Fic - Heart's Desire
Title: Heart's Desire
Summary: Sam and Dean are trying to adjust to life in retirement, something they never thought they'd live to see. Future/curtain fic with plenty of h/c.
Rating: PG13
Genre/Spoilers: Sam and Dean Gen. None.
Warnings: Minor language, permanent injury, and a Harry Potter reference that required some Google research and a little artistic license.
Word Count: 4100+
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 the standard disclaimers apply.
A/N: This was written for the 2016 spn_j2_xmas challenge for kcscribbler. I've used a few of your likes, as well as one of your prompts and I really hope you enjoy it. Happy holidays! A huge thank you to my awesome beta harrigan who is simply the best! I've tinkered so all mistakes are mine. Thank you also to tebtosca for running this wonderful challenge.
Heart's Desire
Sam tilts the red watering can carefully, letting a steady trickle of water soak into the dry soil. This basil plant is his favourite, not that he'd ever tell Dean that, or anyone else for that matter. But it's fought its way back from near death a few times and is clearly a survivor, and was the first in his little indoor garden collection. So yeah, it gets special attention and the best spot on the window sill, angled for maximum sunlight.
He takes his time watering each plant, making sure he's found his balance and that he's not overreaching, fingers gripping the cane in his right hand just in case. He does everything slowly now, but he likes it that way; taking his time to enjoy the little pleasures in life, to appreciate simple things that once upon a time would have passed him by, like how he recognises which birds visit the feeder each day.
He grimaces a little when he sees the dark water rings on the sill under his window herb garden, caused when Sam's balance had been more precarious. Dean had spent a lot of effort finding just the right piece of wood from an old reclamation yard, then painstakingly fitting it to the window frame.
“This is why we can't have nice things!” Dean had yelled when he'd first noticed the stains, slamming the door and heading outside to his workroom in the garage; his safe place, his Mecca. But Sam saw it for what it was; misplaced anger at Sam for not being more careful, for taking unnecessary risks, and the fear of what else could have happened.
Sam places the watering can back under the sink-not an ideal location because he has trouble bending that low, but he's determined not to take the easy route. His physiotherapist keeps telling him it's good for him to push himself sometimes, as long as he's sensible about it and keeps his limitations in mind.
He takes a controlled deep breath before he straightens his back to his full height, steadying himself and pushing the pain to the back of his mind. They upped his pain meds at his last doctor's appointment, but he can't think straight when he takes them; losing time and spacing out, his head full of sludge. He's been cutting back on the meds instead, and trying meditation - even downloaded an app for it on his phone. It's not perfect, but he'd rather deal with some pain than feel like he's not in control of his own body.
Dean must have been in town this morning, because there's a pile of unopened mail sitting on the counter top from their P.O. box. Sam flips through it, sees a lot of bills and flyers for takeout places and god-damned stair lifts, but nestled in-between is a brightly coloured postcard, and he feels his smile grow as he reads it.
“We got another one, huh?”
Sam jumps, nearly losing his cane, as Dean shuts the door and stomps an inch of icy slush off his boots, his grin shit-eating wide.
Dean's hardly a ninja nowadays, but Sam's definitely losing his hunter senses. It hits him again, how different their lives are now: Sam with nothing but his books, artefacts, and hunting database, and Dean with his shed full of tools, and a run-down cabin that Dean gripes falls apart faster than he can fix it up.
Sam clears his throat, and uses a little slice of pie magnet to stick the postcard onto the fridge with the others. “Yeah, Jesse and Cesar are doing great in Mexico.”
“They really got out of hunting for good, huh?” Dean asks-or at least Sam thinks that's what he said. The words were a little muffled; Dean was pulling off his gloves with his teeth, which was never a good sign.
Sam hobbles over to the chair that they keep near the door and carefully lowers himself down, tucking the cane out of the way. He motions for Dean to lift his leg, and Dean does, placing his booted foot in between Sam's knees on the edge of the chair. After a lot of fights over a lot of years, they've finally figured out that silence is the solution; they don't ask each other for help, they just do it. No bruised pride, no embarrassment. It works just fine. Well, most of the time.
