"Thirty Days"
Title: Thirty Days
Spoilers: None
Rating: PG (Language)
Words: 2,594
Fandom: SPN
By: kellifer_fic
Category: Gen
Spoliers: Early S3
Disclaimer: Written for entertainment purposes only. No money, no sue.
Summary: Before Dean's deal comes due, Sam asks for one thing. Time.
“Why do you ask questions for others but never yourself?”
Dean is sitting in a smoke-filled room out the back of a pawn shop and across the table from him is a man who is large in every sense of the word, stature and presence. He has an ornate tattoo covering half his face that Dean has never asked the meaning of and that is probably a first for the larger man. Dean also didn’t raise an eyebrow at the name Meneas. The first time they’d met, Dean had simply nodded and said that it was good to meet him.
“I don't ask questions I won't like the answers to,” Dean evades, fingering the fringed throw that is over the table. It’s dark red and the tassels are gold but Dean knows that most of the gaudy stuff in the room is for show, for the paying customers who come to get their palms read and their fortunes told.
“In your line of business, one would think that would be somewhat of a peccadillo,” Meneas says mildly, leaning forward to refill Dean’s small cup with a strong smelling brew that has to be about ninety percent alcohol and only ten percent tea.
“What’s a small armoured animal got to do with this?” Dean asks and tries to hide the grin as he is rewarded with the small, long suffering sigh that such a statement brings forth.
“That’s an armadillo,” Meneas corrects.
“I thought that was a fancy wardrobe.”
“That’s an armoire.”
“Then what am I sitting on?”
“An armchair.”
They play this game often and Meneas is always the one to lapse into broody silence first, which to be fair, is his natural state.
Dean just can’t help messing with a shaman because, you know, shaman.
~~~
Sam is outside the cabin they are currently using as their base of operations, a ramshackle place that John had paid the lease on for the foreseeable future, something that had mystified both of his sons. He has a large and ornate-looking book open on the table just outside the door and Dean taps the open pages as he passes.
“Anything?”
“Well, yes, quite a lot actually, but not about the problem at hand.”
Dean cuffs Sam on the back of the head for that one as he reaches him. Sam has a gas BBQ set up on the deck but unfortunately he isn’t burning steak. He’s burning small pieces of green twine, saying words low that are snatched away with the wind.
“What’s say we use that thing for its real purpose tonight?” Dean proposes.
Sam makes a face as he says, “How about we skip the whole production of you torturing poor innocent steaks to death and just eat the charcoal out of the bottom? Tastes about the same.” There’s a cheeky grin on his face as he drops the last of the twine and it disappears with a curl of greenish smoke. Dean is willing to let the insult slide because he loves Sam in this mood and it’s rare.
There is a wet pop and the book on the table has turned into a mass of sticky black sludge.
“Well, that can’t be good,” Dean sighs.
~~~
“You know, I never would have guessed that there was only one Sacred Book of Reatet in existence,” Dean grumbles as they head out of what he thinks must be the fiftieth arcane bookshop they’ve been to. The original one was a lucky find by Sam in a second-hand bookstore and he was able to trade three of Dean’s romance novels for it.
He also was able to avoid completely getting into trouble for doing that because Dean would have to admit to owning romance novels. Not official trouble anyway. More the kind of kicked in the shins at three in the morning trouble.
“Something obliterated the book from a distance,” Sam says, doggedly determined that fortune would smile again.
“Maybe it was just because it was old,” Dean hedges. He’s seen Sam obsessed before and it’s like watching a small storm rage out of control. There’s a lot of damage and a massive cleanup afterwards but at the time, all you can do is brace yourself and hope for the best.
“Books don’t liquefy Dean,” Sam snaps. He’s got a directory he’s stolen from a phone booth and he’s flipping through it, ripping one out of every three pages because he’s being a little overzealous. “There’s a Martha’s Mystic Books in Ackridge. We can try there.”
“We could just call and ask if they have it?” Dean proposes, opening the Impala’s driver’s side and pausing just before he slides in. Sam thumps the roof with the flat of his hand.
“Most of these places don’t know they have this kind of thing,” Sam says, sounding annoyed that he has to explain his reasoning again. “Some of the tomes this powerful avoid being found by people who can’t-”
“Ease up there, tiger,” Dean says, hands up. “Just a suggestion.”
