Windfall for the non-believer, part 1

[glovered]

MASTER-PART 1-PART 2-PART 3-PART 4

You'll do everything you're destined to do. All of it.
But I know, I know - you're not strong enough, you're scared,
you got daddy issues, you can't do it, right?
Zachariah, "It's a Terrible Life"

"Do what you gotta do, but I'm telling you boys, you don't stay put you're not gonna solve this thing." Bobby gave the both of them a stern look from the couch. Rufus squinted at them, too, as if their hesitancy only confirmed his low opinion.

"Look," Dean said. "I didn't say we weren't going to do it. Just-damn, Bobby. A month?"

"Just because you'll be acting settled, doesn't mean you can't go on weekend trips."

"I'm settled," Rufus cut in. "You boys think I don't dig up graves and chase things with a machete? Damn straight I do. And I have a nice cabin up in the sequoias I visit twice a year. You trying to say I don't?"

"And you think I don't get out?" Bobby asked. "Hell, now that I got my legs back, I hardly sit down." He narrowed his eyes at the both of them, a hard look. "Now git. Rufus and I've got some adult business to attend to."

Dean hesitated, flicking a glance at Sam, who was already frowning his way. Bobby watched them deliberate while Rufus secured the bottle of Blue Label from under the desk and unscrewed the top.

"Shoo, boys," Rufus said. "Unless you wanna hear about the time Bobby here got caught up with a goat man."

Sam squinted. "Goat man?"

"Sam," Dean barked out.

They left reluctantly. They caught the faint sound of a guffaw before the old, porch door swung shut behind them.

Now here they were on a coffee-colored sofa with a French press of Sulawesi Gold on the side table next to the tray of mini croissants, which were delectable and warm from the oven. Dean's legs were stretched out beside an ottoman and he was pretty much bored with the whole thing already.

At least he wasn't feeling as awkward as Sam apparently was. This could have been due to the fact that Dean was sitting back, letting him do all the work, not stepping in. He could read the discomfort in the line of Sam's shoulders as he made smalltalk with one Leila Shaheen.

"Oh we've lived all over," he was saying. "Both born in Kansas, but I ended up going to school at Stanford."

"Wow, Stanford," Leila said, and Dean didn't even feel the twinge, not any more, not after everything. "I've never lived on that side of the country. I've never even visited."

"Never?"

"Nope. My mom and I moved around a lot too, but never west of the Mississippi River. 'Other folks'll handle that side of the country,' she always used to tell me." She laughed. Dean felt so far removed from civilian life it hurt. "Yeah, Taylor and I met, got married, and we've moved around quite a bit before coming out here."

Sam spread his hands. "So, Blue Ash, Ohio."

"Yeah, it's pretty great. Small, but close enough to Cincinnati that you don't feel stuck.”

"Right. Because a lot of stuff happens in Cincinnati.” Dean glanced over at that. Sam didn't usually go for chiding with the locals.

Leila took it in stride, matching him one for one. "Hey, cut the sarcasm! Did you know the first bag of airmail lifted by a hot air balloon was in Cincinnati?"

"You're right," Sam conceded. "And William Howard Taft was born here."

"Uh huh," she said. "There's a lot you can learn from Wikipedia."

"Yep, the things you learn."

And Leila was nice, really nice, holding up the conversation like a good neighbor, making them feel welcome. He and Sam hadn't ever moved into the neighborhoods they were working to protect, not since they were kids. They hadn't ever had to keep up appearances for such an extended period of time, so when Leila told them they'd fit in nicely, the vote of confidence really went a long way.

Dean couldn't complain about the husband, either. Taylor was sunk into the sofa just opposite, his sprawl a mirror of Dean's own posture. He had the same politely interested, meet-the-neighbors expression on his face, the we're-being-adults-now kind of mask that taped clean over a gaping vacancy. Dean wondered what kids like that thought about. Football? Magazines they'd flipped through recently?

"Isn't that right?"

Dean mentally snapped to attention, although outwardly he only blinked in Sam's direction.

He knew that tone, it was the one Sam had honed until it was sharp enough to cut right into Dean's thoughts when the two of them were supposed to be playing a part but Dean had instead been checking out the cheese tray.

"Oh yeah," he responded. He straightened a fraction from where he'd been lounging against the arm of the sofa. "Totally right."

Sam gave him an unimpressed look.

"Don't worry," Leila told Sam. "Taylor here isn't listening either. I can tell because he's started picking at his jeans."

"I'm listening," Taylor said, and even Dean could see through that one.

He changed the subject. "This didn't used to be a residential area, did it? It's a kind of strange place for a gated community."

"The development was built last year," Taylor told him. "This used to be some sort of business park."

Sam leaned forward, like he was intrigued. "Until some arsonist torched the place, right?"

"Yeah, it's a tragic story."

Leila smiled apologetically at them both. "Taylor, don't scare the neighbors."

Dean followed her lead. It wouldn't do to go drawing attention to this too soon, anyhow. He slapped his knees before he stood. "Welp, we better head out.”

"It's been really nice meeting you," Leila said.

Sam ducked his head, playing the part well. "You, too. We were a little nervous moving into suburbia like this. It's nice to know we're in good company."

