Fic - Safe Haven
Title - Safe Haven
Summary - She knows that something is off with these two and it's not just because Dean got sick and Sam got hurt. An outsider POV featuring Alice from my fic MIA. I don't think you have to read MIA to understand this but you do need to know that Alice's diner was a refuge for Dean when he was searching for his missing brother. After gaining her trust then, they seek her sanctuary again.
Rating - PG13 (language and a little blood if you're squeamish).
Genre - Gen
Word Count - 5700+
Disclaimer - I don't own Supernatural that privilege belongs to CW, Kripke and Co, I'm simply borrowing them for a while. I'm not making a profit, this is just for fun and all standard disclaimers apply.
A/N - Thank you to harrigan for betaing this not once but twice, your time and feedback is priceless. I've tinkered and tweaked this, so any mistakes are mine.
Safe Haven
She hears the car before she sees it, a deep throaty growl that she recognises immediately.
As the car pulls into her driveway, the outside security light clicks on and she sees the car is blanketed in snow, the window wipers slapping away fat flakes from the windshield as it pulls into the double garage that she opened right after she got the call.
With her stomach curling into knots, she pulls the belt of her robe tighter around her waist before yanking open the door that leads from the kitchen to the adjoining garage.
As she reaches for the light switch, she can see a tall shadow bent in half by the open passenger door, hushed whispers bouncing off the walls.
“Sam?” she asks, the overhead light flickering before turning on.
He's squinting as he looks up at her and she inhales sharply as she sees the haggard droop of his shoulders and the exhaustion burning through his eyes. As she looks closer she can see the sleeve of his jacket is torn and stained with something dark but then he twists away from her, like he's hiding something.
“I think I might need a hand,” he says, his eyes returning to the slumped figure she can see in the passenger seat and she runs to cross the distance that separates them.
“How is he?” she asks, her breath clouding in front of her as she peers into the car and sees Dean scrub a hand over a fever-pinked cheek.
“Well, he's not trying to steal the wheel and drive us both off the road any more but-” Sam stops, brow furrowing. “His fever's still climbing.”
The words are hushed, like they were painful to say out aloud. She watches him swallow deeply, his eyes shying away from hers as he dips into the car and reaches for his brother.
She sees his hands quiver, from the cold or maybe from something else. She doesn't ask.
Snaking his arm around Dean's shoulders, Sam drags his brother off the bench seat and Alice sees him lock his knees, ready and prepared, before Dean starts to slide to floor a second later.
“Whoa,” Sam says, his tone strained but controlled, like it's not the first time he's dragged his brother to safety. “I got you. Just help me out a little, OK?”
Dean doesn't say anything, his chin resting on his sternum but when Sam shuffles forward, Dean's legs move, a little unstable and fawn-like, but they're moving. And if she could see his face, if he wasn't drifting somewhere else in his fever overloaded-mind, she knows she'd see one of those stubborn looks, all deep-set frown and jutting jaw.
She remembers seeing that look months ago, knows that although he came close then, Dean doesn't know how to quit, especially when it comes to his brother.
“Can you...?” Sam gestures to the open car door with a shake of his head.
“Of course,” she says, carefully sliding past them, the metal ice-cold on her palm as she closes the car door with a heavy slam, a blanket of snow sliding off the roof and landing by her slippered feet.
Stepping over the snow, she tucks her shoulder under Dean's armpit, his arm hanging loosely over her small shoulders, his weight making her stumble slightly. She looks to her right, catching a fleeting protective glare from Sam and she scolds herself for not asking him first but it's soon gone, replaced with an apologetic slant of lips.
“Where?” Sam asks, as they make it into the kitchen and she can feel more of Dean's weight settle onto her shoulders but she carries on walking, tries not to notice the whistle of Dean's heavy breathing in her ear.
“Upstairs,” she says, leading them into the living room and to the foot of the narrow staircase tucked in the corner of the room.
“I've got him,” Sam says, anticipating her next words because there's no way all three of them can climb up the staircase together, there's just not enough room.
She doesn't look over her shoulder to check on them as she climbs the stairs, maybe because she's still pretty much a stranger to them and she knows her place. But maybe because something in Sam's tone tells her that come hell or high water, there's no way he'll fail his task.
Pushing open the spare bedroom door, she hears Dean say something to his brother. The words are too hushed for her to hear but Sam's winded response is clear.
“We're safe.”
She doesn't know why the words pull at her chest, but they do.
The spare room walls are painted a pale green and photographs of her travels with Harry hang on the walls. The king-size bed takes up most of the space, but after Harry died she never did see the point in keeping it in her own master room.
“It's a bit cramped, I'm sorry,” she says watching as Sam carefully guides Dean down onto the bed.
“The room's great,” Sam interrupts, eyes cataloguing the collection of medicine and drugs that she emptied from her cabinet when she got his call. “Thank you, for all of this. We'll be gone come sun up; I don't want to put you out any more than we already have, I-”
“Nonsense,” she says, “you're staying as long as it takes. Days or weeks, whatever you need.”
Sam nods. “Are you sure? I mean I-”
“I wouldn't offer if I didn't mean it.”
“OK,” he says, lowering his gaze to the floor. “Thank you.”
She checks the towels are still on the bed, her mind running through anything else they might need before she walks to the door and turns to face Sam. “You and that brother of yours can never put me out. You're always welcome. You hear me?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
She raises her eyebrows.
“Alice,” he corrects with a flash of dimples.
XoXoX
“How's the patient?” she asks the next morning, looking at the pillows stacked under Dean's shoulders, blankets pulled up to his chest, like Sam's worried about his breathing.
“I think the drugs are helping, but-”
“You're worried about his chest,” she says, hearing the rattle in Dean's breathing from across the room.
Sam takes a deep breath and nods and she swears she can see the blood drain from his face, like saying it out aloud makes his fear a reality.
“I could call Doc Albert?” she suggests. “He has a small practice in town.”
Sam clenches his jaw, his gaze hovering over her shoulder to his brother like maybe he's wondering what Dean would do if the tables were turned. “If he's not any better by this afternoon then maybe we should?”
She hears his uncertainly and nods, making sure Sam sees he has her full support.
“I've got to get to the diner but help yourself to anything you need. What's mine is yours, OK?” she says, but Sam's already settling into the chair next to Dean's bed, reaching for the damp towel on the nightstand before placing it on Dean's forehead.
She wants to tell him to get some sleep, maybe take a shower, but one look at Dean shivering under the covers and she suspects it would be a waste of everyone's time.
When she gets to the diner she finds out that Oden Way Road is closed due to the snow storm, which means the whole town is snowed in. Her day drags on, peppered with only a few customers.