“I just don’t understand why you’re treating this all like some big chore,” Sam says, real complaint in his tone. Dean just raises his eyebrows and then rolls his eyes.
“Hey, look, I get it. You’re hell bent on saving my ass and hell, Sammy, I’m grateful but I’m not going to help. I got what I needed out of this deal and I’m wiling to just wait out the inevitable.”
“Don’t say that,” Sam grits, pressing thumbs into his eyes. “Just don’t… you promised me one month. Just one month to try to find the answer.”
“I know I did,” Dean allows. He knows he doesn’t really have the time to burn, neither of them do considering what they unleashed on the world, but it’s been quiet and Dean has to admit, it’s been nice standing still for once. Just him and Sam. Also, it’s a small sacrifice if it means Sam won’t drive himself into the ground for their remaining few months together.
“So, it should only take about four hours to get to Ackridge,” Sam presses and then something in his face eases up. “I think there’s a Pancake Palace on the way.”
Dean grins because that’s what he’s supposed to do. “Well, alright. Why didn’t you say so?”
~~~
Dean tilts his head and looks at the man standing before the large desk out of the corner of his eyes. It’s always easier that way. Straight on, you’re liable to get a headache or worse. As it is, the shadows flickering around the man’s shoulders and sides resolve into wings for the briefest of seconds before dissolving back into shadow again.
Neat trick, but Dean isn’t impressed easily.
“I can’t help with your problem,” the man says in a honey-dipped voice. He turns and although Dean squints, for a second he looks like a woman, then a little girl and a man again. It’s disconcerting and Dean is pretty sure the guy is doing it on purpose. Dean lets his eyes unfocus so there is merely a moving blur in front of him.
“You guys know about that?”
“Of course we do,” the man chuffs, picking an invisible piece of lint off his perfect suit, which becomes a collection of shifting rags, insects crawling through the tattered fabric, before resolving into a suit again. “Stuff like that causes a ripple on both sides of the pond.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not here for that,” Dean says and the man raises a delicately shaped eyebrow.
“You wish to make another deal?”
“Hell, no,” Dean says and chuckles when he realises what he’s said. “Way I understand it, it’s better the devil you know.”
“I heard you were funny,” the man says, advancing and Dean fights the urge to step back. A scent flows over him, dying flowers and things too rancid and sweet at the same time. It’s overpowering and Dean puts a hand up to his face, rubbing at his itching nose and eyes.
“I’m asking you not to help.”
“Ah, well, that’s interesting,” the man says and the smell fades, Dean finding he is able to breath clean again. “I like interesting.”
“So even if he finds you-?”
“I can’t make any promises if you aren’t willing to offer something in return,” the man says, tilting his head. “But I won’t go out of my way to be found.”
“That’s all I ask.”
~~~
By about the twenty-fifth day, Dean knows that Sam is working up to bargaining for more time. It’s in the way he kind of skitters about, working up to having the conversation he knows won’t go the way he wants. He’s sleeping maybe an hour a night and that’s only propped at the little desk in the cabin with a book under his cheek.
Day twenty-six sees both Dean and Sam at the little diner in town and Dean has the paper out, circling suspicious-sounding stories. He’s not trying to be cruel but he’s also making sure that Sam knows his time is nearly up. He’s got another eight months on this mortal coil and he plans to see every single son of a bitch let loose that one single night back where they belong before he goes to join them.
“Dean-”
“No,” Dean says simply, not even looking up. He’s steadily shovelling scrambled eggs into his mouth while his pen taps across the obituaries. For some strange reason, the paper’s funnies are on the page opposite and it’s a little disconcerting. Dean contemplates writing a letter because surely that’s disrespectful.
“I was just going to-”
“No, Sam,” Dean repeats. He’s been chewing on his pen cap and it’s a little strange because it’s flavoured. He found it in a pocket and remembers having borrowed it from a helpful little admin assistant in Colorado the last time he was wearing this particular shirt. He’s chewing and trying to decide if the pen is blueberry or strawberry. When it’s chemical-flavour it’s sometimes hard to tell. If someone made a beer and pretzel flavoured pen then he would buy them by the truckload.
