Chapter Text
Dean woke to the pale light before dawn. His back ached, battered by lumps in the cheap, thin mattress and the desert's cold, early-winter nights. That was it, he had to bang that old furnace back into shape today. He couldn't take another cold night.
His shoulders popped as he stretched, pain and relief in the same moment. His knees creaked when he levered himself out of bed. He never thought he'd live long enough to get so old.
Breakfast was a half-burnt piece of toast with a couple of still-runny eggs, cooked on the cranky electric stove. He sipped his coffee, tepid and gritty with half-dissolved crystals, and stared at his phone. He hadn't spoken to Sam in weeks.
He closed his eyes and breathed deep, letting the scents of dry wood and dryer dust center him, an old trick learned when his dad left him alone on the hunt. He had work to do.
~~~
Something was harassing Mrs. Matthews' chickens. Two were gone already, only blood and feathers left behind, and the old lady didn't know what she'd do if she lost anymore. Her monthly checks from the government only stretched so far.
So Dean spent the morning crawling around with hammer and nails, boards and a spool of chicken wire. He'd turn this coop into some kind of chicken Fort Knox, foxes and coyotes be damned.
A trickle of sweat ran down his back, exertion and the sun warming him even though he'd already thrown his jacket over a nearby post. He stood and wiped at the back of his neck. Mountains cut the horizon, red and sharp in the distance. It felt good to work, to be outside fixing something that was broken. Sometimes, when it was late and he couldn't sleep, when his mind spun itself in the darkness, he wished he'd been born to fix things instead of to kill.
Mrs. Matthews had a jug of water waiting for him at the house when he was done. He picked it up and sucked it down in a few large gulps, the water cool on his dry throat.
“My chickens safe?” she asked, eyes narrowed in the kind of assessing looks Dean liked best. His favorite kind of people were the ones who could call him on his own bullshit.
“Yes ma'am,” he said, setting the jug down and wiping at his mouth. “If anything else gets through there you let me know. I'll come back out and take care of it.”
She nodded and then pursed her lips. She looked down at her hands, joints swollen. “A few years back I would've taken care of it myself.” She shook her head with a rueful smile. “Just not as young as I used to be.”
Dean grinned at her. “You and me both.” He could see her, sitting out there in the dark, shotgun in her lap. He felt sorry for the coyotes.
Mrs. Matthews snorted, a quick scoffing noise. “You don't know what old means yet, boy.” She jerked her head toward the house. “Come on, I've got some lunch sitting on the stove.”
She'd been the first person he'd met when he'd ended up here, still jittery from the city and scraped raw from leaving Sam behind. He'd seen her on the side of the road, cursing a blue streak at a car that wouldn't start. He'd gotten it going and she'd paid him back with beer and conversation, no questions asked. Her kitchen with its cracked linoleum and mismatched chairs was the most comfortable place he'd been in in a long time.
“Awesome,” he said. “I'm starving,” and followed her inside.
~~~
He called Sam that night after dinner, his plate drying by the sink, the rest of Ms. Matthews' casserole stowed in the fridge. The springs in the old easy chair, a leftover from the former resident, squeaked as Dean settled in. The room was dark, lit only by the lamp in the far corner. Night came too quickly this time of year.
“Dean.” Sam's voice came through strong and clear. If Dean closed his eyes he could pretend they were in the same room. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah dude, I'm fine.” Dean grinned a little, something easing in his chest.
Sam sighed loud. “It's been a long time. It's good to hear your voice, man.”
“Yeah, sorry about that.” A bolt of guilt cut through Dean's chest. He hated making Sammy worry. “So how's it going?” He asked before Sam could start the interrogation.
There was silence for a moment and Dean could hear the cogs in Sam's brain turning, the battle between pestering Dean, little brother-style, or letting him have his space.
“School's the worst, you have no idea,” Sam finally said and Dean had to laugh at that, at Sam's pissy little undertone that made him sound a decade younger, like all of the bullshit had happened since then had only been some kind of fucked-up dream.
He let Sam ramble on for a while, telling stories about people he didn't know and things he'd never do. He even had a few anecdotes of his own to add, the llorona he'd iced a couple weeks back and the lost tourist whose flat tire he'd changed.
He forgot, during the quiet times in between, how good it felt to talk to his brother.
“Hey,” Dean said as the conversation wound down. “tell Luisa she's still too good for you.”
“I will, asshole.” Sam laughed. “You take care of yourself, okay”
“I will, Sammy. I promise.”
Dean stared down at the dark phone in his hand. It had hurt leaving Sam behind. But the pain was still better than staying there with him, the third wheel in that small house, the heavy weight of watching the world moving on and not knowing how to move with it. He might still be standing still but at least out here he didn't have to watch everyone spin away without him.
~~~
Dean spent the next morning banging on the furnace. He went over the motor with a fine-toothed comb, checking connections and making sure everything was well-oiled. The last owner had let things go to shit, parts burned out from lack of care. Dean didn't understand people, a couple minutes of maintenance would've saved the whole damn thing.
By the time Dean's stomach reminded him that he could really go for some food, he had a pile of fucked up parts lying beside him on the floor. He might have to go into town today after all.
His mind wandered as he walked toward the kitchen, thinking about motors and maintenance, about where he could get the right parts, or at least the ones that would work in a pinch. He wiped his hands on an old rag and didn't realize that he was humming as he walked, happy with a problem to solve.
The floor creaked in the kitchen and he stiffened, hand going to the wrench hanging from his belt. He stepped through the door and froze. Cas stood there, barefoot, in Dean's kitchen, a beer dangling from his fingers.
“Hello Dean,” he said as if they'd just seen each other, as if he'd never left. “Your fridge is empty.”
“You-” Dean's throat closed, too many words welling up to choke him. He'd given up hoping, given up believing that he'd ever see Cas again. “You're here.”
Cas looked at him, eyes open and clear, and smiled.