She closes early and jumps into her old busted-up Honda. Twisting the key in the ignition, the engine makes a grating sound; half a mile later the car's stuttering and they're barely moving.
Luckily they make it home and into the garage, smoke curling from the hood. She dreads the expense but she'll probably have to give Big Mike a ring before it quits on her entirely.
Cupping her hands, she blows hot air onto numb fingers as she pushes open the door into the kitchen, a wave of heat prickling across her cheeks.
She's surprised to see Sam standing by the dining table, one hand fumbling with what looks like a first aid kit, the table-top littered with bloody gauze and plastic wrappers.
“I'll clear this up,” he stutters awkwardly, angling his body away from her, like he's trying to hide something.
Frowning, she takes a step forward and leans to her left, eyes catching a flash of bright red and a sleeve that's rolled up to his elbow.
“Sam?” and she can't do anything about the worry in her tone because, well, she's worried. “What's going on?”
She sees the cogs turn in his head, like he's looking for a believable excuse or maybe a lie. His mouth opens a little before he snaps it closed and he releases a deep breath, his shoulders sinking in submission.
“It's not as bad as it looks,” he says gingerly, before turning to face her and that's when she sees the large cut that runs the length of his forearm.
She huffs because it must hurt, had been hurting all night and all day and it's only now that he decides to do something about it! She'd wring his neck if he wasn't at least twice her size.
“You should have said something,” she scolds and she's not even sorry about it.
Unwrapping her scarf from around her neck she shucks off her coat, dropping them onto the chair at the dining table. “And it sure looks bad to me. You don't work at a diner for nearly forty years and not see some nasty stuff.”
Without asking for permission, she reaches for Sam's arm and takes a closer look. The cut is still seeping blood, the surrounding skin is red and swollen and if it's not infected it'll be a miracle.
“Sit,” she says but he doesn't balk at her order or flinch at her tone, he just sinks back into the chair like a scolded child and she can't help but feel like he deserves it.
“Alice, I'm sor-”
“Don't you dare,” she says, opening the lid of what must be their first aid kit, wondering why on earth they need one in the first place, before picking out an alcohol wipe and tearing it open. “I'm trying to be mad at you.”
He huffs through his nose, and looks down at the table, crater-like dimples on show and he must know that they'll deflate her anger, because that's exactly what they do.
“I just got so caught up with Dean and-”
“How is he?” she asks, dragging the alcohol wipe slowly over the cut, watching his face for a reaction that doesn't show.
“Not better, but not worse either,” he says, watching her clean his arm. “I can take care of this, y'know.”
She looks at his pale face and remembers the first time she saw him, all beat up and bandaged in her diner. Maybe this is something he's used to? Something both brothers do on a regular basis? The thought alone breaks something inside her.
“I'm sure you can,” she says as she pulls out a bottle of peroxide from the kit, just to be safe. “But you don't have to. You shouldn't ever have to.”
His eyes drop to the table and he sniffs and when he looks at her, his eyes are misty and she sees a flash of something else; a deeper fear, a deeper pain.
But he doesn't say anything and she doesn't push, knows from experience that prying doesn't work with these two.
“This might need stitches,” she says, mopping up a trickle of fresh blood from the cut, his arm an angry red underneath.
He sits forward, eyeing the wound carefully, a deep frown set in his forehead as his fingers push on the edges of the cut. “No, butterfly stitches should do it. There's some in the kit, somewhere,” his tone is confident, self-assured, like he knows exactly what he's talking about.
“You a doctor or something?” she jibes with a soft smile, fingers rummaging in the first aid kit.
“Or something,” he fires back with a cheeky grin, just like that brother of his. Two peas in a pod.
“Do I want to know how you know about this stuff?”
His smile fades, dimples disappearing and his eyes fall to the table before he clears his throat. When he looks back up at her he's still smiling, but it's different, it doesn't reach his eyes.
“Skills of a misspent youth,” he says and immediately she knows it's some kind of cover up, guarding a big hurt, so she wraps her hand around his good arm and squeezes.
They fall quiet after that and she returns to patching him up before forcing some antibiotics down his throat. But she can't help but wonder what sort of past these two young men have had, what sort of childhood.
Do they really have nowhere else to go?
She has trouble getting to sleep.
XoXoX
The knocking is urgent, a long stream instead of a few isolated bursts.
She's always been a light sleeper, unlike Harry who once slept through a series of five tremors when they were vacationing in San Francisco, so she's dragging back the blankets at the first four knocks and out of bed by the eighth.
“Sam? Is that you?” she calls through the closed door as she crosses the room, pulling on her robe and wiping a hand over sleep-crusty eyes.
“He's not breathing-” Sam's voice thunders through the door, his tone panicked and soaked in fear.
When she pulls open the door Sam's already disappearing back into their room and she's running, Sam's words driving a spike of fear into her stomach.
She enters the room and Sam's sitting on the edge of the bed, dragging a purple-faced Dean up off the pillows stacked behind his shoulders, slapping the heel of his palm over Dean's back as he coughs and hacks and makes this hideous wheeze that sounds like it's ripping his throat to shreds.
“You gotta breathe, Dean. Try to take it easy, OK?”
Dean's fist is twisted in the cotton of Sam's t-shirt, his gaze rising from the floor to her face and it's the first time she's seen him acknowledge her presence since they got here.
His eyes are overflowing with panic, like he's suffocating on his own lungs, his lips hazing into a bluish tinge.
Before she knows it, she's running out of the spare room and into the bathroom, her heart rate through the roof as she snaps at the light switch, hands shakily twisting every hot water tap until they're all running at their hottest, even the shower.
Luckily the bathroom is small and it's already filling with steam. Leaving the taps and the shower running, she slams the door closed and returns to the spare room.
“Get him into the bathroom,” she barks but Sam's already hauling Dean out of bed as he coughs so hard he caves in at the waist.
“We've got you,” she tells Dean as she slides under his armpit, Sam guiding them into the bathroom as Dean coughs, his fingers clutching into her arm. It's not until he's propped onto the edge of the bath that she realises how much he was leaning on her.
“Let the steam help clear your lungs,” she says, and Dean gulps at the damp air, nodding his head.
Sam's kneeling on the floor in front of Dean, his hands steadying his brother's balance. “Deep breaths, Dean, as deep as you can.”
Dean shoots a frustrated look at his brother, like he doesn't appreciate the coaching or being told what to do, but it soon disappears as his lungs stutter, desperate for relief from the staccato breaths.