He can see that Dean's in pain, can tell by the way he's holding himself, unconsciously cradling his hands to his stomach. But Sam focuses on undoing the shoelaces and then prying the boot of Dean's woollen sock-clad feet.
“Anything you fancy for lunch?” Dean says it casually, and maybe other people wouldn't hear the pain in his voice, but Sam’s not other people. He knows.
Not every day is like this. Dean has good days and bad, but the arthritis in his hands is definitely getting worse as winter starts to close in.
“Something hot, I guess.” Honestly, Sam would be just as happy with a cold salad, but he figures a bowl or cup of something hot in Dean's hands would probably help.
Dean shucks off his coat, and drops it on the back of the chair that he'd picked up at a flea market three towns over. He'd spent hours sanding it all down before giving Sam a paint brush and some wood stain, coaching him through furniture restoration as patiently as he'd once coached Sam on car maintenance. He'd have been a good teacher, Sam thinks, and not for the first time. But Dean only ever wanted to hunt. And now-like so often in their messed-up lives-Dean doesn’t get to have what he wants.
Wordlessly, Dean passes Sam his cane, and then holds onto his arm and shoulder, making himself a solid support system for Sam to lean onto as he pulls himself up. They both know from experience that getting down is far easier than getting back up.
Sam doesn't miss the way Dean looks at him, making sure he's safely on his feet before slapping him on the shoulder and heading into the kitchen.
“Lunch in half an hour?” Dean asks, wrestling with pots and pans in a too-small cupboard, swearing under his breath.
“Sure.” Sam heads slowly back to his study, which used to be the old bunk room before they added the extension. He says they, but he means Dean. The whole place has had a face lift since they made it their home, and while Sam knew that Dean had done some construction work over the years - he thinks with Lisa, but definitely once or twice when Dean had left school and they needed the extra cash - he had no idea how much Dean knew about this stuff. He's damn good at it too.
There are a lot of things Dean could have done... things Dean could be doing now, Sam reflects, if he wasn’t stuck here; in this cabin, babysitting his disabled brother.
Sam lowers himself carefully down into his office chair, biting back a groan. He takes a deep breath, and then drags the cardboard box over to his desk; his laptop open and spreadsheet ready to go.
Donna had passed along the box from another hunter she'd crossed paths with. There was still a small network of hunters out there-stumbling across artefacts, spell books, cursed objects and lore. A generation or two ago there were Men of Letters gathering this knowledge, and a bunker to safeguard it. Now....
Well, now there was Sam and Dean and a basement in an old cabin that used to belong to Bobby's pal Rufus.
The box is big, and Sam's only logged a few items from it into the database. He pulls out a thick tome covered in runes that he sort of recognises, but it's what's underneath the book that catches his eye.
It's a small painting with a decorative gold frame. Sam picks it up, frown etched deep into his forehead. He reaches for his glasses from the desk, and puts them on, still squinting as he takes in all the hand-painted details of a wooden cabin. It has a half-finished deck around a new extension, a well-cared-for garden, and the grill of a black Impala is poking out from a rather dilapidated garage. There's even a basil plant in the kitchen window, and a red watering can.
“Dean! Get in here now!” Sam barks, his guts churning because, shit, this can't be good.
Dean all but runs into the study, his face pinched and worried, like he expects Sam to be flat on his back, hands gripping his leg, and his face a mask of agony.
Instead, there's a moment of relief on Dean's face followed by a definite pissed-off glare. “What the hell, Sam? Don't do that! You shaved like 10 years off my life, and I sure as shit don't need any more grey hairs!”
Sam doesn't respond. He can't take his eyes off the picture; he's mesmerized with it, and he can almost hear it singing to him like a siren in the night. He spins it around and holds it out to Dean in outstretched hands. “This look familiar to you?”
“Sure, that's our cabin. Well, probably Rufus's back then. Where did you find that? In the back of the basement or something?”
