bells pond | year two.

[kelleigh]

March 21st

"Morning, Sam."

Eric's stool is the third from the left, an easy reach to the sugar and the Tabasco.

"You're a little early. Coffee's not ready yet."

"Yeah, well, the door wasn't locked," Eric grumbles as he takes his seat. The skin at the corners of his eyes wrinkle and stretch as Eric rubs his face.

Sam separates the ones from the fives, checking the cash drawer. It's pointless-Sam may as well be using Monopoly money-but it's a ritual. If not for Sam's comfort, then for Eric and the rest to have a slice of normalcy.

"It's never locked, you know that."

"That's because you never leave."

Fair enough. Sam's been at the diner every day for the better part of a year. Since Dean disappeared and Sam spent his rage on his front door, on his cabinets and furniture, laying waste to everything that wasn't nailed down. Alone once more in that house-even emptier without Dean-Sam had seethed for days in a hell of his own making. He'd thrashed and fought, called the Wanderer to his doorstep only to rail against the angel with cruel words.

"Did you get any sleep last night?" Sam pours the coffee as soon as it's done, steam rising up from the mug to curl around Eric's jaw. Eric blinks; his eyelids lag on the way back up, making his answer moot. "Or is it still pretty bad?"

"Don't try telling me you slept well when you first got here."

"Yeah," Sam chuckles, ducking his head. "No."

"It's too quiet, you know?"

Sam knows. Motels were never the quietest places to grab a few hours of sleep, and he had Dean's rustling and steady breathing, but here the silence is so thorough, it's oppressive. Noiseless, dead air weighing on Sam's ears-there were so many nights he didn't even bother trying to fall asleep.

"Riley's not here yet," Sam offers. "But I was going to make toast. Want some?"

"Nah, coffee's fine for now." Eric pulls out a tattered paperback, its thin, soft-edged pages the color of driftwood. Sam has a box of books in similar condition at his house, likely left by the angels to help with the boredom. "You know, I never had time to sit and read when I was on the force. Figured my spare time was better spent sleeping. I guess I should thank whoever left me here for that."

Sam turns around, waits for his toast to pop up and hears Eric flipping through the worn pages.

A year ago, it was Gus who had finally stepped through the wreckage Sam had surrounded himself with, unmindful that the splinters had once been his hard work, and found Sam crouched over an envelope. Sam's knuckles were bloody and torn but he'd grimaced through the pain, holding the creased, brown envelope tight to his chest while he'd listened to Gus.

Out of everyone unceremoniously dropped into Bells Pond, Gus was clearly the most well adjusted. Sam had learned enough from his rounds at tragedy to see behind the handyman's disposition. Gus hid his pain well, but Sam knew his split-second hesitations, temporary surrenders to old, painful memories. His eyes would drift away from Sam's, a sojourn to the past, before returning with a smile that erased all concern. Gus was here for a reason but he played content whereas the others demonstrated their displeasure.

And Gus wanted to make a life here. That's what he'd whispered to Sam that day, speaking quietly between Sam's shaky breaths.

Bells Pond was theirs, Gus had said. It belonged to Sam and Riley, even to those who were too timid to venture out. No reason they all shouldn't live in it. Sam hadn't said a thing then; he'd used up every word with Dean and he only had one focus. Every fiber tasked with holding Sam Winchester together, hanging on tight for the next rage. Gus had left and Sam had sat motionless as the shadows blended with twilight then reformed when the sun came up.

After he'd sat for so long, it was almost easier to stay that way. Sam had stared at the floor and his life stared back, spilled from the envelope Dean left behind. Pictures, the few mementos left from better days, and a brief note from Dean.

Thought these were safer with you.

The old photographs were more like artifacts, carefully preserved and priceless to only a few. Dean had carried them mile after mile for years, now they'd been entrusted to Sam. Made Sam wish for his brother to reappear so he could clock him one right on the nose.

Long past starving on the second day, Sam had finally moved, crawling into the kitchen where two glasses remained set out on the table, left by ghosts.

"Sorry I'm late!" Riley breezes through the door with a full load, her backpack swinging off her shoulder.

"Sam was about to go looking," Eric says, leaning across the counter to refill his own coffee. "He was scared he'd have to cook for himself."

Dropping her things into a booth, she laughs. "Sam can cook. I've seen him."

"She's lying," Sam points out, scraping butter onto his last triangle of toast. "Eggs and toast are my limit."

In the diner, the kitchen is Riley's domain. She knots her springy curls back into a ponytail and walks through the bat-wing doors, appearing on the other side through the wide serving window. "Looks like everything's here. You guys want pancakes? I think we have blueberries, how about that?"