Taylor stood to shake their hands. "Don't hesitate to swing by if you need any help moving anything. Both of us have a few weeks vacation right now, so we'll be around.”

He showed them out.

Leaving was a relief. Maple trees rustled quietly down the street, quaint lawns lay framed and well-manicured along unbroken sidewalk, and Sam and Dean ambled from Leila and Taylor's to their own cookie-cutter, up-to-regulation two-storey next door, sun shining hot where it hit them, humidity hanging just this side of comfortable. There was a pink lawn flamingo planted dead center in their yard and a brick path leading up to their porch.

They made it inside, into the relative safety of four walls and a roof.

Sam stood around on the parquet of the entry, like he was waiting to be invited in. Dean made instantly for the kitchen, because houses meant supplies you had on hand rather than needing to head out to the nearest 7-11 when you wanted a snack. They'd arrived that morning with only the one duffel each, a few shopping bags of food, and about ten cases of beer, which meant, all things considered, nothing short of paradise.

"Thanks for helping me over there, man. Your complete lack of effort really, you know, made that whole thing real comfortable.” Sam's voice followed him into the kitchen, a nagging that drifted, normalized everything it passed over. The reality of the situation was staggering; they were an entire two rooms apart from one another in an honest-to-God house they were supposedly renting, with a second storey and beer organized by shade on separate fridge shelves.

Dean reached into the fridge and grabbed a couple cold bottles, saying, "Any time, sweetheart.”

He heard Sam mumble something, then say, louder, "I really don't think this is going to be as easy as you think it will."

Dean reemerged moments with two popped microbrews. He handed one to Sam. "I never said it was gonna be simple. Just a bit more routine than driving all over the place and stirring the pot. A chance to take it easy for a while and figure out our own shit."

He went to poke Sam in the temple, behind which lay the tiniest, most important wall in the universe, but Sam ducked out of the way. He made his way in through the living room and to the kitchen table. Dean headed to the couch, where he foresaw many a lazy day. He settled himself and took a long, cold pull at his beer.

"Fine," Sam said. "Just so long as you realize that creeping around people's backyards, or whatever, is going to make us a little less than popular."

"Got a better idea?" Dean asked, and then mimicked, "'Excuse me, ma'am. We're looking for some remains of people who were burned alive somewhere hereabouts. Have you found any?'"

"No, I don't have a better plan," Sam admitted. "So, what? Are we just going to work our way through the backyards of the entire community, then? There are at least three hundred houses."

Dean shrugged. "The remains were scattered in the fire, but besides that it sounds like a pretty basic haunting. Seriously, if you have a better idea, let's hear it. I've been racking my brain, but now that there's this grid of houses, I don't really see what else we can do."

"I guess so."

"Bobby's right, it should take about a month to check them all. It sounds like a long time, but it'll do you some good."

Sam pulled out his computer.

"I know you're antsy," Dean continued. "You've been all on my ass since last month. Hell, you came to, and an hour later you wanted to go on a hunt. Look how that turned out: dragons and then friggen spider monsters."

"I told you," Sam said. "I felt like I'd just jumped into the Pit and come out the other side, like no time had passed. I was all adrenaline for a week, still feel that way. But bad as the case was, we still managed to clean up some of the mess I'd made when I-when I was hunting with Samuel."

Dean put his empty beer bottle on the coffee table. "I told you, none of that was your fault."

"Whatever." Sam frowned. "If you want to play the suburban family for a few weeks, just say so."

"Hey," Dean said. "This is just a routine hunt to get us back into the swing of things, put some souls to rest. And if a few weeks of relaxation will benefit anyone, it'll be you."

"Fine, it's just that...."

"What?"

"Well, with the, you know, community agreement we had to sign? Doesn't it freak you out a little? People are gonna assume-"

"People aren't gonna assume anything. They'll know for certain that they've got a nice gay couple down the street. And just you wait, we're gonna have chicks with jello bowls lining up down the block. That or folks'll just avoid us. In any case, no one'll suspect a thing, they'll think we're so tied up picking china patterns."

Sam frowned. "But I mean, what if-"

"Who friggen cares, man?"

They had a quiet moment, staring at each other while Dean's eloquent point sunk in.

"I mean seriously," he said. "We'll be here, what? Three weeks? A month, tops? And maybe you'll like these people-hell, you already do. That chick-"

"Leila."

"-Leila, you're already all slumber party with her. Which is fine, Sam," he said, king of kindness. "Curl your ridiculously long hair, paint your toenails green. Go all out! I support you. Just don't make it my problem if your girlfriend thinks you're cheating on me."

"A simple 'don't worry about the gay thing' would have probably sufficed," Sam muttered.

Dean kicked his feet up to rest on the table. "Now make me a sandwich."

"Pressing your luck," Sam said, but left the room. The guy ate like a beast, he might as well make Dean something on the side while he was at it.

"Extra mayo," Dean called. "Can't be shirking the good stuff, just because we're settling down."

Sam's response was muffled from the kitchen, unintelligible. Dean answered anyway.

"And don't you even worry about what the neighbors'll think about your boyfriend getting chubby," he yelled so Sam could hear him in the other room. "I have a great personality!"