“Look closer, Dean.”
It takes a few seconds, but he sees the moment it clicks, and the way Dean swallows thickly, his lips thinning and the muscles in his jaw bunching. “What the hell is this?”
“I have no idea. I just found it in that box of stuff that Donna dropped off from that hunter she met in Florida a week ago.”
Dean takes a step closer, his eyes scanning the painting. “No. This can't be possible. I only added that section of drainpipe yesterday, so there's no way it can be painted on this.”
Dean reaches out his hand as though he's going to touch the paintwork, but Sam pulls it away from him. “What are you doing?”
“C'mon, Sam, what harm could it-”
“We don't know what this is, or what it could do. It could be cursed, or something.” Sam takes a calming breath. “I know you've been out of the game for a while, but we need to be careful. So no touching until I've done some research! OK?”
Maybe that was a bit of a low blow; Sam knows how difficult it's been for Dean to forge a new life away from hunting. When he looks up at his brother he can see the hurt in his eyes. “Look, we're both a little rusty with this. So let's just make sure we do this by the book.”
“Yes, sir!” Dean says bitterly, holding out his right hand as if he's waiting for Sam to pass him something.
Sam looks at him blankly.
“I know it's 'been a while' Sam, but just because this is what you do every day, it doesn't mean that I can't help out. So hand me one of your rare books, or whatever.”
Sam spins around on his desk chair, fingers tapping at his computer as he goes through his database, typing in 'mystical paintings', which seems like a good place to start. “Try box F17 and 18. It looks like there's a few books in there that could help us out. I'll try online.”
When he doesn't hear Dean leave the room, Sam looks over his shoulder.
“You're letting me go into the basement unsupervised?”
The glee on Dean's face is making Sam second-guess his decision. He remembers the bunker-Dean had been like a kid in a toy store, playing with everything that wasn't nailed down. “Yeah. But don't touch anything. Just those two boxes, OK?”
“What? Like I'd really mess with your anally retentive storage system!” Dean heads to the heavily warded basement, his grin lingering like a Chesire cat.
Dean's still grinning as he switches on the lights in the basement which flicker a few times before illuminating the room. Once upon a time that flickering light would have meant something entirely different; now it just reminds Dean that he needs to check the electrics because it's doing the same thing in the kitchen.
He heads down the wooden stairs, which are steep even for him, let alone for Sam and his cane. Dean only comes down here because he doesn't like Sam going down these stairs. So he often finds himself carrying boxes down, or bringing them back up, Sam supervising him remotely, shouting instructions about what he wants, or exactly where he wants the boxes stored, and which way they needed to face so that his meticulous numbering system isn't compromised.
Dean scans the floor-to-ceiling wooden shelves that he painstakingly built, looking at the letters and numbers neatly Sharpied onto each storage box, colour cross-referenced for god knows what.
“What a geek!” Dean rolls his eyes, and heads down a few rows until he sees F, and then finally locates the two boxes.
For all Dean’s mocking, Sam's done a pretty impressive job here; combining Men of Letters reference systems with ones that must be purely Sam's. Losing the bunker was tough on both of them; for Dean it was his home, but for Sam it was a hunting legacy of knowledge that's now blown to smithereens.
His back twinges as he picks up the boxes and heads upstairs. His body's full of aches of pains these days that he blames on years of digging up graves and wrestling with things that go bump in the night. But the pain that flashes like bright lightning in the joints in his hands, well that's just dumb luck, or maybe bad genetics.
Walking back into Sam's study he can predict his brother's expression before he even sees it; the pinched worry as his focus zooms unconsciously onto Dean's hands.
A year ago, Sam would have asked if Dean needed help, but now Sam just wheels forward on his desk chair, takes a box and places it carefully on the floor. He flips open the lid and hands Dean a stack of dusty old books.
“Go wild!” Sam snarks, spinning back around to his database and his go-to websites like some kind of nerd-junkie.