Sam declines. Eric holds up two fingers. "I ate like shit for years-whatever came in a box or a bag, and only if it could be frozen or microwaved." He stirs sugar into his second cup of coffee. "If Riley's cooking, I want a double order."

He goes back to his book, undisturbed by the clatter and humming coming from the kitchen. Sam glances between them and marvels at his strange little life.

This is what Gus had wanted: a slice of normal amongst the chaos and confusion. He'd come back to Sam's with Riley in tow as his brand new accomplice. Together they'd convinced Sam that rebuilding Bells Pond was better than long days of desolation stuck in their fake homes. Sam had almost laughed them out of the house-didn't they know they were nothing more than pieces stuck in this angelic safety deposit box? It wasn't supposed to be a normal life.

He'd agreed regardless, half to get them out of his sight. Another part of Sam had begun to make itself heard, arguing that Sam had a chance, free of the mantle of Winchester, to do what he wanted.

"Why do you want my help?" he'd asked, Gus already talking about fixing the diner up first.

"Well, for one, you ain't shy."

"I think you're easy to get along with," had been Riley's explanation, a little rhetorical since Sam Winchester was still a mystery to them both. "It's not right for people to shut themselves away. Maybe we can help them."

Sam wasn't doing it to help anyone, that selfish little voice had popped up. But it was something different-a way to keep from thinking.

"I figure someone's been givin' us supplies," Gus had casually cut into Sam's thoughts, his tone saying he knew who that someone was. "Should be able to get us some building supplies too, don't you think?"

Sam hadn't added that he thought the angels' generosity was limited. But Gus had gotten what he needed, leaving notes and lists, orders mysteriously filled in a few days. They'd all dealt with food restocking itself; timber and tools showing up outside the diner hadn't been that big of a deal. Apparently Heaven was plenty generous when Sam wasn't the one asking.

It had taken Sam a while to really join in on Gus' projects. He'd walked, trapped in his own head, along the same roads he had for the previous year, with the new knowledge that what he saw might very well have been a trick. The horizon-was it just an illusion? A cleverly painted canvas? This eerie and desolate town, emptied after an unnatural tragedy, sat in a protective shell. How much of it had been what Sam wanted to see? Angels and their fucking head-games.

"Sure you don't want any?"

Riley's smiling at him, Eric's stuffing a forkful of fluffy pancakes in his mouth, dark purple juice caught at the corner.

"Eees r'eeally good."

"Dude," Sam laughs. "Swallow before you choke."

Eric's cheeks flash bright red and he ducks his face away to finish chewing. Their mornings have been this shade of normal for a few months. Gus had logged a lot of hours sweating over the diner's repairs. Sam too, after replaying his day with Dean had become stale. New doors, new timber-a miracle job from a construction standpoint-and the diner now stands in decent shape. They had appliances only Riley could tame along with little details Sam had perfected from his cross-country tour of dive restaurants and quaint diners. This place falls in the middle: no frills, just a simple place to gather where they can stake a claim on a booth or mingle at the counter. Cleaned up, the Bells Pond Diner passes for normal if you aren't looking too carefully.

The door swings open again. This time, a young man and woman step inside, his skinny, stooped frame dwarfing hers. There's no smile on the man's face, his eyes turned low and away from Sam and the others; the woman sends them a shy-fingered wave and they both shuffle to one of the booths.

"You guys want some pancakes?" Riley's first to speak up, calling out from the kitchen. The girl nods and elbows the man who then dips his head almost imperceptibly.

Anthony, now picking at the table with his thumbnail, barely looks older than twenty. Sam has no idea how old he really is. Unfortunately pocked cheeks, sandy hair flopped down for his eyes to hide behind-Anthony is one of the tough cases Gus is so intent on helping. He's been in Bells Pond longer than Sam and it's tough to miss the unease that lurks around him. Whatever trauma Anthony faced in his old life, it came with him to Bells Pond.

Riley drops off two plates, bustling back and forth to bring them both coffee. Splotches of batter stain her shirt and a few curls have already worked loose, bouncing around her face. She loves this, Sam can tell. Cooking and serving, not a real job but something that gives her purpose anyway; she's come a long way from mangling her mother's recipes and sharing the less disastrous results with Sam.

The girl across from Anthony smiles, elbows forward on the table and ready to dig in. Her cheeks, cherry from the walk to the diner, round in response to something Riley says.

Sara is their newest arrival. Only twenty-two, her last memory before Bells Pond was of a fire in her college dorm before she'd blacked out. Skittish at first, she's gradually become more comfortable with the rest of them. Adjusted would be the wrong word to use. There's no way for anyone to truly adjust after being ripped out of one life and inexplicably dropped in Nebraska.