He leaned back into the couch cushions, listening to Sam noises: the plastic sound of the bread bag, the placement of mayonnaise jar to counter top, the quiet sighing that Sam often did whether he was affronted or tired or just spacing out, thinking about whatever it was that went through that kid's head.

He closed his eyes. Sam would wander in at some point with sandwiches and his computer. They'd eat, and then, later, they would go into the upstairs study-might as well put on a monocle and pour the bourbon-to look over the case.

They'd lain out the arsenal of facts and evidence that morning, a clear picture of how a research facility had been torched last year with people inside. The arsonist claimed that the experiments being done used embryonic stem cells, something which his organization could not let go unpunished. The dude had already been tried and jailed, and it was a clean case, but now, half a year later, death echoes were being seen at random all over the gated community that had been built over the site.

He and Sam had newspaper clippings and printouts from online periodicals, along with e-mails Sam'd hacked from the Sheriff's department to sift through and organize. Dean liked to arrange their evidence just like their dad had done it, with bits and clues pinned or taped to every flat surface so that the room looked like a freaking serial killer's trophy wall. Sam always gathered the pivotal papers later into thin manila folders to carry with them under one arm.

Yeah, they'd wait until after nightfall so they could sneak into backyards to search out the residual traces of the deceased. Dean had no idea how they were going to figure that one out, but he and Sam seemed to work best in a crunch, oftentimes it seemed like their lives were actually being woven by the book series, Chuck falling back on deus ex machina to resolve their cases, rather than the other way around.

After scouting out the situation, they'd return to the house and conk out in that big bed upstairs a few hours before dawn. Rinse and repeat.

He envisioned this new take on settled life, how they'd just generally lie around and veg out. He and Sam, they'd drink a lot and eat three square meals, and shank them some spirits on the side. He'd watch a few shows. He'd laugh at or with stupid people on screen while Sam sat at his computer, because the kid never chilled out. To him, relaxing meant typing away or reading. He was always doing something-

When Dean jerked awake, a sandwich was on the low table and amorphous nightmares that had his heart thumping an erratic beat resolved themselves into the quiet flickering of the TV on his face, lights behind his eyelids. He rubbed a hand over his face, listening to Sam typing in the kitchen.

At two that morning, they were in the backyard of Mr. and Mrs. Freaky Lawn Gnome Collection.

The sight of the row of the little guys with their smiling faces and ceramic hats stopped Sam short. It was only for a second, it probably hadn't meant a thing, but Dean went cold all over just the same. He got that creeping feeling across the back of his neck when he considered what sort of memories a lawn gnome could trigger. He shone a flashlight in Sam's face to be sure, saying, "You got something to share with the class?"

Sam shoved the light aside and whispered, "We should be quiet. Neighbors aren't going to take too kindly to us moving in if they see us tramping around their yards."

Sam wandered the perimeter of the grass with the EMF reader, watching as the small light blinked steadily. He was in full-view in the moonlight, and the creeping feeling that they were being watched expanded and blew out of proportion as Dean shifted on his feet by the line of gnomes. He watched Sam's back, glancing up at dark windows at intervals.

They covered the entire far block that night, working gate locks, jumping fences when they couldn't. They got nothing, despite having waved the EMF over twenty-four backyards. Dean remembered how he had rigged that old walkie-talkie up when he was twenty-two referring to a rough plan Pastor Jim had sent to a P.O. Box for him, how there'd been bits of wires spread out on the half-tables of four consecutive motel rooms until he'd gotten it right. He hadn't needed a walkie-talkie anymore anyway; Sam had taken the other one to California with him, shoved into the bottom of his suitcase and useless, like an afterthought.

"All right, that's a no-go." Sam stuck the EMF in his pocket after their sweep of the final backyard for the night and they high-tailed it outta there.

The two always met at the same bar. It was an underground place with a smokey atmosphere that covered nicely for when one of their party disappeared into thin air. Castiel had made a study of humans, but somehow he would never get used to this type of coming and going.

"What is your purpose?" he asked Victor Henriksen that first night.

Henriksen looked drawn, but you would too if you had been pulled from death by some divine force. However, stranger things had happened, and, to Henriksen's understanding, much of them centered around the very thing which he eternally sought:

"I am searching for the Winchester brothers."

Castiel smiled ruefully, just a twitch of the lips, and said: "I too am searching for them."

"I feel you.” The late Special Agent lounged back in his chair, rolling a bottle between his corporeal hands. "You can have over a decade of detective work under your belt, and somehow they still manage to evade you."

"It's not that," Castiel said. "Normally my kind does not find it difficult to locate humans. However, not long ago I thought it best to etch sigils upon Sam and Dean's rib cages, and now they are only available by cellular phone. They seem to have switched theirs off for the moment, or else misplaced their charger."

The server placed drinks on the table.

Castiel didn't touch the glass, and Victor said, "Drink your beer,” smiling like he could sense how uncomfortable he was. "Take a damn load off."

Castiel hesitated. A Heavenly battle was raging even as he sat there at the bar, but this time with Henriksen might prove just as valuable. He considered the glass before him.

"I'll have another five," he told the server. Among many virtues, Castiel valued perseverance, after all. He returned his attention to Henriksen, picking up the strand of the conversation where they'd left it. "A charger is an unfortunate thing to lose."