Slowly, she watches the panic in his eyes recede as he gains control, one hand still knotted in Sam's shirt, the other gripping his biceps.
She sees the moment that Dean's eyes lock onto the thick bandages that she wrapped around Sam's arm, the fear that ghosts over his face and deepens the worry lines around his eyes.
Sam huffs. “It's nothing, Dean, just focus on your breathing.”
But she hears the change as Dean's breathing deteriorates, his chest rapidly rising and falling, the echo of short and sharp breaths bouncing off the white tiled walls.
“I took care of it,” she says, without a thought. “I cleaned the cut up real good. Even forced some antibiotics down him before wrapping it up tight.”
Gradually, she sees that his breathing is settling, there's still a wheeze but he's not struggling any more.
“I'll take care of your brother,” and she means it, every single word.
Dean's eyes are still locked on her like he's daring her to break the promise she just made. She nods, his head bobbing in return as his fingers tighten around Sam's shirt.
“Stay here and I'll get something for that throat of yours,” she says, throwing Sam a look over her shoulder.
Sam's are eyes shining as he mouths 'thank you' at her.
She goes down the stairs and puts the kettle on, fingers searching for the jar of honey before spooning a generous helping into a mug. She squeezes a lemon and pours the juice into the mug along with the hot water.
She's looking for a spoon when out of nowhere, it all hits her.
Before she knows it, she's shaking like a leaf, her heart beating so fast she worries she might pass out. But it's not until she's back in her bed, lying stiffly on her back that she lets the tears roll uncontrollably down her cheeks.
XoXoX
Twisting the key in the Honda's ignition, she hears the engine start to turn before it gives up with a sigh and a moan. She tries again, and this time it doesn't make a sound.
Banging her gloved hands against the steering wheel, she lets the scream erupt from her lungs. It's snowing and she's already late. She hasn't overslept in years.
Shoving her shoulder against the door, she pushes it open and slams it closed, the metal groaning at her rough treatment. That's when she sees Sam standing in front of the open kitchen door, one hand jammed in his pocket, his injured arm hanging loosely at his side.
“Need a ride?”
She looks at him sheepishly. “If you don't mind?”
He pulls the keys from his pocket and that's when she notices he's wearing his jacket. “I'm guessing you heard some of that, huh?”
He doesn't answer, just smiles like he's the one who should be embarrassed, before opening the door of the Impala and sliding into the driver's seat. She follows his lead, the passenger door creaking as she settles beside him on the bench seat.
The car rumbles to life as Sam carefully reverses out of the drive. The snowflakes are fine and delicate now and the neighbouring houses and cars are covered in snow drifts and it's like the whole world is transformed into a white wonderland.
“Sam, why are you here?” she asks, a white cloud of mist blowing from her chapped lips. “I mean, I know Dean's sick and you needed somewhere to go because of the snow. But what happened?”
As soon as the words leave her lips part of her regrets it, but a bigger part just needs to know something about them. Like how Sam hurt his arm or why they were driving in the snow storm in the first place? Anything.
She sees that look, the one she saw the other day when he was searching for the right words instead of just telling the truth but it's like he's torn this time, caught somewhere in the middle.
“What we do, Dean and I-” The words are gentle but they sound heavy with importance. “It's complicated and it's dangerous and-”
“There's a reason why you don't let people in.” She watches his face and sees a look she's never seen before, all raw and naked, shining like a beacon in the night.
“You lost someone,” she says knowing that haunted look all too well. Sam's shoulders tense, fingers gripping the steering wheel as he swallows deeply, his adam's apple bobbing.
All he does is flick his eyes at her and she knows he's lost a lot more than just one person.
“Dean was sick and he was supposed to stay at the motel,” Sam says, changing the subject and she doesn't blame him. She can't. “But he followed me to a...job and he showed up at the wrong time and I got hurt and all he did was make himself sicker. He's just so-”
“Stubborn?” she interrupts, raising her eyebrows.
“And irresponsible and reckless and-”
“Worried about his brother,” she says with a sad smile.
“Yeah, but he's not the only one who gets to do that,” Sam says, slowly pulling up in front of the diner.
“No.” She climbs out the car, feet sinking into icy slush. “It's not even limited to brothers.”
“What time shall I pick you up?”
“You don't have to do that, I can walk.”
“I'm sure you could, but you don't have to,” Sam says with a bright smile, and he's smart this one, really sharp. “Besides, I'd worry too much if you did.”
XoXoX
After serving a grand total of four cups of coffee, she closes early at 2 p.m., tacking a note on the door saying she'll be closed for the next few days due to the snow.
She makes a pot roast for dinner, enjoying the feeling of cooking a large meal and not needing to feel guilty about having to put most of it in the freezer.
Taking up two heaped plates to the spare room, she eats alone downstairs but when Sam brings down two empty plates, she really can't seem to make herself care about her loneliness.
At 3:30 a.m. she's woken by the back door banging in the wind.
Dragging herself out of bed, she puts on her robe and goes down to investigate. She noticed back in the summer that the old wooden door was starting to bow a little, that the hinges were starting to rust and creak.
She's halfway down the stairs when she sees there's a light coming from the living room and she winces when she hears a muffled cough.
Dean's sitting on the couch, wearing an old stretched-out pair of sweat pants that are too long for him and a blue t-shirt, hands nursing what looks like a brown leather journal.
He doesn't acknowledge her presence but she sees his shoulders tense and his torso rise, like he's pretending that he's not as sick as a dog.
Picking up a blanket from the back of couch she unfolds it before taking a seat next to him and slipping it over his shoulders. She's surprised that he lets her do it, even more so when she puts her hand on his forehead and he doesn't flinch.
“You should be in bed,” she says as he coughs into his fist and it sounds a lot better, not wet or like he can't breathe.
“Yeah, well-” he coughs again and this time she sees pain lines around his eyes. “Sam snores.”
She smiles. “And now that he's finally getting some sleep you don't want to wake him?”
He looks at her like she's cracked a secret code but it's the weariness in his eyes that bothers her, not just due to illness but something else, something all consuming.
“He doing OK?” Dean asks, pulling the woollen blanket tighter around his frame.
“I've changed the bandages a few times; it's healing well. There's no need to worry.”
He nods his head. “Good.”
“And you? How are you, Dean?”
She thinks it's an innocent enough question but she knows something is off with these two and it's not just because Dean got sick and Sam got hurt - it's something deeper. And she knows she's hit some sort of raw nerve when he pulls his gaze away from her like she's wounded him somehow.
“I'm fine.” His tone is all wrong and unlike Sam there's no pause for an excuse as he searches for an answer; this is an automatic blatant lie and she can feel his defenses rise, the wall getting higher, brick by brick.