Strangely, her appearance has helped Anthony widen his circle. Though Gus swears he's never heard the guy speak more than two words, Anthony talks to Sara. Sam's pretty sure it's because Sara is one of the least physically threatening women he's ever seen; she barely clears five feet and is usually blushing. Reddish-brown hair pulled back into a swinging ponytail, swishing as she walks. When she smiles at Anthony, he doesn't avert his eyes.

The five of them coexist in the morning. With no one else to feed, Riley sets up shop in the kitchen, organizing what they've got and wreaking havoc with her new supplies. In the corner booth, Sara talks while Anthony tilts his ear towards her. Sam and Eric stay at the counter, the sound of a page flipping every few minutes not really bothering Sam.

If such a thing is possible in Bells Pond, Eric Tanner has been a godsend. He'd showed up on Sam's doorstep seven months back, surprising the hell out of Sam. In a mirror of Sam's first meeting with Riley, Eric had been confused, but not inconsolable, knowing that something beyond the realm of normal human comprehension had happened. Eric had dedicated his life to public service, rising through the ranks of the Sacramento Police Department to become a detective. There wasn't a lot he hadn't seen on the job, but over Riley's breakfasts and lunches, he'd told Sam that the things he'd witnessed before he woke up in Bells Pond would have driven any man to the edge of madness. Half the city had gone crazy and the other half went mad trying to defend themselves. And the officers in the middle had done their best to keep it together until the city had been lost.

Eric sets his mug down, pushes his syrup-sticky plate away from his chest. "Are you staying around here all day?"

"Gus asked for help working on one of the buildings in town," Sam says, dividing the last of the coffee between them. "If I stay here, Riley might rope me into wearing an apron or something."

"Might be a good look for you," Eric teases with a hint of a smile. Sam's objective enough to admit he's a good-looking guy, though he's probably half a foot shorter than Sam. Eric had obviously kept in shape on the Sacramento force with his lean, toned body and narrow waist. He had short brown hair, deeply-set blue eyes over his straight nose, and laugh lines etched on his chiseled face. "Plus, you'd get to eat whatever she's making."

"Only if you're lucky." Riley's head pops up over the service bar, distinctly gopher-like. "But if you guys want to go and help Gus, I'll make lunch."

Sam and Eric end up with sandwiches thicker than dictionaries and pickles sliced into long, thin wedges. No one has a functioning vehicle so they walk into town, the dull sound of hammering leading them to Gus. All three of them put in an afternoon of hard work on what used to be a small bookshop-their future library in Gus's mind.

By the time they're finished for the day, Sam's stomach is growling and the men walk congenially back to the diner to see what Riley's left them for dinner.

March 28th

Sam wakes up and looks at the calendar pinned to his bedroom wall with a rusted nail. It's two decades old with faded photographs of ducks on every page. Once he'd worked out leap years, it was enough for Sam to keep track of the days since Dean left.

He's had the 28th circled for months. Seeing the red pen strokes around today's date is the impetus for Sam to get out of bed earlier than normal, taking extra-long glances outside as he's moving through the house. He's partially convinced that Dean won't show up and that everything Dean had promised last year would fall apart. But at quarter past eight, Sam hears heavy, thudding bootsteps coming up onto his porch and the steady knocking a few seconds later. In a heartbeat, Sam's up, opening the door before Dean's fist drops. Neither one of them smiles.

"I didn't think you were coming," Sam says inadequately. Dean doesn't look good, that's for sure. The same features masked with such obvious weariness, face tensed for another explosion from Sam.

"It's part of the deal," Dean answers. "Look, if you want me to go, I can. I can just, I don't know, wander."

Sam speaks up before Dean can shift to turn around. "Shut up and come in."

As they had one year ago, Sam and Dean face each other in the hallway, eyes tracking up and down to catalog any differences they discern. Dean is satisfied first. "I'd ask how you were doing, but-"

"But you don't really have any right to know."

"Is that what you really think, Sam? I think I have every right."

"Why? Just because this entire thing was your idea?"

Dean's mouth opens and snaps shut. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. "Nevermind, I don't want to do this again."

Honestly, Sam doesn't either. The memory of their last day together stings. Dean is here, alive, and Sam already knows this isn't the day he's going to be rescued in grand fashion. One look at Dean's face tells him the Apocalypse hasn't been averted yet and Bells Pond will remain Sam's home.

"Alright." Sam turns and walks away, into the kitchen where his bag's already packed.

"You heading somewhere?" Dean asks from the doorway.

"I thought if you weren't coming..."

"Right."