“Can you just let me-”
“Absolutely not.” Dean hears Sam let out a frustrated sigh and the booth squeaks as he slumps further down in his chair. A waitress comes by to offer them their free refill and Dean pushes both cups towards the edge of the table and smiles at her in silent thanks, sliding Sam’s back to him before taking a mouthful of his own.
“Are you going to eat your bacon?”
There’s real defeat in Sam’s tone and Dean winces inwardly but on the outside he is carefully neutral.
“Knock yourself out.”
~~~
“Dean Winchest-ah,”
Dean always loves the way Patinka says his name. Makes him grin every time. “Hey Tinka, keeping well?”
“As always,” the small woman grins. As she moves deeper into her house, a myriad of cats twine around her legs. They keep a wary distance away from Dean and he can’t really blame them. “Your brother was here yesterday.”
“Oh yeah?” Dean asks, trying to sound nonchalant but inwardly he grimaces. Patinka was an old contact of their father’s and Dean had been careful to make sure there was no reference to her left in John’s journal. He’d only dealt with her personally after Sam had made tracks for Stanford. He wasn’t quite sure how Sam knew she existed.
“I told him, Reatet is a dead end,” Patinka says, reaching her kitchen and turning down the radio that was blaring golden oldies. She steps over a one-eyed hound in the middle of the room that doesn't so much as bother raising his head when Dean breaches the threshold. “Now why did I lie to him?”
Dean blinks. There are dried flowers hanging in bunches from the kitchen ceiling and a collection of tiny skulls in the middle of a bright yellow table like a macabre centerpiece. “You did?”
“Was I wrong to do so?” she asks, turning. She has a mixing bowl in hand now but Dean is pretty sure she isn’t stirring cookie batter. Witches, even those who don’t practice the really dark magics, walk a fine line.
“No, I appreciate it.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Patinka dismisses. “He won’t believe me anyway.”
“Why not?”
“I know what you been doin’ and I don’t think it’s right. You’re blocking him at every turn.”
“I’m protecting him.”
“I’m sure you see it that way.”
Dean closes his hands into fists, not wanting to justify himself to a woman who barely knows anything about them. Everyone he’s met lately has seemed to have an opinion and he’s sick of it. “Sammy had this trike for a little while when he was small. We were living in Wichita and he would set it at the top of this really steep hill that was near our house and just… push off. Damn thing was more rust than anything and didn’t have any brakes to speak of, not that he’d use them.” Dean rubs a hand over his face as Patinka watches him, waiting for him to continue.
“I caught him doing it one day and I watched him tear down that hill and tumble into some bushes at the bottom. Didn’t hurt himself but I yelled at him anyway I was so scared. I asked him why and he just said he wanted to feel the wind on his face.”
Patinka sets her bowl aside and reaches over to scratch a large tabby behind the ears that is perched on her sink. “When it’s something Sam wants, he doesn’t have any regard for himself. I’m just making sure this time he doesn’t take a header off a cliff, if that makes sense,” Dean says.
“He won’t understand if he finds out what you’ve done.”
“I don’t need him to understand,” Dean says with a wry chuckle. “I just need him to be safe.”
~~~
Sam drags his feet when it comes to packing up. The little cabin has been the Winchester home for longer than anything Dean cares to remember. He’s actually going to miss the routine of the place but he’s also relieved to have reached the deadline. He’s been itching to get back to it and not have to worry about Sam maybe doing something stupid that will get him killed, other than the regular hunt-related brand.
“I’m close, I can feel it,” Sam tries, a final salvo, a last desperate attempt to get more time. Not that he’ll find anything. Dean’s burned pretty much every favour he’d ever gained making sure of it. He feels a small twinge of guilt at that but it’s something he can well and truly live with.
In any case, he doesn’t have to live with it that long.
“We’re not arguing about this,” Dean warns and Sam nods mutely, returning to rolling his clothes the way their dad taught them. When Sam trudges out to the car without another word, Dean feels a flash of something he has trouble naming. He should be itching to get back on the road but it’s not as appealing as he thought it was going to be.
Maybe it’s the prospect of only having this for a little while longer, he and Sam on the open road, nothing but the hunt, bad food and motel rooms ahead of them. Dean jabs his knuckles into Sam’s ribs when he drops into the driver’s seat and the bark of bright, surprised laughter chases away any lingering doubts.