Right now playing dirty feels like the only option. “And I suppose Sam is OK too, right?”
“Why? Did he say something?” Dean snaps, and she can practically hear his heart rate pick up.
“Just that you lost someone.”
And it's like she's punched him, betrayal and hurt clouding his eyes as they well up before he pulls away from her, looking down at the book in his lap.
“Everything's just so...messed up.” His tone is raw but somehow soft, like it's being pulled in two different directions, not knowing exactly how to feel or what to do. “There's just two of us.”
She slides next to Dean on the couch, her hands reaching up to his warm cheeks, pulling his gaze to meet her own. “You listen to me, and you listen good. You and that brother of yours aren't alone in this world.”
She doesn't expect him to pour his heart out, so it's not a surprise when he doesn't.
Instead they sit in silence together, her hand squeezing his as he clutches at the brown leather journal.
XoXoX
Two days later, the snow has stopped and Oden Way Road has been cleared and she's re-opening the diner.
When she gets into the kitchen, Sam's carefully pouring batter into the waffle iron that he must have dug out from the back of her cupboard and Dean's sitting at the table fisting his knife and fork.
“A man can die from starvation, Sam,” Dean says, smiling up at Alice as she squeezes his shoulder.
“Y'know the more you bitch about it, the longer it's going to take,” Sam replies as he closes the waffle iron with a fizz of batter.
“Have a heart, man, I've been wastin' away for days now.” Dean's tone is light and jovial but she sees Sam's smile fade at the reminder of how sick his brother was only a few days ago.
“Can I lend a hand?” she asks, changing the subject as Sam wipes flour handprints onto his jeans.
“Sammy's got it under control.” Dean ushers her down onto a chair. “Let him play wife. He loves it, I swear.”
Sam scowls at Dean, shooting him an incredulous look as he rolls his eyes and pours three cups of coffee before taking a seat at the table.
She's sipping her coffee when it hits her. “You're leaving today.”
They look at each other and it falls quiet, like they're somehow having a conversation without actually speaking.
“Tonight,” Dean says looking down at his coffee like he can't look her in the eye. “We'll be gone by the time you get back from the diner.”
“Oh-” she says and she shouldn't be surprised they're leaving, she knew this was only a pit-stop, a temporary respite until Dean got back on his feet, which he has. They have no reason to stay.
“We can't thank you enough for letting us stay and for everything you've done for us,” Sam says, resting his hand over hers. “I can't tell you how much it means. So thank you.”
“You're welcome.” Her voice catches and she pauses, then directs her gaze at both brothers. “My door is always open, you know.”
Sam squeezes her hand before pushing back his chair and checking on the waffles.
They fall silent as they eat. Breakfast is delicious and she can't even remember the last time someone cooked for her. And it's nice; sharing her table, sharing her home.
“Where are you heading?” she asks, placing her knife and folk on her empty plate.
Sam's eyes flick to Dean, like he's asking Dean to answer.
“South,” Dean says and it's such a vague answer that it doesn't allow for a lie. She figures that's the whole point and she must be getting near to this awful truth that Sam warned her about.
And she's still not sure how she feels about that; it's not like she can forget about it or erase her curiosity. But maybe one day they'll trust her with it. Whatever it is.
After all, it's not like she's told them everything about her life.
She starts to collect the empty plates, when Dean stops her. “We've got it.”
He stacks the plates and takes them to the sink and she just stands there, looking at them both for a long moment, delaying the inevitable.
Pulling on her coat and scarf, she takes her gloves from her pocket and turns around, not completely surprised to see Sam right in front of her. For a giant of a man, he's certainly light on his feet.
“You want a ride?” he asks, hands in his pockets, eyes peeking out from under his bangs.
“I think I'll walk, get some fresh air.”
Sam takes a deep breath and she thinks his eyes look a little damp, too. “Alice, I-”
“It's my pleasure,” she interrupts, standing on her tiptoes so she can swipe the hair from his eyes and cup his cheek. “Just promise you'll come back and visit.”
Sam smiles; it's broad with a flash of white teeth and dimples. A double attack. “I promise.”
She taps his cheek lightly before letting her hand slip away, looking at Dean who's somehow managed to cross the kitchen without her noticing.
Dean nods, the corner of his lip curling into a soft smile and she's suddenly lost for words. But as his eyes meet hers she realises they don't need to say a word, it's all there; gratitude, relief and a quiet understanding that they've shared from the very first moment they met in her diner.
“There's half a cherry pie in the fridge,” she says, pulling on her gloves.
“Really?” Dean's eyes brighten like a kid in a candy store. “Did I ever tell you it's the best pie in like, fifty states?”
“Once or twice,” she says, smiling softly before forcing herself to turn around and leave.
“Alice?” Dean calls as she's halfway out the door, a cold breeze numbing her cheeks as she turns to look at him.
“Harry was a lucky man, y'know.”
A lump of something she thought she'd long since buried sticks in her throat, but she smiles as she looks at the young man in front of her, standing tall and stoic but with a heart the size of Texas. “Don't you know it, kid.”
He's laughing when she turns to leave and she throws him a wink over her shoulder. When he winks back, she's pretty sure the smile she's wearing will last all day.
XoXoX
The next morning she's clearing up the neat piles of sheets and towels that are stacked at the foot of the stripped bed in her silent spare room, when she finds a note by the lamp on the nightstand.
Check the garage.
Frowning, she heads downstairs and pulls open the door to the attached garage, not quite sure what to expect as she switches on the overhead light that flickers before flooding the room with light.
Immediately she's drawn towards the polished paint of her car that's glistening like it's brand new.
Letting her fingers dance lightly over the hood, she sees that the key is in the ignition and there's a Post It note stuck to the steering wheel.
Try me!
Pulling open the door, she ducks into the seat and twists the key. The engine purrs to life, no nasty noises or smoke, just a healthy roar as she pumps her foot on the gas, feeling like a giddy teenager who just got her first car.
She notices others things too, like the tap in the bathroom that doesn't leak and the fixed back door that doesn't bang in the wind and has shiny new hinges.
And it's funny how she's always thought she knew her place in this world; her purpose. In this town, with her diner and a community full of friends.
But now, after spending more time with these two mysterious men, she's been thinking that maybe it's more than that. That maybe there's a reason why she was supposed to be here the moment Dean limped into her diner all those months ago, lost and broken and without his brother.
And that this is exactly what she's supposed to be doing; keeping an eye on them, giving them home cooked meals, comfort and care - her full attention.
Maybe this town, this house, can be their safe haven just as much as it is hers.