“Fun times,” Dean mutters, dragging out the spare chair tucked underneath the large library desk. While the chair isn't moulded to the shape of his ass like Sam's probably is, it's comfy enough and supports his back nicely.
He skims the pages, trying to ignore the feeling in his gut that's telling him this painting is bad news, that their chance at a refuge away from the dark corners of the world couldn't possibly last.
“You OK?” Sam's not looking at him, still focussed on the laptop.
Dean wants to say he's fine, but after what happened to Sam, and all the times they'd get pissed at each other for saying it when they knew it was bullshit, they both swore never to say it again.
“Do you think this place is cursed too? I mean it has to be tied to the creepy painting, right?” Dean tries to hide the anger in his voice but he just can't. There's only one thing to do with cursed objects, he knows, and that's burn them. “I'm as big a fan of a good bonfire as the next guy, but dammit Sam. First we lose the bunker, and now this place too?”
Sam pinches the bridge of his nose like he has a headache. “Let's not jump the gun. We don't know what any of this means yet.”
Dean can see pain hidden behind his brother's eyes, and he gets the whole taking control of your body deal, he really does, but he just feels so damn helpless. Sometimes, mostly during the night, the pain will get so bad that Dean can hear Sam's groans from clear down the hall.
He tries not to think about how much constant pain Sam is in, day in and day out, without a break or a good day, about how Sam deserves so much more than a half-fallen-down cabin and a brother with arthritic hands. They always figured they'd go down fighting one day, a hunter's death. Not this. When Sam gets so quiet sometimes, Dean wonders, is he longing for some other life?
Sam's voice yanks Dean out of his reverie. “But whatever this picture is, whatever it means, we're in it together, just like always. That's never gonna change.”
Dean nods, not trusting his voice to say anything else, because honestly he hasn't been this out of his depth since Sam was in surgery and no one could tell him if was going to make it. Time was, he had a sixth sense for assessing danger, but he doesn't trust those instincts any more. It feels like a lifetime ago, but in reality it's only been two short years.
Sam moves back to his laptop, side-eyeing Dean every now and again, but eventually the silence in broken by Sam's surprised “huh”.
“What you got? Anything?” Dean moves out of his chair, fingers kneading the twinge in the small of his back as he looks over Sam's shoulder at the computer screen, the words fuzzier than they really should be. “It's a mirror? But it's not reflecting-”
“Looks like it could be some kind of magical mirror, but I need to know more. I think there's something in the...” Sam's sentence drifts off as his fingers fly over the keyboard, bringing up pages of spreadsheets, full of colour-coded blocks and typed references.
“Box Y27.”
That's all Dean needs to hear, his feet carrying him toward the basement. There's a kind of fire in his belly, a spark of excitement and dread, which he thought he'd lost when he walked away from this life. He hasn't missed it, not really, but it's sort of nostalgic to feel it again.
He all but runs down the stairs, zeroing onto the box quicker than he thought he would. It's big; his finger joints ache at the task, but he brings it up to Sam and drops it on the floor.
Sam flips open the lid and pulls out dozens of brown files all stamped Property of Men of Letters.
Dean frowns. “I thought we lost all these in the explosion?”
“Just about.” Sam looks up at him. “I think we salvaged about two per cent of the files.”
Dean knows he should remember that. But what's burned into his memory isn't the paper or artefacts that were destroyed. It was the panic at what he almost lost.
“Look for something about a mirror.” Sam hands him a heap of files, meeting Dean's gaze and nodding his head a little; as if sending Dean a message that he's here, that he survived the explosion, and came out in mostly one piece. Dean's racing heart settles and he gets to work.
An hour or so later he nearly spits out the mouthful of luke-warm coffee that he's been nursing for too long. “It's a Mirror of Erised. Whatever the hell that it.”
Sam spins around, but Dean doesn't look up, too busy studying the black and white photo clipped to a handful of neatly typed papers that describe a decorative frame listed as gold leaf, and some sort of text in a language he's never seen before.
“Is there something written on it?” Dean asks. “Like somewhere on the frame, maybe on the back?”