It’ll have to be enough.
Spoilers: None
Rating: PG (Language)
Words: 2,594
Fandom: SPN
By: kellifer_fic
Category: Gen
Spoliers: Early S3
Disclaimer: Written for entertainment purposes only. No money, no sue.
Summary: Before Dean's deal comes due, Sam asks for one thing. Time.
“Why do you ask questions for others but never yourself?”
Dean is sitting in a smoke-filled room out the back of a pawn shop and across the table from him is a man who is large in every sense of the word, stature and presence. He has an ornate tattoo covering half his face that Dean has never asked the meaning of and that is probably a first for the larger man. Dean also didn’t raise an eyebrow at the name Meneas. The first time they’d met, Dean had simply nodded and said that it was good to meet him.
“I don't ask questions I won't like the answers to,” Dean evades, fingering the fringed throw that is over the table. It’s dark red and the tassels are gold but Dean knows that most of the gaudy stuff in the room is for show, for the paying customers who come to get their palms read and their fortunes told.
“In your line of business, one would think that would be somewhat of a peccadillo,” Meneas says mildly, leaning forward to refill Dean’s small cup with a strong smelling brew that has to be about ninety percent alcohol and only ten percent tea.
“What’s a small armoured animal got to do with this?” Dean asks and tries to hide the grin as he is rewarded with the small, long suffering sigh that such a statement brings forth.
“That’s an armadillo,” Meneas corrects.
“I thought that was a fancy wardrobe.”
“That’s an armoire.”
“Then what am I sitting on?”
“An armchair.”
They play this game often and Meneas is always the one to lapse into broody silence first, which to be fair, is his natural state.
Dean just can’t help messing with a shaman because, you know, shaman.
~~~
Sam is outside the cabin they are currently using as their base of operations, a ramshackle place that John had paid the lease on for the foreseeable future, something that had mystified both of his sons. He has a large and ornate-looking book open on the table just outside the door and Dean taps the open pages as he passes.
“Anything?”
“Well, yes, quite a lot actually, but not about the problem at hand.”
Dean cuffs Sam on the back of the head for that one as he reaches him. Sam has a gas BBQ set up on the deck but unfortunately he isn’t burning steak. He’s burning small pieces of green twine, saying words low that are snatched away with the wind.
“What’s say we use that thing for its real purpose tonight?” Dean proposes.
Sam makes a face as he says, “How about we skip the whole production of you torturing poor innocent steaks to death and just eat the charcoal out of the bottom? Tastes about the same.” There’s a cheeky grin on his face as he drops the last of the twine and it disappears with a curl of greenish smoke. Dean is willing to let the insult slide because he loves Sam in this mood and it’s rare.
There is a wet pop and the book on the table has turned into a mass of sticky black sludge.
“Well, that can’t be good,” Dean sighs.
~~~
“You know, I never would have guessed that there was only one Sacred Book of Reatet in existence,” Dean grumbles as they head out of what he thinks must be the fiftieth arcane bookshop they’ve been to. The original one was a lucky find by Sam in a second-hand bookstore and he was able to trade three of Dean’s romance novels for it.
He also was able to avoid completely getting into trouble for doing that because Dean would have to admit to owning romance novels. Not official trouble anyway. More the kind of kicked in the shins at three in the morning trouble.
“Something obliterated the book from a distance,” Sam says, doggedly determined that fortune would smile again.
“Maybe it was just because it was old,” Dean hedges. He’s seen Sam obsessed before and it’s like watching a small storm rage out of control. There’s a lot of damage and a massive cleanup afterwards but at the time, all you can do is brace yourself and hope for the best.
“Books don’t liquefy Dean,” Sam snaps. He’s got a directory he’s stolen from a phone booth and he’s flipping through it, ripping one out of every three pages because he’s being a little overzealous. “There’s a Martha’s Mystic Books in Ackridge. We can try there.”
“We could just call and ask if they have it?” Dean proposes, opening the Impala’s driver’s side and pausing just before he slides in. Sam thumps the roof with the flat of his hand.
“Most of these places don’t know they have this kind of thing,” Sam says, sounding annoyed that he has to explain his reasoning again. “Some of the tomes this powerful avoid being found by people who can’t-”
“Ease up there, tiger,” Dean says, hands up. “Just a suggestion.”