Third morning out and the road was beginning to take on that familiarity it always did after they'd run somewhere a couple of times, houses and hedges rooted in spot as they passed at a slow jog, like how Dean felt some pinch of recognition driving down certain highways that cut across the US. There was one in spot in specific on the 101, and at least ten exits along the 55.

His lungs were burning. His legs would hurt later, the lactic acid tightening and making him sore if he hadn't been keeping it up. No, it was the lungs, as if he still had to fight to reach the point of acclimatization while next to him Sam ran like it was nothing. He pummeled through the world, down the suburban street and past the trunks of maple trees and low brick walls, like a real-life action figure, like a nerdy demi-god.

They were in no rush, even though they were running. The morning felt fresh across Dean's face. Yesterday they'd angled for a few interviews with the locals downtown, which made him feel like things were going smoothly. The police hadn't given them much, just a few dismissive comments about mass hysteria and how everybody loved a good ghost story. But some guys down at the garage had talked, said they'd had a few folks come in to get their cars tuned up and heard them talking about weird stuff that was going on in that housing community on the outskirts. Stuff moving by itself, disembodied voices. A bartender at one of the dives along the strip had said about the same thing, inconclusive stuff, but it all made for good intrigue. It was enough to go on.

When he and Sam had circled back around and were just a block away from the house, they heard someone shouting. That neighbor chick, Leila, was jogging up the street towards them.

"Hey!"

They slowed as they met her. She was in pink gym shorts and had her hair up in a high ponytail.

"Don't wake up as early as you do, I see," she said. "You guys run every morning?"

"Yeah, five miles," Sam told her.

"Looking like this doesn't come easy," Dean added. "How about you?"

"Me? I run down to the supermarket and over to the park. Seven miles maybe?"

Dean let out a low whistle.

"Hey,” she said. "You know about the block party, don't you? They have one every month."

"Yeah, we got a flier in the mailbox and three phone calls from neighbors we haven't met yet," Sam said. "It's tomorrow, right?"

"Yep. And I'm sure everyone is dying to meet you. There're about three couples under the age of forty around here, and we're two of them. To tell you the truth, it's kind of freaking me out."

"So, this little shindig," Dean said. "Would it hurt your feelings if I told you I wasn't looking forward to it?"

Sam elbowed him in the ribs, so Dean stepped casually on his foot. "What he means," Sam said. "Is that we'll see you tomorrow night."

She shrugged. "See you then."

When they got back to the house, Sam took the first shower, because he was a sweaty bastard and Dean couldn't really stomach the kind of mellow way Sam had been letting him win arguments lately, ever since Cas had told him all about what he'd gotten up to pre-resouling.

Dean grabbed a Miller from the fridge and twisted the cap off. He leaned against the table until the phone rang on the otherwise empty counter.

He snagged it off its holder before the answering machine picked up. "Yello."

"Assistant Director Barker?"

He spit the cap from between his teeth. "Who am I speaking with?"

"The head of the Oklahoma State Police, Logan County.”

Dean grimaced at the dude's voice. He'd had one too many officers of the law call Bobby for them in just that tone. "Yeah, and?”

"And I have two gentlemen here who purport to be Agents Moss and Bell-"

"What do you mean 'purport to be'?" Dean had learned how to belittle with the best of them: from demons to skin walkers offering all manner of free-school courses in manipulation. "I sent two of our best men to check out the problem in that middle-of-nowhere pit you call a town. Now, if you're telling me you're doing your part to impede what is a matter of national importance, I'm thinking I'll need to send a few more agents to keep tabs."

"No, no, of course not I-"

"Color me unconvinced."

"I was just verifying-” The officer sounded like he was worried for his life, not just his job, so Dean swigged some beer and BS-ed a little more.

"I hope you're about to apologize and give my men free rein on what is becoming increasingly clear to be an ill-run investigation-"

"Yes, of course," the man said. "Just following protocol-"

"Now that you've embarrassed yourself and the entire state of Oklahoma by proxy, I'd put your services at the disposal of my men."

"Of course."

"Excuse me?"

"Sir,” he stammered. "Of course, sir."

"Are you done wasting my time?"

"Yes. Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

Dean slammed the phone down in the cradle with a little whistle. He went to the bottom of the stairs, to where he could just hear the white noise of the shower. Sam would get a kick out of this.

"Just got off the phone with OKPD," he called up. "Bobby and Rufus are in Logan County on a job."

A car drove by outside as Dean stood at the foot of the stairs. No answer.

"Hey, remember when we had to gank that angry spirit in Logan county? You got bit by that dog?"

Rush of water, dead to the world.

"Got to play the big FBI boss and everything," he shouted.

He waited, but this was not a motel with paper thin walls and low water pressure besides. Sam couldn't hear him; Dean might as well have been shouting in an empty house.

The next day, they drove into Cincinnati and messed around a little. They got cheese steaks at some place that had rave reviews on Yelp, and Sam got scouted by a modeling agent for about the fiftieth time. When the man practically demanded his phone number, Sam backed away on the cracked sidewalk with his hands held in front of him, and Dean followed him at a leisurely pace after he'd managed to stop wheezing with laughter; it would never not be funny.