Sam had actually packed it to take to the diner in case he spent another long day away from the house. Yesterday, he and Eric had helped Gus until the sun started to set, air getting chilly, before all three of them went their separate ways. With Dean here again, the house starts to feel claustrophobic as if someone's turning a crank and pushing the walls together. Apparently, Dean doesn't notice a thing.

"Listen, do you want to take a walk?"

Dean raises an eyebrow. "To where?"

"I wasn't planning on making breakfast here, and I'm hungry." Sam's cooking doesn't measure up to Riley's. Dean has no idea Riley even exists. "There's a diner."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah, it's been like a project. Anyway, we could walk there. Believe me, it'll be better than anything I can cook."

"Sure, if that's what you want."

There's not a single hint of resistance from Dean. They're both quiet along the way, Sam focusing more on his footsteps than the scenery. Dean looks every-which-way but never comments on what he sees; Sam wouldn't know what to say. They barely made it out of the house last year. With Dean walking beside him, it's a new world.

The diner is surprisingly empty, unlocked as usual. Dean lags a few steps behind, hunter's instincts kicking in. "It's fine, man. I promise." Sam denies that he's waiting for Dean's reaction. He busies himself flipping on the lights, seeing if whoever was here last-most likely Gus and Riley-left a note or dirty dishes. Finding nothing, Sam stands at the register and watches Dean's expression.

When he and Gus were fixing up the place, Sam had pictured all those diners he'd set foot in from toddler to teenager and beyond. There had always been something not quite right about the Bells Pond Diner when he compared it to other road joints. Seeing Dean standing on the linoleum, Sam gets what was missing.

"This was a project?" He sounds less than impressed.

"Did you expect me to stay in the house like a good, obedient little brother?"

"Shit, Sam. That's not what I meant," Dean says. "You never mentioned this place was here."

"It was the first place we decided to repair." Sam's eyes don't leave Dean as he strolls between the counter and the booths, fingers skimming over fake leather seats and Formica.

"We?"

"I thought you knew I wasn't the only one here."

"Michael mentioned there were others," Dean points out. "He doesn't have anything to do with them, in case you were thinking that he might."

"Oh." Sam hadn't thought of that. Clearly with the never ending parade of angels through the Winchester's revolving door, there were plenty of feathered fiends out there. "I think there's thirteen of us now."

Dean looks relieved. "I figured you'd tell me about the others sometime. Last year, did you know any of them?"

"Just two," Sam says as Dean comes back to the counter and takes Eric's seat. It's on the tip of Sam's tongue to tell him to move. "Riley and Gus. Maybe you'll meet them."

Dean nods and leans forward on the counter. On the wall behind the register, his eyes hit a snag. "Is that-?"

"Oh, yeah." The calendars Sam had gotten were largely water fowl-themed. Riley, to her delight, had cat calendars she'd proudly hung in her living room. In Eric's box, there'd been glossy-paged calendars with classic cars. The slicked-up black Impala had been January's showpiece until Sam carefully ripped out the page and tacked it to the diner wall. "I guess I thought this place could use some personality."

"Nice choice." A small, genuine smile tugs at Dean's lips. "Seems like a good place. Does it magically serve food?"

"We're not special enough for the angels to provide buckets of beer and platters of burgers at every turn," Sam jibes. "But they give us the supplies we need, most of the time, and that's where Riley comes in."

"Sounds like I need to meet this-" The door opens and cuts Dean off, a bright rectangle of sunlight pouring onto the linoleum floor. Riley parades through with pink sunglasses pushed up on her head to hold back her windblown hair.

"Oh my gosh, Sam. You're not going to believe what I dreamed about last night. Eric and I were-oh!" She finally notices Dean when he turns on the stool. "Hey, I don't-are you new?"

"New? To what-you mean, here?" Dean cranes to look back at Sam.

"Sorry." Sam steps around the counter. "No, he's not new. Riley, this is Dean." He leaves out that they're brothers, Dean shooting him a glance but saying nothing. "And this is Riley, who's been providing us poor souls with sustenance."

The handshake is a little awkward on Riley's part. She's exceptional and compassionate with new residents, but they're not usually dropped in her lap like this. Flustered, she starts talking a mile-a-minute. "Well, welcome, I suppose! I'm usually here earlier than this, but it's not as if Sam can fire me for being late, you know?"

"You're the boss?" Dean asks skeptically.

"No." Sam's quick to deny. "I'm just always here."

"And he makes sure things work right," Riley chirps, making her way to the kitchen as Dean's eyes follow. "This place was a mess. I used to walk by and wonder if it could be salvaged, but Sam here, he did a great job." She decides Dean's appearance is a special occasion and starts throwing together a full breakfast, delicious smells wafting out into the diner after a few minutes.