The End
Summary - She knows that something is off with these two and it's not just because Dean got sick and Sam got hurt. An outsider POV featuring Alice from my fic MIA. I don't think you have to read MIA to understand this but you do need to know that Alice's diner was a refuge for Dean when he was searching for his missing brother. After gaining her trust then, they seek her sanctuary again.
Rating - PG13 (language and a little blood if you're squeamish).
Genre - Gen
Word Count - 5700+
Disclaimer - I don't own Supernatural that privilege belongs to CW, Kripke and Co, I'm simply borrowing them for a while. I'm not making a profit, this is just for fun and all standard disclaimers apply.
A/N - Thank you to harrigan for betaing this not once but twice, your time and feedback is priceless. I've tinkered and tweaked this, so any mistakes are mine.
Safe Haven
She hears the car before she sees it, a deep throaty growl that she recognises immediately.
As the car pulls into her driveway, the outside security light clicks on and she sees the car is blanketed in snow, the window wipers slapping away fat flakes from the windshield as it pulls into the double garage that she opened right after she got the call.
With her stomach curling into knots, she pulls the belt of her robe tighter around her waist before yanking open the door that leads from the kitchen to the adjoining garage.
As she reaches for the light switch, she can see a tall shadow bent in half by the open passenger door, hushed whispers bouncing off the walls.
“Sam?” she asks, the overhead light flickering before turning on.
He's squinting as he looks up at her and she inhales sharply as she sees the haggard droop of his shoulders and the exhaustion burning through his eyes. As she looks closer she can see the sleeve of his jacket is torn and stained with something dark but then he twists away from her, like he's hiding something.
“I think I might need a hand,” he says, his eyes returning to the slumped figure she can see in the passenger seat and she runs to cross the distance that separates them.
“How is he?” she asks, her breath clouding in front of her as she peers into the car and sees Dean scrub a hand over a fever-pinked cheek.
“Well, he's not trying to steal the wheel and drive us both off the road any more but-” Sam stops, brow furrowing. “His fever's still climbing.”
The words are hushed, like they were painful to say out aloud. She watches him swallow deeply, his eyes shying away from hers as he dips into the car and reaches for his brother.
She sees his hands quiver, from the cold or maybe from something else. She doesn't ask.
Snaking his arm around Dean's shoulders, Sam drags his brother off the bench seat and Alice sees him lock his knees, ready and prepared, before Dean starts to slide to floor a second later.
“Whoa,” Sam says, his tone strained but controlled, like it's not the first time he's dragged his brother to safety. “I got you. Just help me out a little, OK?”
Dean doesn't say anything, his chin resting on his sternum but when Sam shuffles forward, Dean's legs move, a little unstable and fawn-like, but they're moving. And if she could see his face, if he wasn't drifting somewhere else in his fever overloaded-mind, she knows she'd see one of those stubborn looks, all deep-set frown and jutting jaw.
She remembers seeing that look months ago, knows that although he came close then, Dean doesn't know how to quit, especially when it comes to his brother.
“Can you...?” Sam gestures to the open car door with a shake of his head.
“Of course,” she says, carefully sliding past them, the metal ice-cold on her palm as she closes the car door with a heavy slam, a blanket of snow sliding off the roof and landing by her slippered feet.
Stepping over the snow, she tucks her shoulder under Dean's armpit, his arm hanging loosely over her small shoulders, his weight making her stumble slightly. She looks to her right, catching a fleeting protective glare from Sam and she scolds herself for not asking him first but it's soon gone, replaced with an apologetic slant of lips.
“Where?” Sam asks, as they make it into the kitchen and she can feel more of Dean's weight settle onto her shoulders but she carries on walking, tries not to notice the whistle of Dean's heavy breathing in her ear.
“Upstairs,” she says, leading them into the living room and to the foot of the narrow staircase tucked in the corner of the room.
“I've got him,” Sam says, anticipating her next words because there's no way all three of them can climb up the staircase together, there's just not enough room.
She doesn't look over her shoulder to check on them as she climbs the stairs, maybe because she's still pretty much a stranger to them and she knows her place. But maybe because something in Sam's tone tells her that come hell or high water, there's no way he'll fail his task.
Pushing open the spare bedroom door, she hears Dean say something to his brother. The words are too hushed for her to hear but Sam's winded response is clear.
“We're safe.”
She doesn't know why the words pull at her chest, but they do.
The spare room walls are painted a pale green and photographs of her travels with Harry hang on the walls. The king-size bed takes up most of the space, but after Harry died she never did see the point in keeping it in her own master room.
“It's a bit cramped, I'm sorry,” she says watching as Sam carefully guides Dean down onto the bed.
“The room's great,” Sam interrupts, eyes cataloguing the collection of medicine and drugs that she emptied from her cabinet when she got his call. “Thank you, for all of this. We'll be gone come sun up; I don't want to put you out any more than we already have, I-”
“Nonsense,” she says, “you're staying as long as it takes. Days or weeks, whatever you need.”
Sam nods. “Are you sure? I mean I-”
“I wouldn't offer if I didn't mean it.”
“OK,” he says, lowering his gaze to the floor. “Thank you.”
She checks the towels are still on the bed, her mind running through anything else they might need before she walks to the door and turns to face Sam. “You and that brother of yours can never put me out. You're always welcome. You hear me?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
She raises her eyebrows.
“Alice,” he corrects with a flash of dimples.
XoXoX
“How's the patient?” she asks the next morning, looking at the pillows stacked under Dean's shoulders, blankets pulled up to his chest, like Sam's worried about his breathing.
“I think the drugs are helping, but-”
“You're worried about his chest,” she says, hearing the rattle in Dean's breathing from across the room.
Sam takes a deep breath and nods and she swears she can see the blood drain from his face, like saying it out aloud makes his fear a reality.
“I could call Doc Albert?” she suggests. “He has a small practice in town.”
Sam clenches his jaw, his gaze hovering over her shoulder to his brother like maybe he's wondering what Dean would do if the tables were turned. “If he's not any better by this afternoon then maybe we should?”
She hears his uncertainly and nods, making sure Sam sees he has her full support.
“I've got to get to the diner but help yourself to anything you need. What's mine is yours, OK?” she says, but Sam's already settling into the chair next to Dean's bed, reaching for the damp towel on the nightstand before placing it on Dean's forehead.
She wants to tell him to get some sleep, maybe take a shower, but one look at Dean shivering under the covers and she suspects it would be a waste of everyone's time.
When she gets to the diner she finds out that Oden Way Road is closed due to the snow storm, which means the whole town is snowed in. Her day drags on, peppered with only a few customers.