They went to pick up some supplies at the nearest Pep Boys, because Dean had the modest plan to use the following few weeks to replace a few of the Impala's belts, maybe switch out the drums. He'd change the brake fluid of course, which he’d eventually need Sam’s help with because someone needed to sit in the car and pump the pedal as he bled the lines. Thank God Sam was here.

It hit him in little ways, how he couldn't get enough of Sam. It didn't bear dwelling on, because not one thing would change that, not now, not ever. Now that Sam was back, most days Dean couldn't stand it when he was out of sight. It was this creeping feeling, all over his skin when the guy was gone. And then there were some moments where he felt it so much he thought, daringly, that he never wanted to see him again, that maybe it was too big.

All this, while picking up car parts. He just smirked when Sam came up next to him looking askance at some tools like they were alien instruments. Dean handed over a card, didn't matter which, to the man at the counter and rolled his shoulders, got it together.

Then, for the last stop of the day, they headed to the library.

They grabbed stacks of newspapers to rifle through, and when it was time to copy about sixty possibly useless sheets, Dean pulled out the handful of dirty coins he'd scrounged up from under the back seat of the car and went to town. Information was so hard to keep track of if they didn't print everything out. It was best when it could be at once scattered yet organized, malleable and easily modified.

Sam used to bitch about wasting paper, but then something changed. The way Dean figured, the forests would have burned if Sam hadn't taken one for the team, jumped into the pit to stop the Apocalypse, so Dean could print as many articles as he Goddamn pleased.

Some things were different, some stayed the same. Suffice to say, they were pro at operating library copy machines now.

At six PM, after doing a lot of reading and making very little headway on those who died, they headed back to the housing community. The sky was streaked with pink clouds and the neighborhood looked welcoming through the severity of the iron gate. Sam rattled off their eight-digit personal code as Dean punched it in out the window. The engine idled noisily as the gate dragged open, and then they were in, cruising down the block in the twilight.

"How did we end up with a code that has three sixes in a row?" Dean asked as they pulled up their driveway and into the garage. He didn't expect an answer, and none was forthcoming. "Hey, think we should change clothes for this thing tonight?"

Sam got out of the car, looking down at his own green flannel and stiff jacket combo. "I guess?"

Dean watched him. "You don't care, do you."

"You make it sound like that's a bad thing."

"It's just," Dean started. He pulled off his jacket, slinging the keys onto the table in the foyer.

It's just, Sam pre-Hell would have maybe cared a little more about fitting in, making their story believable. Or not? There were a few things Dean couldn't remember himself.

"I don't know." He looked Sam over. "You kind of fit in everywhere, I guess. But I sure can't go to this thing without putting on something nicer.”

"I guess."

When Dean came downstairs a few minutes later, though, Sam said, "What is that supposed to be?"

Dean turned in front of the hall mirror, checking out his ass. "I call it 'black thunder.'"

"Is that 'gay suburbanite' in layman's terms? Take your thunder back to the closet."

"Why Sammy, was that a slur?" he joked.

"What! No!" Sam's outrage followed Dean up the stairs. He shucked the shirt in their room and pulled on something more worn. Sam came in behind him, and started rooting around in the closet.

When Dean turned, Sam was doing up a white button-down, rolling the sleeves at the elbow. He grabbed a nicer jacket, looking pensive. After a beat, he said, "I just don't really like the whole stereotype look on you."

Dean laughed, at a loss, kind of uncomfortable to be honest.

Sam frowned. "Oh," he said. "I thought you were trying to-"

"What, be a total douchebag? Of course I wasn't going for anything in particular, but thanks for the vote of confidence." Dean kicked the strewn clothes into a pile. "I was just trying to look, I don't know. Nice? Like...like someone people would believe you'd date."

"Of course,” Sam said. "Sorry, man." And when he looked up, Sam was giving him a look that was apologetic, but also edging on fond. "Wear whatever you want."

"Oh my God, how is this even an issue?" Dean shook him by the shoulders. "Pull it together, Sam."

Sam tugged at the bottom of Dean's shirt and said, "Looking snappy."

"Shaddup."

They walked down the street, slowing at the driveway of the house on the corner. Dean looked into the well-lit living room where people were partially visible through the blinds, a homey scene that they would soon be a part of. Dean steeled himself like this was just another hunt, a group of nice people with a ghost problem.

When the door swung open, there was the sort of welcome cry which sounded not unlike something shouted at the commencement of a battle. A woman spread her arms wide, face painted with makeup and glee, and squealed, "Hello, hello! You must be the Wessons!"

"Hey!" Dean said, smiling big and elbowing Sam to do the same.

"Hi, I'm Sam." He shouldered in to shake her hand. "And this is Dean. Thank you so much for inviting us."

He pushed a jar of olives into her hands awkwardly.

"Oh don't be shy," she said. "I'm Mrs. Finch, and this is my husband, Mr. Finch. Here, give us a hug."

Hugs were had. They followed the Finches into a living room full of pleasantly milling people.

Dean shook another woman's hand. "Dean and Sam Wesson, pleasure to meet you."

"The new couple near the corner!" the host said to her. Dean's smile went tight as Sam put a hand lightly at his lower back for show. "The boys with the flashy car."

"Yep, that's us," he said.

"Don't worry," someone else told them. "The development was only built last year; we're all new around here."

"Try the deviled eggs," a man advised.