Sam can't pin down Dean's expression. There's a sort of calm about him, mouth relaxed and shoulders loose. He belongs in a diner like this. Riley sets overflowing plates down on the counter for all three of them.

"I hope a few others show up," Riley says between swallows of her English muffin. "I made enough scrambled eggs for the whole town. Probably enough bacon too."

Eventually, Sam and Dean move to a booth, taking full mugs of coffee with them. Riley's scurrying between the kitchen and the opposite end of the diner where Anthony and Sara are seated across from Gus. Sam had narrated as each person came in and sat down, giving Dean the run-down on their stories. Anthony had given them a wide berth-Dean was an unfamiliar face-but Gus had smiled, toothy and honest.

"He's the one who started the rebuilding," Sam explains, watching steam curl up from the hot surface of his coffee. Dean slurps, elbows wide on the table. His leather jacket's tossed over the seat, sunlight picking up the fine hairs on Dean's forearms. "He's never said what happened to him before he got here, but it was something awful."

"God likes carpenters." Dean remarks as a random aside. "Tinkering with their hands, able to look at a whole and see the pieces. That might be why he's here."

Sam has poured their third cups of coffee when Gus leads Anthony and Sara out of the diner. "Gonna get 'em to help me with cleaning out the library." Sara looks delighted to assist; Anthony less so. That leaves Riley tinkering about in the kitchen.

"A library, huh?"

"Maybe," Sam offers. "We all got stashed with a few boxes of books, figured it was the easiest way to share. Plus I think Gus likes having projects and getting people out of their houses. It can get pretty lonely." He doesn't mean for it to sound so wretched but Dean glances over anyway.

They ease into silence for a while, reminding Sam of the times they would sit in diners, one of them busy with research and the other coming up with a battle plan. There's one case now, the only hunt that really matters, but Sam can't ask.

A little after noon, Riley leaves with a basket full of food. Off to make her rounds of the houses nearby, taking homemade food to those who aren't up to leaving, she waves and gives them a smile.

Dean watches until her shadow disappears down the road, arching an eyebrow speculatively. "So, you and Riley, huh?"

"Come on, Dean. She's been great-"

"How great?" Dean smirks.

"You know what? I'm not going to tell you anything," Sam says.

"Just a simple question, Sammy. You seem better this year."

"I'm not saying a word." Sam goes back to concentrating on the cream swirling in his coffee. Dean keeps watching as if he'll get answers that way instead.

"It's not very busy around here."

"There's only thirteen of us," Sam sighs. "It's never busy."

"This reminds me of Montana," Dean starts. "That diner we sat in for hours waiting for Dad to get back, and that waitress who kept bringing you food even though we were out of money."

"I guess." As he says it, Dean's smile dims.

"I didn't mean to-"

"I know." Sam fiddles with the handle on his mug, thumbs the chip in the pottery. "Do you want anything else?"

There's a clock hanging on a nail over the door, yellowed face and black arms. Always there but meaningless-no one in Bells Pond has anywhere else to be. Sam watches now, its hands separating from the zenith as it continues its countdown. Suddenly, time means something.

"Hey." Dean knocks his elbow. "Don't watch the clock. They're not getting me back until the last second." He's oddly vehement as if he can fight to stay instead of getting whisked away by his angelic handlers. As much as Sam wants to leave Bells Pond, he guesses Dean wouldn't mind staying.

Last year, after his initial breakdown, Sam had come to regret spending a solid twenty-four hours fighting with Dean and never getting the chance to say how much he'd missed him. Sam wasn't happy in Bells Pond, and he hadn't exactly been happy during the last year he'd spent with Dean, but their lives were inexorably knitted together. Tearing them apart had left wounds and ragged edges gone untended.

When Sam had let himself think about all the whys Dean had never said, he'd come up with dangerous comparisons. Lucifer, banished to Hell for disobedience. For walking a different path than his brothers, though with the same aim-honoring God. Sam, banished to Nebraska for his own safety so that his brother could continue on the right path.

It was never an enjoyable train of thought.



On the way back to the house, Dean speaks up.

"You haven't asked yet."

"About?"

"About how it's going." No need to ask what Dean's referring to.

"I guess that means you want to tell me." Sam's boots scuff on the road, leaving obvious tracks in the dirt. Dean doesn't talk again until the crossroads are behind them.

"We're doing alright." He's got his hands in his jacket pockets, stretching the leather out at his sides.

"Just alright?"

"It's not like things are easy," Dean teases. "If it was supposed to be easy, they'd call it a dilemma instead of an apocalypse."

