help."
They turn to head out, but at the last minute Dean turns and says, "Hey, you don't happen to know where there's a realtor nearby, do you?"
"Just down the street, actually, why? You boys haven't found a place yet?"
"Just started looking." Sam cuts a look at Dean. "The only thing we know for sure is it has to be small and cheap."
"Say no more." Joanne puts her hands up. "I've got just the place. Well, I think. I don't know what you boys are going for, but there's a house for rent near the edge of town. It's remote, but it's not a big commute if you're worried about getting to work."
"Yeah, that sounds good actually," Sam says. "Could you show us the place or...?"
"You know, let me get Marge on the phone. Come in again for just a sec."
Joanne picks up the cordless phone behind the bar and punches in a number, holding up a finger while they wait. "Hi, Marge? It's Joanne. Can you come over for a second? I've got some guys here who are interested in the Finley's place. Yeah. Okay, we'll see you in a few." She hangs up and smiles at them. "Marge'll be over soon."
"She's the realtor?" Sam asks.
Joanne laughs. "No, no, honey, Marge works at the church. Shepherd's Hill. She runs the office and organizes events and things. Her husband's the pastor."
"But she's helping the...what'd you say their names were? Finley?" Joanne nods at Dean's question. "She's helping them rent their place?"
"It's a small town. We're good at taking care of our own."
Dean cuts a glance at Sam. "Yeah, we know a bit about that."
A knock comes from the door and an old woman with short, iron-gray hair pinned back at her temple pokes her head in. "Joanne?"
"Come on in, Marge." Joanne slips a hand under the old woman's arm and leads her toward Sam and Dean with a smile. "These are the Campbell brothers. They're moving in."
Marge is small and fragile-looking, but she takes Dean's hand in a steady grip and smiles, pressing the wrinkles near her eyes and cheeks into firmer lines. She insists they follow her to the Finley's right that moment since Carol Finley gave her the key.
It takes all of Dean's patience to follow behind her Oldsmobile at ten miles under the speed limit, but Sam quirks a grin when Marge rolls down her window and waves an ancient hand to indicate the white house they're passing is the Finley's. Then she keeps driving, rounding a gentle, tree-lined bend to stop in front of a little house with a maple taking up a corner of the front yard.
"Man, she wasn't kidding about it being on the edge of town," Dean says as he puts the Impala into park and gets out.
"Yeah, but out of the way isn't such a bad thing. We get suspicious visitors, fewer people are gonna talk."
"Who's going to visit us and look suspicious?"
Sam spreads his arms. "Who isn't going to visit us and look suspicious?"
"Yeah, whatever."
"Besides," Sam continues, "it's not really remote. It's just...removed."
Marge comes up and interrupts their bickering with a hand on each of their arms. "You're going to have to help me over the grass, I'm afraid. The ground's a little uneven and an old woman like me can't be too careful with her hips. The Lord only gave me two." She lets them in the front door and, despite the weathered appearance of the wood, the key fits smoothly. "Ready for the grand tour?"
The house is old with a mismatched floor plan and pipes that groan for a full minute before any water starts running (a trait which Marge assures them will resolve itself once they move in and start running water regularly), but it also has doors tall enough for Sam and solid wood floors. The furnishings are modest and the rooms don't smell funny except for the linen closet, which reeks of lavender. The house is white clapboard and the front door is red and there's a bird's nest in the maple tree, broad flat fields bordered by woods out back, and a stand-alone garage where they can tarp the Impala when the weather gets bad.
It's perfect.
"How much are they asking?" Dean asks when they're walking Marge out. She pats his arm.
"You'll have to talk to Dale and Carol about that, but I'm sure they'll let you boys have it for a song. They've got no use for the place now that their daughter and her husband have moved to Maine."
"Can you give us their number? We wouldn't want to disturb--"
"Nonsense, we'll go there now. They won't mind. Believe me, when you're as old as us, the less time you waste, the better. Come on. Get your big black thing moving and we'll go harry them."
Dean's eyebrows jump comically, drawing a laugh from Sam, but he follows meekly enough, right up to the Finley's front door. Marge knocks while they admire the white two-story, taking in the brick walkway and the monogrammed welcome mat.
A gray-haired man with a wide nose and deep grooves by his mouth answers the door. "Marge. Good to see you." He tucks a pair of reading glasses into his shirt pocket and extends a thick hand, knuckles enlarged by arthritis.
"Dale, these are the Campbells. Sam and Dean." Marge touches their chests lightly with the introduction. "They're interested in the rental."
"Let me get Carol for this, she's the brains of the operation. Come in, come in." Dale ushers them into the entry and leads them down the hall to the dining room. "I think she's upstairs sorting out fabrics. She's thinking about redoing the master bathroom--again."