Mrs. Finch took Sam by the elbow. "Let's get you boys some drinks"

Dean felt Sam move his hand away and say, "That would be lovely.”

And Sam was going to kill him, but Dean was starving and did not enjoy awkward chit chat. He nodded to a few people and just wandered off, not even looking at Sam because otherwise he'd never make it to the food.

He made a beeline for a familiar face, Taylor, over by the mini-quiches.

Taylor nodded in greeting. "Shouldn't you be meeting the neighbors?"

"Trying to avoid the clutches of elderly housewives," Dean told him. "Help me out here, man."

"What about Sam?"

"Sam's pretty much a cougar magnet." He looked over his shoulder, to where three women were gazing up adoringly at Sam already. There was a faint flush across his face and he was rubbing the palm of his hand against his thigh nervously. "Yep. He was lost the moment we rang the doorbell. Best stay here for a while."

"One man's cowardice is another man's salvation, that sort of thing?"

"Just about." Dean grabbed a beer from the bowl of ice on the table, twisted the cap off, and clinked the bottom of the bottle against Taylor's. He leaned back against the wall, looking back over at Sam.

Taylor swigged at his own drink, and looked at Dean out of the corner of his eye. "Nice threads."

"Yeah, Sam made me change. Said I looked too gay." He popped a few quiches in his mouth, and then said through the food, "I mean, what kind of world is this, a man can't even wear his favorite jeans without comment."

"I hear ya."

Dean loaded some vegetable chips and a few slices of cheese on a paper plate. "So where's that wife of yours?"

"Talking to Lynn Harveson," Taylor said, nodding to one corner. "Head of the housing community."

"Oh, right."

But something about the exchange rubbed Dean the wrong way. He couldn't put his finger on it for a second, the strange misstep in conversation, until he realized it was all in the way Taylor had answered him: Dean had asked about another man's wife and the dude hadn't missed a beat, hadn't squared his shoulders or glanced Dean's way defensively. There had been no male posturing whatsoever, in fact, so either the guy was as apathetic as he seemed or....

Or Dean was...not a threat. He experienced his first real moment of clarity since they'd arrived here, understanding how people were imagining he and Sam together, like, monogamous together. As in, sex together. Shared-showers, tongue-to-happy-trail together, not just windows-down, road-trip together.

"Oh God," he said, pieces of chips falling out of his mouth and onto his shirt. Where had that image even come from? Damn his overly-helpful and creative mind.

He brushed food off of him with the back of his hand, distractedly, and grabbed for another drink.

"So," Taylor said, terribly apropos. "How's the settled life?"

Dean cleared his throat.

"Fine," he said, trying to modulate his voice to sound like his world view hadn't just been upended.

Taylor must have read the vertigo on his face. "That bad?”

"No, no," Dean said. "It's going great. I mean, I love the guy.” He felt an honest-to-God heat blushing the back of his neck, and he glanced over at Sam out of habit. Then he had to look away. "It's just that Sam's a little antsy, I think. We've only been here a few days, and already he's taken up some weird hobbies. He keeps mentioning carpentry, like he wants to build a chair or some shit, and the other day I checked his internet history, and you know what he'd been surfing?"

"I'm guessing not porn?"

"No, man. That would be normal, you know?" And even if it had been porn, it would have been straight porn, Dean told himself firmly. Busty, Asian, not of the shared-Punnet square variety. "No...he was looking up how to braise-get this-vegetarian meat."

For the first time he saw some emotion on Taylor's face.

"And let me rephrase," Dean said, really trying for focus right now. "In case the horror of that didn't hit you the first time, this means he is planning to go to the store. He is planning to find the tofu chicken. He's going to buy it, with my hard-stolen money, by the way," and here he got the chuckle he'd been digging for. "He will then bring it home, stand around in the kitchen for a few hours trying to make some schmancy meal, and then he is going to feed it to me. For dinner." He gestured widely. "I mean what the hell, man?"

"Maybe it's not for him?" Taylor said. "Or maybe he's bored?"

Dean shook his head. "When I get bored, I do something constructive, you know? Check coolant levels and replace gaskets. But Sammy-well, that kid is bad news when he's bored, I've seen it happen before. And this is the first time we've had a lot of free time in...hell, in forever. I shudder to think."

"What is it you said you guys do again?"

"Contracting mainly," Dean quickly replied. "It's surprisingly easy to find work."

"Hey, me too," Taylor said. "I've always thought that being self-employed, even if you're scrounging for quarters, is better than being dependent on someone. Other people's business, it just loads you down. I'd rather go out there and do things directly."

"Cheers to that." Dean clinked their beers together.

They drank in silence for a bit, watching the neighbors socialize. Dean found Sam in a second, towering over everyone, smiling down a few feet at a woman who had her hands on his bicep. He watched as one of the ladies chucked Sam in the chin. Sam, for his part, looked uncomfortably pleased.

"I spent a lot of my younger years not having control over a lot of things, you know?" Dean said. "Kinda situation that makes you want to be self-employed, I'll tell you that much."