Sam picks up the frame, using the sleeve of his plaid shirt to clean away a layer of dust and grime.
“Yeah, but I'm not sure I know what it...hold on.” He tilts his head to the side, his lips moving silently. “It's English! But er, backwards.”
“And?”
“Oh, it says I show not your face but your heart's desire.” Sam turns the mirror around, and stares at the picture of their cabin, and Dean can practically hear the cogs in his brain turning.
“Well, what the hell's that supposed to mean? Like some twisted curse or something?” Dean looks back at the file in his hand, worry eating at his guts as he tries to read the fuzzy text. Damn, maybe he should listen to Sam and just go to a freakin' optician.
Then Sam's laughing, his head tripping back a little, dimples digging giant holes into the meat of his cheeks.
Dean huffs. “I really don't see why a cursed mirror is so damn hilarious to you?!”
“Don't you see, Dean? We both look at this mirror, and we both see the same thing; our cabin, our new home, and our new life here. This is our heart's desire!”
There's a whole heap of questions filling Dean's head; What if Sam's wrong? What if it's some kind of trap? But as he looks again at his brother, at his easy smile, and as their gazes lock onto each other, all those fears disappear. That was their old life; where problems were stacked on top of problems, where there was always a layer of worse underneath rock bottom, and where they never caught a break.
But not any more. Now they have a new life, and it's not perfect, but it's all their own, their choice, not some screwed up family legacy they'd inherited. They have a home, something they helped build with their own hands, and they have each other to share it all with.
So yeah, maybe that mirror is right, maybe finally they have their heart's desire and they didn't even know it. Sam's happy, hell, they both are.
The rush of relief is like adrenaline coursing through his veins, his smile growing wider by the second, until he's laughing right along with Sam.
Two weeks Later
Sam watches from the back of the room, fingers gripping his cane as Dean hammers the second nail into the wall. He picks up the mirror and positions it carefully, adjusting it until it looks straight.
“Move it up a bit on the right.” Sam adds, tilting his head a little. “There. That's it.”
Dean walks across the room and stands next to Sam, their shoulders brushing.
“And you're 100% sure this is harmless?”
Sam grins. He's read the Men of Letters file a dozen times, has done his own research, and even given a file of his findings to Dean. “Yeah. We're not gonna grow two heads, and you're not gonna spontaneously turn into a girl.”
“That's good to know,” Dean frowns, “I think!” Then Dean's grinning, eyebrows waggling suggestively. “Although, it might be fun to have huge-”
“Shut up, Dean.”
Sam looks at the mirror, and the picture of their cabin, their home. It looks good. Really good.
It's snowing outside, has been all night, little drifts framing their windows and probably the door too. They knew it was coming and they're fully prepared with enough supplies and firewood to last them months let alone a few days. It feels nice to just stay put, to have a place that's warm and safe; the home he's always wanted, but never quite got, until now.
Dean picks up a pile of mail that he collected from town yesterday before the storm hit. “Hey, did you see we got another postcard from Jesse and Cesar?” He flips it over and laughs, before handing it to Sam. There's a yellow beach, and water that's so blue and clear it could be a mirage. Sam can almost feel the sun warm his cheeks. Get your asses here - now!
Sam huffs a laugh and leaning heavily on his cane, walks over to the fridge to pin it with the others.
“Er, Sam. Come and check this out for a second.” Dean's staring at the wall, his brow all scrunched up.
Sam limps slowly over to stand next to Dean. Within the gold frame of the mirror their cabin is gone, and it's been replaced with the image of crystal clear water and sand so white it almost looks like snow. There's a truck parked beside a beach cabana, a hammock strung between two palm trees. And isn't that a sleek black Impala approaching in the distance?
Dean looks at him with massive green eyes full of childlike excitement, grin so wide it's contagious. “Looks like our heart's desire right now is that we hit the road for sunny Mexico: you, me, and Baby. You in?”
A road trip with his brother? Sam claps a broad hand onto the back of Dean's neck and full-on beams. “Hell yes, I'm in.”
The End