She closes early and jumps into her old busted-up Honda. Twisting the key in the ignition, the engine makes a grating sound; half a mile later the car's stuttering and they're barely moving.
Luckily they make it home and into the garage, smoke curling from the hood. She dreads the expense but she'll probably have to give Big Mike a ring before it quits on her entirely.
Cupping her hands, she blows hot air onto numb fingers as she pushes open the door into the kitchen, a wave of heat prickling across her cheeks.
She's surprised to see Sam standing by the dining table, one hand fumbling with what looks like a first aid kit, the table-top littered with bloody gauze and plastic wrappers.
“I'll clear this up,” he stutters awkwardly, angling his body away from her, like he's trying to hide something.
Frowning, she takes a step forward and leans to her left, eyes catching a flash of bright red and a sleeve that's rolled up to his elbow.
“Sam?” and she can't do anything about the worry in her tone because, well, she's worried. “What's going on?”
She sees the cogs turn in his head, like he's looking for a believable excuse or maybe a lie. His mouth opens a little before he snaps it closed and he releases a deep breath, his shoulders sinking in submission.
“It's not as bad as it looks,” he says gingerly, before turning to face her and that's when she sees the large cut that runs the length of his forearm.
She huffs because it must hurt, had been hurting all night and all day and it's only now that he decides to do something about it! She'd wring his neck if he wasn't at least twice her size.
“You should have said something,” she scolds and she's not even sorry about it.
Unwrapping her scarf from around her neck she shucks off her coat, dropping them onto the chair at the dining table. “And it sure looks bad to me. You don't work at a diner for nearly forty years and not see some nasty stuff.”
Without asking for permission, she reaches for Sam's arm and takes a closer look. The cut is still seeping blood, the surrounding skin is red and swollen and if it's not infected it'll be a miracle.
“Sit,” she says but he doesn't balk at her order or flinch at her tone, he just sinks back into the chair like a scolded child and she can't help but feel like he deserves it.
“Alice, I'm sor-”
“Don't you dare,” she says, opening the lid of what must be their first aid kit, wondering why on earth they need one in the first place, before picking out an alcohol wipe and tearing it open. “I'm trying to be mad at you.”
He huffs through his nose, and looks down at the table, crater-like dimples on show and he must know that they'll deflate her anger, because that's exactly what they do.
“I just got so caught up with Dean and-”
“How is he?” she asks, dragging the alcohol wipe slowly over the cut, watching his face for a reaction that doesn't show.
“Not better, but not worse either,” he says, watching her clean his arm. “I can take care of this, y'know.”
She looks at his pale face and remembers the first time she saw him, all beat up and bandaged in her diner. Maybe this is something he's used to? Something both brothers do on a regular basis? The thought alone breaks something inside her.
“I'm sure you can,” she says as she pulls out a bottle of peroxide from the kit, just to be safe. “But you don't have to. You shouldn't ever have to.”
His eyes drop to the table and he sniffs and when he looks at her, his eyes are misty and she sees a flash of something else; a deeper fear, a deeper pain.
But he doesn't say anything and she doesn't push, knows from experience that prying doesn't work with these two.
“This might need stitches,” she says, mopping up a trickle of fresh blood from the cut, his arm an angry red underneath.
He sits forward, eyeing the wound carefully, a deep frown set in his forehead as his fingers push on the edges of the cut. “No, butterfly stitches should do it. There's some in the kit, somewhere,” his tone is confident, self-assured, like he knows exactly what he's talking about.
“You a doctor or something?” she jibes with a soft smile, fingers rummaging in the first aid kit.
“Or something,” he fires back with a cheeky grin, just like that brother of his. Two peas in a pod.
“Do I want to know how you know about this stuff?”
His smile fades, dimples disappearing and his eyes fall to the table before he clears his throat. When he looks back up at her he's still smiling, but it's different, it doesn't reach his eyes.
“Skills of a misspent youth,” he says and immediately she knows it's some kind of cover up, guarding a big hurt, so she wraps her hand around his good arm and squeezes.
They fall quiet after that and she returns to patching him up before forcing some antibiotics down his throat. But she can't help but wonder what sort of past these two young men have had, what sort of childhood.
Do they really have nowhere else to go?
She has trouble getting to sleep.
XoXoX
The knocking is urgent, a long stream instead of a few isolated bursts.
She's always been a light sleeper, unlike Harry who once slept through a series of five tremors when they were vacationing in San Francisco, so she's dragging back the blankets at the first four knocks and out of bed by the eighth.
“Sam? Is that you?” she calls through the closed door as she crosses the room, pulling on her robe and wiping a hand over sleep-crusty eyes.
“He's not breathing-” Sam's voice thunders through the door, his tone panicked and soaked in fear.
When she pulls open the door Sam's already disappearing back into their room and she's running, Sam's words driving a spike of fear into her stomach.
She enters the room and Sam's sitting on the edge of the bed, dragging a purple-faced Dean up off the pillows stacked behind his shoulders, slapping the heel of his palm over Dean's back as he coughs and hacks and makes this hideous wheeze that sounds like it's ripping his throat to shreds.
“You gotta breathe, Dean. Try to take it easy, OK?”
Dean's fist is twisted in the cotton of Sam's t-shirt, his gaze rising from the floor to her face and it's the first time she's seen him acknowledge her presence since they got here.
His eyes are overflowing with panic, like he's suffocating on his own lungs, his lips hazing into a bluish tinge.
Before she knows it, she's running out of the spare room and into the bathroom, her heart rate through the roof as she snaps at the light switch, hands shakily twisting every hot water tap until they're all running at their hottest, even the shower.
Luckily the bathroom is small and it's already filling with steam. Leaving the taps and the shower running, she slams the door closed and returns to the spare room.
“Get him into the bathroom,” she barks but Sam's already hauling Dean out of bed as he coughs so hard he caves in at the waist.
“We've got you,” she tells Dean as she slides under his armpit, Sam guiding them into the bathroom as Dean coughs, his fingers clutching into her arm. It's not until he's propped onto the edge of the bath that she realises how much he was leaning on her.
“Let the steam help clear your lungs,” she says, and Dean gulps at the damp air, nodding his head.
Sam's kneeling on the floor in front of Dean, his hands steadying his brother's balance. “Deep breaths, Dean, as deep as you can.”
Dean shoots a frustrated look at his brother, like he doesn't appreciate the coaching or being told what to do, but it soon disappears as his lungs stutter, desperate for relief from the staccato breaths.
Slowly, she watches the panic in his eyes recede as he gains control, one hand still knotted in Sam's shirt, the other gripping his biceps.