He felt kind of pervy, like Sam knew what he'd been imagining from all the way over there. He could not keep thinking about this. For one, they were somehow sharing a bed, which-How? How had this happened? It's just, the house had come fully furnished: dishes, blankets, fucking diaphanous curtains that Sam had lurked behind in the yard to surprise Dean when he'd sat down to breakfast yesterday afternoon. Yeah, the whole deal. The issue of sleeping arrangements hadn't even been discussed, they'd just gone to the bedroom and thrown their stuff in the closet, like it was their one motel room so it was only natural.

He was freaking out, but at least he didn't have to talk to the goodly tolerant people of the neighborhood. This was the best way to spend a social gathering like this one. Taylor was quiet at his side and Dean downed a couple cold ones and felt pretty at ease up until the point when a dark-haired, yoga-type moved over to their corner. She was about five-eight, with a perfect smile and great eyes.

"You know what," he said to Taylor. "I should probably get to my partnerly duties."

Taylor nodded and, excuses made, Dean got out of there, trailing along through happy couples and coming to a stop at Sam's elbow.

"Well this must be your young man," one of Sam's fanclub said.

"Yes," Sam said, throwing an arm around Dean's waist. Dean winced as Sam said, "Yes, this is."

"Oh, isn't he a looker!"

Dean gave her a tight smile and a wave. "Howdy."

He was about to duck out, quick as he came, maybe head to the bathroom where he could sit at the edge of the bath with the heels of his hands pressed into his eyes, but Sam palmed his hip even harder, like a warning. Dean went tense all over and thought distantly how job stress could kill you. This could be the time.

"Mrs. Pewitt-" Sam began.

"Oh call me Tabitha!"

Sam smiled, and continued. "Tabitha was just telling me that she's one of the homeowners who saw-" Sam looked to her. "-what were your words, exactly?"

"A woman," she said. "Standing in the moonlight in my backyard. I'm not one to believe such things, but I swear it was a ghost."

"You don't say?" Dean said, leaning into Sam so his grip would maybe let up a little.

"As clear as day," Mrs. Pewitt said. "It's a bit strange to look out your window and see someone just standing there. I didn't know what to think. She just looked so lost! So, I knocked on the glass to get her attention. When she looked up at me, it was like she was about to say something. I was far away, and wouldn't have been able to hear her anyway, so I waved to tell her I was coming down, but, before I did, she vanished!

"How strange," Dean said.

"Now, I know what you're thinking, but I hadn't even gone to bed yet. I'd been reading, so it couldn't have been a dream."

"Oh, let's not scare these boys with ghost stories," another woman said.

They let it go for now. Dean could feel Sam's reaction to the next question. "Now then, how did you boys meet?"

"Oh," Dean said, similarly thrown. He lowered his lashes and and tried for a smile to cover whatever other expression he was making. "Well, around."

"We met when we were children," Sam said, and tightened his grip on Dean again. "Our parents introduced us.”

"Well isn't that nice! It's like a fairy tale.”

"Magical,” Dean grit out.

"Have you boys had the punch?" a man offered.

"If you'll excuse us," Dean said. "I need to talk to my huggy bear here." He successfully pulled Sam into a corner and leaned in close. "What the hell?"

Sam ducked his head to Dean's ear, crunching loudly on a carrot stick while he muttered, "I know, right? She just started in on the story, without me even having to ask. Also, punch, block parties; tell me this doesn't feel like a cult to you."

Dean just looked at him. "Not that, Sam. Our parents introduced us? What would ever possess you to say that?"

"It's true, isn't it?" Sam's mouth twitched. "Funny, just the smallest bit? Kind of dark humor in there? No?"

"You know, it's moments like these...."

Sam ate some more carrots, and nodded at a man who passed. Dean could see it sometimes, how Sam was just the resouled version of that other dude. It became apparent in an instant, inverted and suddenly clear like a magic eye puzzle. He wasn't going to say that out loud, of course. He only sighed and said, "I hate you so much sometimes."

Sam shook his head, giving him a look that said he knew Dean was full of shit. "I know you do, man."

There was no question that he and Sam were the hit of the party. Lots of grandparent types hovered around Sam and asked him about what fine young lads did at their age. Dean told all five non-knock knock jokes that he could recall, even though there had to have been more somewhere in his memory. Conversation wasn't actually all that stilted, so that when things were winding down a couple of hours later Sam was smiling without an edge and Dean had the pleasant warm feeling that came from people being genuinely nice to them and not in the least suspicious.

When it was time to leave, they shook a few hands, said their goodbyes, and left with Leila and Taylor.

"Listen," Taylor said on the walk home. "Let's have dinner some time."

"Yeah, come over to ours," Leila said. "We can do it right, or maybe skip the dinner and just get to the drinks."

They reached the sidewalk in front of their houses. The porch lamps were on, illuminating the brick paths and casting light across their twin, manicured lawns.

"Read my mind," Dean said.

Castiel shrunk to the size of a human being, molecules scattering to avoid and then envelop the essence of his Grace. He hit the ground walking, and pushed the doors of the bar wide.

The bartender nodded his way.

Castiel lifted his chin in response. "Four pints of Angel City Pils."

"We're out," the bartender said. "You drank it all the last time."

Castiel's gaze was already fixed on the shade of Henriksen who was seated at the far table. "I'll have Franziskaner then," he amended. "It is made by monks, blessed in their abbeys. I can't be sure, but in some way I believe it purifies my Earthly vessel."