“I just don’t understand why you’re treating this all like some big chore,” Sam says, real complaint in his tone. Dean just raises his eyebrows and then rolls his eyes.
“Hey, look, I get it. You’re hell bent on saving my ass and hell, Sammy, I’m grateful but I’m not going to help. I got what I needed out of this deal and I’m wiling to just wait out the inevitable.”
“Don’t say that,” Sam grits, pressing thumbs into his eyes. “Just don’t… you promised me one month. Just one month to try to find the answer.”
“I know I did,” Dean allows. He knows he doesn’t really have the time to burn, neither of them do considering what they unleashed on the world, but it’s been quiet and Dean has to admit, it’s been nice standing still for once. Just him and Sam. Also, it’s a small sacrifice if it means Sam won’t drive himself into the ground for their remaining few months together.
“So, it should only take about four hours to get to Ackridge,” Sam presses and then something in his face eases up. “I think there’s a Pancake Palace on the way.”
Dean grins because that’s what he’s supposed to do. “Well, alright. Why didn’t you say so?”
~~~
Dean tilts his head and looks at the man standing before the large desk out of the corner of his eyes. It’s always easier that way. Straight on, you’re liable to get a headache or worse. As it is, the shadows flickering around the man’s shoulders and sides resolve into wings for the briefest of seconds before dissolving back into shadow again.
Neat trick, but Dean isn’t impressed easily.
“I can’t help with your problem,” the man says in a honey-dipped voice. He turns and although Dean squints, for a second he looks like a woman, then a little girl and a man again. It’s disconcerting and Dean is pretty sure the guy is doing it on purpose. Dean lets his eyes unfocus so there is merely a moving blur in front of him.
“You guys know about that?”
“Of course we do,” the man chuffs, picking an invisible piece of lint off his perfect suit, which becomes a collection of shifting rags, insects crawling through the tattered fabric, before resolving into a suit again. “Stuff like that causes a ripple on both sides of the pond.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not here for that,” Dean says and the man raises a delicately shaped eyebrow.
“You wish to make another deal?”
“Hell, no,” Dean says and chuckles when he realises what he’s said. “Way I understand it, it’s better the devil you know.”
“I heard you were funny,” the man says, advancing and Dean fights the urge to step back. A scent flows over him, dying flowers and things too rancid and sweet at the same time. It’s overpowering and Dean puts a hand up to his face, rubbing at his itching nose and eyes.
“I’m asking you not to help.”
“Ah, well, that’s interesting,” the man says and the smell fades, Dean finding he is able to breath clean again. “I like interesting.”
“So even if he finds you-?”
“I can’t make any promises if you aren’t willing to offer something in return,” the man says, tilting his head. “But I won’t go out of my way to be found.”
“That’s all I ask.”
~~~
By about the twenty-fifth day, Dean knows that Sam is working up to bargaining for more time. It’s in the way he kind of skitters about, working up to having the conversation he knows won’t go the way he wants. He’s sleeping maybe an hour a night and that’s only propped at the little desk in the cabin with a book under his cheek.
Day twenty-six sees both Dean and Sam at the little diner in town and Dean has the paper out, circling suspicious-sounding stories. He’s not trying to be cruel but he’s also making sure that Sam knows his time is nearly up. He’s got another eight months on this mortal coil and he plans to see every single son of a bitch let loose that one single night back where they belong before he goes to join them.
“Dean-”
“No,” Dean says simply, not even looking up. He’s steadily shovelling scrambled eggs into his mouth while his pen taps across the obituaries. For some strange reason, the paper’s funnies are on the page opposite and it’s a little disconcerting. Dean contemplates writing a letter because surely that’s disrespectful.
“I was just going to-”
“No, Sam,” Dean repeats. He’s been chewing on his pen cap and it’s a little strange because it’s flavoured. He found it in a pocket and remembers having borrowed it from a helpful little admin assistant in Colorado the last time he was wearing this particular shirt. He’s chewing and trying to decide if the pen is blueberry or strawberry. When it’s chemical-flavour it’s sometimes hard to tell. If someone made a beer and pretzel flavoured pen then he would buy them by the truckload.