She sees the moment that Dean's eyes lock onto the thick bandages that she wrapped around Sam's arm, the fear that ghosts over his face and deepens the worry lines around his eyes.
Sam huffs. “It's nothing, Dean, just focus on your breathing.”
But she hears the change as Dean's breathing deteriorates, his chest rapidly rising and falling, the echo of short and sharp breaths bouncing off the white tiled walls.
“I took care of it,” she says, without a thought. “I cleaned the cut up real good. Even forced some antibiotics down him before wrapping it up tight.”
Gradually, she sees that his breathing is settling, there's still a wheeze but he's not struggling any more.
“I'll take care of your brother,” and she means it, every single word.
Dean's eyes are still locked on her like he's daring her to break the promise she just made. She nods, his head bobbing in return as his fingers tighten around Sam's shirt.
“Stay here and I'll get something for that throat of yours,” she says, throwing Sam a look over her shoulder.
Sam's are eyes shining as he mouths 'thank you' at her.
She goes down the stairs and puts the kettle on, fingers searching for the jar of honey before spooning a generous helping into a mug. She squeezes a lemon and pours the juice into the mug along with the hot water.
She's looking for a spoon when out of nowhere, it all hits her.
Before she knows it, she's shaking like a leaf, her heart beating so fast she worries she might pass out. But it's not until she's back in her bed, lying stiffly on her back that she lets the tears roll uncontrollably down her cheeks.
XoXoX
Twisting the key in the Honda's ignition, she hears the engine start to turn before it gives up with a sigh and a moan. She tries again, and this time it doesn't make a sound.
Banging her gloved hands against the steering wheel, she lets the scream erupt from her lungs. It's snowing and she's already late. She hasn't overslept in years.
Shoving her shoulder against the door, she pushes it open and slams it closed, the metal groaning at her rough treatment. That's when she sees Sam standing in front of the open kitchen door, one hand jammed in his pocket, his injured arm hanging loosely at his side.
“Need a ride?”
She looks at him sheepishly. “If you don't mind?”
He pulls the keys from his pocket and that's when she notices he's wearing his jacket. “I'm guessing you heard some of that, huh?”
He doesn't answer, just smiles like he's the one who should be embarrassed, before opening the door of the Impala and sliding into the driver's seat. She follows his lead, the passenger door creaking as she settles beside him on the bench seat.
The car rumbles to life as Sam carefully reverses out of the drive. The snowflakes are fine and delicate now and the neighbouring houses and cars are covered in snow drifts and it's like the whole world is transformed into a white wonderland.
“Sam, why are you here?” she asks, a white cloud of mist blowing from her chapped lips. “I mean, I know Dean's sick and you needed somewhere to go because of the snow. But what happened?”
As soon as the words leave her lips part of her regrets it, but a bigger part just needs to know something about them. Like how Sam hurt his arm or why they were driving in the snow storm in the first place? Anything.
She sees that look, the one she saw the other day when he was searching for the right words instead of just telling the truth but it's like he's torn this time, caught somewhere in the middle.
“What we do, Dean and I-” The words are gentle but they sound heavy with importance. “It's complicated and it's dangerous and-”
“There's a reason why you don't let people in.” She watches his face and sees a look she's never seen before, all raw and naked, shining like a beacon in the night.
“You lost someone,” she says knowing that haunted look all too well. Sam's shoulders tense, fingers gripping the steering wheel as he swallows deeply, his adam's apple bobbing.
All he does is flick his eyes at her and she knows he's lost a lot more than just one person.
“Dean was sick and he was supposed to stay at the motel,” Sam says, changing the subject and she doesn't blame him. She can't. “But he followed me to a...job and he showed up at the wrong time and I got hurt and all he did was make himself sicker. He's just so-”
“Stubborn?” she interrupts, raising her eyebrows.
“And irresponsible and reckless and-”
“Worried about his brother,” she says with a sad smile.
“Yeah, but he's not the only one who gets to do that,” Sam says, slowly pulling up in front of the diner.
“No.” She climbs out the car, feet sinking into icy slush. “It's not even limited to brothers.”
“What time shall I pick you up?”
“You don't have to do that, I can walk.”
“I'm sure you could, but you don't have to,” Sam says with a bright smile, and he's smart this one, really sharp. “Besides, I'd worry too much if you did.”
XoXoX
After serving a grand total of four cups of coffee, she closes early at 2 p.m., tacking a note on the door saying she'll be closed for the next few days due to the snow.
She makes a pot roast for dinner, enjoying the feeling of cooking a large meal and not needing to feel guilty about having to put most of it in the freezer.
Taking up two heaped plates to the spare room, she eats alone downstairs but when Sam brings down two empty plates, she really can't seem to make herself care about her loneliness.
At 3:30 a.m. she's woken by the back door banging in the wind.
Dragging herself out of bed, she puts on her robe and goes down to investigate. She noticed back in the summer that the old wooden door was starting to bow a little, that the hinges were starting to rust and creak.
She's halfway down the stairs when she sees there's a light coming from the living room and she winces when she hears a muffled cough.
Dean's sitting on the couch, wearing an old stretched-out pair of sweat pants that are too long for him and a blue t-shirt, hands nursing what looks like a brown leather journal.
He doesn't acknowledge her presence but she sees his shoulders tense and his torso rise, like he's pretending that he's not as sick as a dog.
Picking up a blanket from the back of couch she unfolds it before taking a seat next to him and slipping it over his shoulders. She's surprised that he lets her do it, even more so when she puts her hand on his forehead and he doesn't flinch.
“You should be in bed,” she says as he coughs into his fist and it sounds a lot better, not wet or like he can't breathe.
“Yeah, well-” he coughs again and this time she sees pain lines around his eyes. “Sam snores.”
She smiles. “And now that he's finally getting some sleep you don't want to wake him?”
He looks at her like she's cracked a secret code but it's the weariness in his eyes that bothers her, not just due to illness but something else, something all consuming.
“He doing OK?” Dean asks, pulling the woollen blanket tighter around his frame.
“I've changed the bandages a few times; it's healing well. There's no need to worry.”
He nods his head. “Good.”
“And you? How are you, Dean?”
She thinks it's an innocent enough question but she knows something is off with these two and it's not just because Dean got sick and Sam got hurt - it's something deeper. And she knows she's hit some sort of raw nerve when he pulls his gaze away from her like she's wounded him somehow.
“I'm fine.” His tone is all wrong and unlike Sam there's no pause for an excuse as he searches for an answer; this is an automatic blatant lie and she can feel his defenses rise, the wall getting higher, brick by brick.