"Whatever you say." The bartender poured four pints from the tap and slid them across the bar moments later. Castiel put a crisp twenty on the counter and moved on.

When he had put a hundred dollar bill down last time and tried to leave the change, there'd been a slight uproar, and it was neither convenient nor stealthy to carry change. Coins rattled in the pockets and gave him away when he would have otherwise entered near silently, only the sound of feathers to mark his entrance, a bit of the heavenly realm unfurling invisibly into thin air.

"Victor," Castiel pronounced when he reached the table. Henriksen looked up at the name.

"Why are we here, Castiel?" he asked.

"It would seem that our purpose is to...track down the Winchesters, using our joint skills. Such as they are," Castiel said. "We have a relationship that is built solely around our search for them."

"Man, you're worse than my high school girlfriend."

Castiel affected the American human non-verbal behavior of confusion. He felt the small cleft appear between his eyebrows, like he was being poked between the eyes by a particularly handsy cupid. Jimmy Novak seemed to have been a man rarely confused, because the muscles hadn't been well-developed previously, but after observing Sam Winchester, Castiel had learned quickly.

Furrowing his brow thus, he said, "I fail to see how Laura Marshall relates to our partnership."

"How did you-" Henriksen stopped short, and waved away the thought, as if the depths of Castiel's possible abilities were too dangerous to even begin to plumb. "Anyway, that's what I'm talking about, you using the words 'partner' and 'relationship' when we've known each other all of two weeks."

Castiel continued to display consternation.

"Your sense of time is probably better than my own," he said. Indeed, the trees were still bare outside, which seemed to denote a continuance of November. "And I thank you for pointing out error in my terminology. Others...fail to do so, and I only realize my intent is misunderstood when I am given lectures on maintaining personal space."

"When did that happen?"

"With Dean Winchester," Castiel said. "Apparently it is perceived as homosexual intent when one man tells another that they share a profound bond, and then leans towards him at any opportunity to experience the closeness of said bond in a physical manner."

Henriksen shook his head, not touching that one. "Anyway. You planning on getting me out of here at any point soon?"

Castiel considered this for a moment, and then said, "I will see what I can do."

There was one night where Dean woke to the bed moving. His first thought was: earthquake, but after a second, when he'd woken up a bit more, he thought duh, monster under the bed and quickly rolled to his knees on the dark mattress.

A flailing arm hit him in the face. He amended his take on the situation once again; it was Sam, thrashing around in the sheets.

"Hey," he barked out. He caught Sam's wrists and leaned awkwardly over him, bearing down.

If this had been some creature, something evil, he would've known exactly how to incapacitate it, no problem. But when it came to Sam, all rules he'd learned always seemed to shelve themselves without Dean's say-so. It's why Sam'd managed to take him down a few times during training when they were kids, and why Dean got an elbow to the neck now, before he wrestled him into a proper hold.

Sam was shaking under him. When he opened his eyes, Dean could have sworn it wasn't moonlight reflected in them. There was something reddish, for only a fraction of a second, but it was there, eerie like fire. It was gone quick as it came, and Sam quieted under his hands.

"Dean," he breathed. He sounded surprised, relieved even.

Dean let him go, rolling back to his side to flip on the light.

Sam looked exhausted. He was covering his face with both hands, breathing slowing breaths in his threadbare, green t-shirt that said North County Animal Shelter across the front. Where had he gotten it? Probably a thrift store somewhere.

Dean rode the silence for a second, until Sam turned onto his side toward him, tucking an arm under his pillow.

"Remember anything?" Dean asked. Then backtracked. "I mean, wait-don't answer that."

They were quiet for a time. Eventually, Sam closed his eyes. His face was smooth, hair a complete mess and his mouth was slightly open. He looked carefully put together, sleep-softened.

"It's weird," Dean said finally. "This is sort of the opposite of those psychic dreams of yours, how in some ways I was always hoping you would remember everything. At least it was useful to us."

"Didn't do a lot of good. In the long run, you know?" Sam yawned, pressing his face briefly into the pillow. "Sorry I woke you."

"I can get back to sleep these days. But you-well, by my count you haven't had a good track record since I came to pick you up to find dad. Even before then, right? Portentous dreams way back when, even in college."

"Yeah, I've never been big on sleeping."

Dean turned onto his back, half-awake, hands snugged behind his head.

"Tell you something, though," he said. "Something you're not gonna like, kind of a dick thing to say."

Sam made a hmm noise of polite interest, like fine, tell me, like he was falling back to sleep. Dean didn't buy it. He suspected Sam would be up all night.

"I'm jealous," Dean said. "I mean, obviously not completely, but when Death said he was gonna put up a wall in your head, build you a blockade to dam it all up, I thought, just for a second: why couldn't I get that?"

Sam was quiet, only two feet away. Dean rolled over onto his front, burrowing down.

"Things you never forget, man. Be careful what you put in your head, because it'll be in there forever, you know? Anyway."

He was drifting off with the light on, sunk heavy under the fluffy duvet that came with the house, when Sam asked, "What happened to Adam?"

"Death gave me a choice," Dean mumbled.

"Dean. How-"

"Choice was one or the other; wasn't a choice."

Sam breathed in deep beside him, and Dean fell asleep.

PART 2