“Can you just let me-”
“Absolutely not.” Dean hears Sam let out a frustrated sigh and the booth squeaks as he slumps further down in his chair. A waitress comes by to offer them their free refill and Dean pushes both cups towards the edge of the table and smiles at her in silent thanks, sliding Sam’s back to him before taking a mouthful of his own.
“Are you going to eat your bacon?”
There’s real defeat in Sam’s tone and Dean winces inwardly but on the outside he is carefully neutral.
“Knock yourself out.”
~~~
“Dean Winchest-ah,”
Dean always loves the way Patinka says his name. Makes him grin every time. “Hey Tinka, keeping well?”
“As always,” the small woman grins. As she moves deeper into her house, a myriad of cats twine around her legs. They keep a wary distance away from Dean and he can’t really blame them. “Your brother was here yesterday.”
“Oh yeah?” Dean asks, trying to sound nonchalant but inwardly he grimaces. Patinka was an old contact of their father’s and Dean had been careful to make sure there was no reference to her left in John’s journal. He’d only dealt with her personally after Sam had made tracks for Stanford. He wasn’t quite sure how Sam knew she existed.
“I told him, Reatet is a dead end,” Patinka says, reaching her kitchen and turning down the radio that was blaring golden oldies. She steps over a one-eyed hound in the middle of the room that doesn't so much as bother raising his head when Dean breaches the threshold. “Now why did I lie to him?”
Dean blinks. There are dried flowers hanging in bunches from the kitchen ceiling and a collection of tiny skulls in the middle of a bright yellow table like a macabre centerpiece. “You did?”
“Was I wrong to do so?” she asks, turning. She has a mixing bowl in hand now but Dean is pretty sure she isn’t stirring cookie batter. Witches, even those who don’t practice the really dark magics, walk a fine line.
“No, I appreciate it.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Patinka dismisses. “He won’t believe me anyway.”
“Why not?”
“I know what you been doin’ and I don’t think it’s right. You’re blocking him at every turn.”
“I’m protecting him.”
“I’m sure you see it that way.”
Dean closes his hands into fists, not wanting to justify himself to a woman who barely knows anything about them. Everyone he’s met lately has seemed to have an opinion and he’s sick of it. “Sammy had this trike for a little while when he was small. We were living in Wichita and he would set it at the top of this really steep hill that was near our house and just… push off. Damn thing was more rust than anything and didn’t have any brakes to speak of, not that he’d use them.” Dean rubs a hand over his face as Patinka watches him, waiting for him to continue.
“I caught him doing it one day and I watched him tear down that hill and tumble into some bushes at the bottom. Didn’t hurt himself but I yelled at him anyway I was so scared. I asked him why and he just said he wanted to feel the wind on his face.”
Patinka sets her bowl aside and reaches over to scratch a large tabby behind the ears that is perched on her sink. “When it’s something Sam wants, he doesn’t have any regard for himself. I’m just making sure this time he doesn’t take a header off a cliff, if that makes sense,” Dean says.
“He won’t understand if he finds out what you’ve done.”
“I don’t need him to understand,” Dean says with a wry chuckle. “I just need him to be safe.”
~~~
Sam drags his feet when it comes to packing up. The little cabin has been the Winchester home for longer than anything Dean cares to remember. He’s actually going to miss the routine of the place but he’s also relieved to have reached the deadline. He’s been itching to get back to it and not have to worry about Sam maybe doing something stupid that will get him killed, other than the regular hunt-related brand.
“I’m close, I can feel it,” Sam tries, a final salvo, a last desperate attempt to get more time. Not that he’ll find anything. Dean’s burned pretty much every favour he’d ever gained making sure of it. He feels a small twinge of guilt at that but it’s something he can well and truly live with.
In any case, he doesn’t have to live with it that long.
“We’re not arguing about this,” Dean warns and Sam nods mutely, returning to rolling his clothes the way their dad taught them. When Sam trudges out to the car without another word, Dean feels a flash of something he has trouble naming. He should be itching to get back on the road but it’s not as appealing as he thought it was going to be.
Maybe it’s the prospect of only having this for a little while longer, he and Sam on the open road, nothing but the hunt, bad food and motel rooms ahead of them. Dean jabs his knuckles into Sam’s ribs when he drops into the driver’s seat and the bark of bright, surprised laughter chases away any lingering doubts.
It’ll have to be enough.