Right now playing dirty feels like the only option. “And I suppose Sam is OK too, right?”
“Why? Did he say something?” Dean snaps, and she can practically hear his heart rate pick up.
“Just that you lost someone.”
And it's like she's punched him, betrayal and hurt clouding his eyes as they well up before he pulls away from her, looking down at the book in his lap.
“Everything's just so...messed up.” His tone is raw but somehow soft, like it's being pulled in two different directions, not knowing exactly how to feel or what to do. “There's just two of us.”
She slides next to Dean on the couch, her hands reaching up to his warm cheeks, pulling his gaze to meet her own. “You listen to me, and you listen good. You and that brother of yours aren't alone in this world.”
She doesn't expect him to pour his heart out, so it's not a surprise when he doesn't.
Instead they sit in silence together, her hand squeezing his as he clutches at the brown leather journal.
XoXoX
Two days later, the snow has stopped and Oden Way Road has been cleared and she's re-opening the diner.
When she gets into the kitchen, Sam's carefully pouring batter into the waffle iron that he must have dug out from the back of her cupboard and Dean's sitting at the table fisting his knife and fork.
“A man can die from starvation, Sam,” Dean says, smiling up at Alice as she squeezes his shoulder.
“Y'know the more you bitch about it, the longer it's going to take,” Sam replies as he closes the waffle iron with a fizz of batter.
“Have a heart, man, I've been wastin' away for days now.” Dean's tone is light and jovial but she sees Sam's smile fade at the reminder of how sick his brother was only a few days ago.
“Can I lend a hand?” she asks, changing the subject as Sam wipes flour handprints onto his jeans.
“Sammy's got it under control.” Dean ushers her down onto a chair. “Let him play wife. He loves it, I swear.”
Sam scowls at Dean, shooting him an incredulous look as he rolls his eyes and pours three cups of coffee before taking a seat at the table.
She's sipping her coffee when it hits her. “You're leaving today.”
They look at each other and it falls quiet, like they're somehow having a conversation without actually speaking.
“Tonight,” Dean says looking down at his coffee like he can't look her in the eye. “We'll be gone by the time you get back from the diner.”
“Oh-” she says and she shouldn't be surprised they're leaving, she knew this was only a pit-stop, a temporary respite until Dean got back on his feet, which he has. They have no reason to stay.
“We can't thank you enough for letting us stay and for everything you've done for us,” Sam says, resting his hand over hers. “I can't tell you how much it means. So thank you.”
“You're welcome.” Her voice catches and she pauses, then directs her gaze at both brothers. “My door is always open, you know.”
Sam squeezes her hand before pushing back his chair and checking on the waffles.
They fall silent as they eat. Breakfast is delicious and she can't even remember the last time someone cooked for her. And it's nice; sharing her table, sharing her home.
“Where are you heading?” she asks, placing her knife and folk on her empty plate.
Sam's eyes flick to Dean, like he's asking Dean to answer.
“South,” Dean says and it's such a vague answer that it doesn't allow for a lie. She figures that's the whole point and she must be getting near to this awful truth that Sam warned her about.
And she's still not sure how she feels about that; it's not like she can forget about it or erase her curiosity. But maybe one day they'll trust her with it. Whatever it is.
After all, it's not like she's told them everything about her life.
She starts to collect the empty plates, when Dean stops her. “We've got it.”
He stacks the plates and takes them to the sink and she just stands there, looking at them both for a long moment, delaying the inevitable.
Pulling on her coat and scarf, she takes her gloves from her pocket and turns around, not completely surprised to see Sam right in front of her. For a giant of a man, he's certainly light on his feet.
“You want a ride?” he asks, hands in his pockets, eyes peeking out from under his bangs.
“I think I'll walk, get some fresh air.”
Sam takes a deep breath and she thinks his eyes look a little damp, too. “Alice, I-”
“It's my pleasure,” she interrupts, standing on her tiptoes so she can swipe the hair from his eyes and cup his cheek. “Just promise you'll come back and visit.”
Sam smiles; it's broad with a flash of white teeth and dimples. A double attack. “I promise.”
She taps his cheek lightly before letting her hand slip away, looking at Dean who's somehow managed to cross the kitchen without her noticing.
Dean nods, the corner of his lip curling into a soft smile and she's suddenly lost for words. But as his eyes meet hers she realises they don't need to say a word, it's all there; gratitude, relief and a quiet understanding that they've shared from the very first moment they met in her diner.
“There's half a cherry pie in the fridge,” she says, pulling on her gloves.
“Really?” Dean's eyes brighten like a kid in a candy store. “Did I ever tell you it's the best pie in like, fifty states?”
“Once or twice,” she says, smiling softly before forcing herself to turn around and leave.
“Alice?” Dean calls as she's halfway out the door, a cold breeze numbing her cheeks as she turns to look at him.
“Harry was a lucky man, y'know.”
A lump of something she thought she'd long since buried sticks in her throat, but she smiles as she looks at the young man in front of her, standing tall and stoic but with a heart the size of Texas. “Don't you know it, kid.”
He's laughing when she turns to leave and she throws him a wink over her shoulder. When he winks back, she's pretty sure the smile she's wearing will last all day.
XoXoX
The next morning she's clearing up the neat piles of sheets and towels that are stacked at the foot of the stripped bed in her silent spare room, when she finds a note by the lamp on the nightstand.
Check the garage.
Frowning, she heads downstairs and pulls open the door to the attached garage, not quite sure what to expect as she switches on the overhead light that flickers before flooding the room with light.
Immediately she's drawn towards the polished paint of her car that's glistening like it's brand new.
Letting her fingers dance lightly over the hood, she sees that the key is in the ignition and there's a Post It note stuck to the steering wheel.
Try me!
Pulling open the door, she ducks into the seat and twists the key. The engine purrs to life, no nasty noises or smoke, just a healthy roar as she pumps her foot on the gas, feeling like a giddy teenager who just got her first car.
She notices others things too, like the tap in the bathroom that doesn't leak and the fixed back door that doesn't bang in the wind and has shiny new hinges.
And it's funny how she's always thought she knew her place in this world; her purpose. In this town, with her diner and a community full of friends.
But now, after spending more time with these two mysterious men, she's been thinking that maybe it's more than that. That maybe there's a reason why she was supposed to be here the moment Dean limped into her diner all those months ago, lost and broken and without his brother.
And that this is exactly what she's supposed to be doing; keeping an eye on them, giving them home cooked meals, comfort and care - her full attention.
Maybe this town, this house, can be their safe haven just as much as it is hers.
The End