"How many seals have been taken care of?"

"Seventeen. That was the count before I came to the dark side of the moon."

"Run into any big problems?"

"The demons know what we're doing and they're starting to get creative," Dean says. 'About a week ago, they'd found a way to raise every spirit in an entire cemetery to send after us. That got pretty interesting, but spirits versus angels isn't a fair fight."

"I'm glad you're okay," Sam admits.

Sam gives the sentiment a chance to settle as they walk. By the time they're back at the house, their jackets are off and the breeze blows warm over their necks and arms.

"You never got the truck up and running, huh?"

Sometimes Sam forgets about the old Ford. Dean saw it last year and commented; Sam hadn't paid attention. "Gus doesn't do cars, but he took a look."

"Nothing?" Dean pauses next to the cement pillars of the garage overhang. "Didn't I teach you anything?"

"It needs more than an oil change, Dean."

"We'll see."

Sam can't deny Dean the opportunity to dig inside the truck's rusty guts. It's perfectly natural to see Dean rolling up his sleeves with a new eagerness in his eyes. He knows this.

"Hey, Sam. Any chance of getting a beer?"

"The angels don't let us have alcohol." Totally worth the fib to see the stricken look on Dean's face. "Dude, I'm kidding. I'll see what I've got." Truthfully, there's been a six pack in the fridge for over a year. He'll take a bottle and it'll be replaced by the next morning. It'd be dangerous if Sam ever needed to get really hammered. Beers in hand, he heads back out to find Dean already under the Ford's hood.

"It's not as bad as it could be."

"Which means it's worse than you thought. Gonna be able to fix it?" Having the truck would be unthinkably great. "You don't have to."

Dean kicks to the left and knocks the metal storage trunk. "You don't have everything I need in there but I can get this started and leave you notes on how to finish if you can get the parts." Wiping his arm across his forehead, Dean leaves a smear of grease on his temple. Sam's mouth goes dry and he takes a long swallow from his bottle. "Bet it'd be nice to get it running, no more long walks."

"I've never liked long walks." Sam grins. "Not here, anyway."

"I could ask Michael if he'll get you a car or truck that works."

Not one for Michael's charity, Sam shakes his head.

"What about the Impala?"

"What?" Sam looks over in shock. "No, Dean. I don't want your car."

"Our car."

"No way," Sam repeats. "The Impala is yours. You can't leave her here." And Sam wouldn't be able to handle having it. She and Dean practically beat with the same heart. Certainly the same soul. Giving her away, even to Sam, is akin to a suicide note.

"Suit yourself," Dean mutters, looking relieved anyway.

Drinking beers on an early spring afternoon, discussing car repairs, they make a strange picture in that it must look so normal. Dean points something out in the engine and Sam half-listens; Dean notices and resigns himself to writing things down later.

The longer Dean spends in Bells Pond, the more he relaxes. Carefully treading around trigger subjects, their conversation flows the way it used to. Long comfortable silences giving one another time with their thoughts; childish, brotherly taunts remind Sam of less complicated days. The Dean he's looking at-the man buried elbows-deep in the rust bucket's engine-seems familiar. Sam hasn't seen this man in years, only a facade that never came close. He's seeing the Dean who came for him at Stanford and did his damnedest to make them brothers again. Funny that here is where he'd choose to reappear.

It makes things difficult. As Dean's little brother, Sam's admiration and love had never truly gone away, but Sam had always wanted more from this Dean. That had been pushed aside when Dean sold his soul and Sam struggled with the magnitude of his sacrifice. Beyond that-well, too much had happened to mar any illusions Sam still harbored.

"Grab me that wrench, will ya?"

Sam levers off the back steps and slaps the tool into Dean's greasy, outstretched hand.

"Now come and take a look at this..."



They don't go back to the diner. Sam offers but Dean chooses to stay at the house even if it means they join forces to make dinner. Secretly, Sam doesn't mind; he feels closer to Dean than he did last year. Staying physically close and keeping Dean to himself-no doubt Riley has been spreading the word-is Sam's way of demonstrating that.

"Here's to the day." Dean toasts when they crowd at Sam's little table for their baked chicken and cheese sandwiches on sliced white bread.

"You're telling me you had a good time?" Sam clinks their bottles together.

"I'm easy to please, Sammy."

It turns out Sam's easily pleased too. He forgets to worry while they eat, talking about the truck, listening to a few random tales from Dean's solo days. Regular hunts have taken a backseat to the seals, but he's still traveling, admitting readily that his partners don't measure up to Sam.

"I never get a moment alone," Dean grumbles, pushing back his plate and patting his stomach. "I thought Cas was bad, but Michael jumps in with, like, no warning. I could be-" He makes a crude gesture. "And bam! I've got a visitor in my freakin' head."