"It's been a few years, Dale," Marge tuts.
Dale sends a pleading glance to Sam and Dean. "When it comes to interior design, a few years is a lifetime to women."
"Amen," Dean says, earning a look from Marge that puts him in his place. "Sorry."
"Dale? We have company?" a voice calls down the stairs and a woman who might barely come up to Dean's shoulder comes into the room, a swatch of fabric in her hands. "Hello, boys."
Sam puts on his best charm-the-elders smile. "Hi, I'm Sam. This is my brother, Dean. Marge just showed us the house--you have a beautiful place."
"Thank you, we think so." Carol smiles brightly. "Should we have a seat in the dining room?" She ushers them into a room with a long table bearing a centerpiece of hydrangeas and flanked by dark wooden chairs.
"We're very reasonable with rates," Dale says once they're all seated. "We don't even really need the place since Libby and Ron moved out."
"Libby's our daughter," Carol explains. She smooths the fabric swatch in her hand. "She and her husband were married a few years ago and they recently moved up north."
"You want your kids to stick around but they've got to go their own way, every one." Dale folds his mouth sternly but his eyes are soft. "Libby always did have a mind of her own."
"They weren't going to stay in that house with a toddler, Dale," Carol reprimands gently. "They didn't have the room, it didn't make sense. That house was never meant for a big family." She turns to the Winchesters. "It was one of those farmhouses when it was first built," she explains. "Different generations added different rooms, a second story, that sort of thing. I kept telling her, the second bedroom would be fine as a nursery but they were using it as an office for Ron and she's right, it wasn't large enough for much more than a desk and a bookcase."
"We don't mind the space," Dean says. "We're kind of used to cramped quarters. It's the, uh, the rent that's the thing. See, we're not planning on being around long, we just have some things that, uh...need to be taken care of. So, as far as rent goes, we're trying to stretch our finances as far as possible. Just in case."
"I see," Dale says. "All right. What do you say to..." He writes a number down on a piece of paper, shows it to Carol, then passes it across the table to Dean. "Per month," he says when Dean looks at it.
Dean exchanges a glance with Sam and crosses out the number, replacing it with another one. "I mean, we're hard up but we're not broke. We have some funds."
Carol stops the slide of the paper across the table with a gentle hand over Dean's. "We want to do this. It's no use to us empty."
"Ma'am--" Sam begins.
"Carol, please." Carol smiles. "Besides, it'll be nice to have neighbors again. I like the quiet out here but sometimes it feels like we're so far from town. Anyhow, Dale's doctor won't let him eat everything I make anymore, so you'll have to let an old woman bother you with pies every once in a while."
That pretty much seals it.
-
They rent the house. Carol says she'll bring over sheets and towels and things the next day, that if there's anything else she forgot--a shower curtain, cooking things--they just have to ask. Dale shakes their hands and offers to help them find jobs.
"We've got work, actually, but thanks."
"Really? Where at?"
"I talked to Rick at--"
"--the garage, right," Dale finishes, leaning around Dean to admire the Impala. "She's a beauty."
"I'll stop by sometime, let you take her for a spin."
Dale chuckles but he doesn't say no. Instead he nods his head at Sam. "What about you?"
"By day he teaches writing at the high school," Dean says, clapping a hand on Sam's back. "And he moonlights as a barback."
"I'm just a writing tutor," Sam amends, face red. "Part time."
"Libby helped out with grading some of the seniors' papers. You know, college applications and things. There's devils and angels, but most of the kids seem pretty even keeled."
"I'll keep a sharp eye out." Sam grins and offers his arm to Marge on their way out.
Carol calls later to see when they'll move in and they tell her the weekend. Dale offers his truck if they need help hauling boxes and Carol says she'll come over and help organize if they want. "Even just your kitchen. Are you going to be able to find everything okay?" She sounds doubtful but Sam assures her they will.
The Finleys don't know it but moving in for the Winchesters will probably take thirty minutes, and half of that time will be spent hiding the guns. It's probably best that they don't come.
"Dinner, though," Carol insists. "You're going to be hungry after all that unpacking and, despite what you might say, man cannot live on pizza alone. I'll bring enchiladas around five."
"I like them," Sam says after hanging up.
"Yeah, they're not half bad," Dean agrees. "What's your guess? Pod people? Pagan gods?"
Sam throws an old T-shirt at Dean. "Neither. They're just people."
"They offered to help us move."
"They're nice. Carol said she's going to bring us enchiladas."
"We're going to have to learn to shop." Dean grimaces.
"And cook," Sam adds.
"Hey, I cook!"
Sam rolls his eyes. "Real food, not beanie weenies or mac and cheese."
"Better open a tab at the Piggly Wiggly, then."
"Shut up, they don't have those."
"They so do."
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Master Post | Author's Notes