Moments like this hit Sam significantly, start to burn deep within his heart. Reminders of how different and supernatural Dean's life has become.

"Not the kind of voyeuristic experience I'm going for, you know?"

"I bet that's awkward."

Dean snuffs and polishes off his current beer. Both of them have lost the edge enough to where they're comfortable, minds a little soft but not blurry. That supplies the courage for Sam's next question.

"How bad is it?"

"Being an archangel's flesh glove? It's awesome, Sammy." He looks across the table, sees that Sam's not buying what he's selling. Evidently answering requires a little blurriness; Dean grabs them each another beer. "Kinda convenient, the angel fridge. I need one of those."

"Dean-"

"I hate it, okay? They left a lot of shit out of their sales pitch, like never being alone."

"You were never really alone-you always had me."

"Not the same thing, Sam," Dean says with a twisted smile. "These guys are on a mission and I get it. I do. But they never give me a fucking break when I need it-always on the clock. That's why-" He stops like he's crossed his own line. Sam can wait him out. "That's why I like it here," Dean continues softly. "It's you, and you're not asking me to do anything. I can just be here."

Simple needs-Sam sympathizes. Strip away the ghosts, the angels and demons, and the Winchesters have lived simple lives, scaling back expectations and desires. Sam's had a lot of practice with that.

"It's the best vacation I'm gonna get."

Sam laughs. "Maybe you should ask Michael to send you to the Bahamas next time." Dean stops mid-swallow and looks over. "Oh, don't tell me-"

"A freak, targeted hurricane," Dean confirms. "I guess somebody didn't like their Sandals vacation."

"Cabo, then."

"It wouldn't be the same."

After dinner they tackle Sam's dishes, getting the kitchen back to some semblance of order. Every time Sam looks at the clock, time leaps forward-he's losing the day too quickly. As they're finishing, Sam senses the world outside his windows go quiet just before it starts to rain. Big, fat drops smack the porch and roof, sealing Sam and Dean inside.

"Hope you didn't want to go anywhere," Sam jokes as the rain's tempo jumps quickly, snaps to patters like the rain game Sam recalls from elementary school.

Dean's eyes reflect the openness Sam has basked in since they came back from the diner. His stomach tightens knowing he hasn't been as forthcoming, but Dean never pressed. Sam's anxious to get certain details off of his chest.

He goes with a vague opening. "I've been having these dreams."

"I told you a long time ago that it's okay to wake up sporting wood," Dean parodies, folding down on one end of the sofa.

"God, no." Dean may have reached his sharing quota, but Sam's got momentum. "Dreams, Dean. And sometimes, wherever I am, Lucifer's there."

That gets his brother's attention. Sam witnesses the shift from brother to hunter. "Does it happen a lot?"

"Once every couple of months. It's like he's reminding me that he's still out there."

"I guess Michael couldn't sever every connection," Dean considers. "And the rib-job from Cas doesn't hold up in dreamland. Are they bad?"

"Nothing I can't handle," he admits. "Robs me of a good night's sleep, though."

The dreams aren't the worst part. He skims over the details for Dean's benefit, but some of Lucifer's drivel has Dean shaking his head. "It's the connection, you know? He's in my head and I wake up feeling like I don't belong here."

"Sorry, but I can't get you out-"

"Not like that, Dean," Sam argues, surprised that he means it. "These are good people who were saved for some reason. I shouldn't be here, not if I've got the Devil renting space in my head." He rambles, thoughts coming before Sam can stop the flow. "If they knew what I was-what I did-they'd send me away or worse."

"You've already made this place better. I heard what Riley said." Dean stretches to curl his fingers over Sam's knee, the most significant touch they've shared in Bells Pond. "They don't give a damn about what you were or what you did."

"You're getting the chance to save the world, Dean. You can't lie to me, I know what that means to you. You can atone for what you've done-"

"You've got nothing to atone for." Dean insists. "This-" He wraps their lives in a single gesture. "This was fate. Cruel, fucked up fate that forced our hands. Angels screwing with our heads long before we knew they were out there."

Dean's contempt for the angels is surprising. Sam deflates, sagging into the cushions while the flush Dean worked up drains away.

"Sorry," Dean eventually says. "I know you hate this, and a pretty big part of me hates it too. You think I want to be fixing these seals with Cas and Michael instead of you? It's always been you and me, Sam. It always will be, even if you're not there. This isn't about redeeming myself." The next time he meets Sam's eyes, the emotion is hidden. "Did you want me to ask Cas about the dreams? He might be able to stop your dreams altogether, and that's got to be better, right?"

"No," Sam's quick to say. "No, I don't want that." Worse than dreaming about Lucifer would be cutting his dreams off completely.

Dean's answering grin is lascivious. "No, huh? Been having some special dreams, Sammy? C'mon, who are you dreaming about?"

"None of your business," Sam smiles back. He welcomes the teasing even if Dean would be horrified with an honest answer. Probably.

Dean drowns out the rain with a long, exaggerated yawn.

"Doesn't Michael ever let you sleep?"

"Sometimes." Dean leans back. "Not nearly enough."

"Get some sleep." It'll strip away even more time, but Sam can't stand to see Dean exhausted or hurting. Brotherly instincts kick in. "You can take the bed if you want. Trust me, it's better. I might grab a few hours on the couch."

"What, you don't want to share?" Dean winks. Sam's stomach jumps. "I'd argue, but a bed sounds too good."

When Dean finally stands up, it's past midnight. Sleepy conversation had kept them both going for a few hours, but Dean's head is lolling. Sam watches him disappear down the hallway towards Sam's bed. His gut tries to pipe up again but Sam hushes it. Now is not the time. Sam lingers in a half-awake state, hearing soft snores every so often and glad Dean's getting some rest.

He can't help thinking about the things Dean didn't say, so many more than the things he did. It doesn't matter, Sam heard them all anyway.

March 29th

After a short but dreamless sleep, Sam wakes up to hear music coming from the kitchen. Stretching, he realizes that his laptop's not on the coffee table. More surprising than Dean taking it without waking him up is the soft singing Sam catches, slightly out of time with the song.

Sam leans on the doorjamb into the kitchen. Dean's completely redressed except for his jacket.

"I didn't know you liked Foo Fighters."

"Is that what this is?" Dean pours a large bowl of cereal and offers the box to Sam. "Your music collection is a little disappointing."

"There's no internet here. Can you talk to the angels about that?"

"Yeah," Dean says, mushy around a mouthful of corn flakes. "'Cause your porn collection is seriously lacking."

"Is that why you took my laptop?"

"I think my fake credit card paid for your laptop. I don't need to call dibbs."

Sam studies Dean's meager breakfast. "It's early enough, you know. We can make it to the diner if you want."

"I'm good. Unless you want to go."

Once he's fed and dressed, Sam heads back to the kitchen. There's an envelope sitting on the counter next to the clean dishes and the notes he'd seen Dean write about the truck repairs.

"What's that?" His voice is shaky, remembering the last envelope Dean left for him.

"Nothing big. You don't have to open it now, might want to wait until I'm gone."

Of course Sam can't wait. Dean flinches when he tears open the package, dropping the contents into his palm. There, innocuous, lays something Sam can truly say he never expected to see again.

"He gave it back?" The gold on the amulet is tarnished, darker in its tiny crannies. The weight is familiar, though it's been years since Sam held it. "Don't you need it?"

"God didn't R.S.V.P. for our little seal-fixing party," Dean says awkwardly, scratching the back of his head so he doesn't have to look at Sam. "Cas said he didn't have a use for it anymore, but I couldn't-I haven't put it back on."

"You can't keep doing this to me," Sam trembles, leaning on the counter so he doesn't fall.

"I can keep it if you want, but I figured you might want it, you know?" Dean doesn't make a move to approach Sam. "It'll give you something to yell at when I'm not around."

"The pictures," Sam whispers, "and now this. Are you trying to tell me that when this is over...that you don't expect to be coming back?"

"No, Sam, that's not it," Dean says. "It'll be safe here. Even though God is being strictly hands-off, we can't let demons get their hands on it. So keep it here for that if you need a good reason."

There are other reasons, Sam knows, but he shuts up. He imagines he can hear the long hand on the clock ticking towards 8:15. "Don't go yet, please," Sam asks with a sudden desperation. "Ask Michael for more time."

Dean stands motionless before him, searching for more in Sam's eyes for the meat of what he's asking. "The year will be over before you know it, Sam. I promise."

"You can't promise that." A year is a year, there's no other way to slice it. Though he has friends, Sam'll be alone for the next three hundred and sixty four days. Suddenly he's not sure if he can hold it together that long, not when he and Dean are starting to... now that he wants Dean around.

"I'll be back, I swear, Sammy. I want-" Dean shakes his head.

He's just opening his mouth again when pure white light fills the kitchen. Hot as if the sun is rising right in front of Sam and he squeezes his eyes shut to protect them. Too bright behind his eyelids, Sam turns away. In an instant the light is gone and he's alone in the kitchen. All he can hear is the echo of Dean's final words.





year three

master post