Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Four hours into the drive toward a non-destination, they make their first stop at a diner because Dean is hungry and tired and needs air that isn’t poisoned by his gloomy thoughts. He hasn’t forgotten the impending Apocalypse, but his current focus is on the two sleeping persons with him in the car.

He turns off the engine, glances at his watch (eleven) and takes a moment to glance Barnes and Cap. The silence during the drive had been more or less bearable, only disturbed by the occasional light snore from his passengers. If the way they nodded off within the first half hour was any indication, they had been waiting to ambush him at his Baby for a while. Dean’s not sure how to feel about that.

Cap stirs first, a soft groan expressing his discomfort from sleeping in an awkward position for a long period of time. He stretches as best as he can in the confined space.
After noticing the diner, he meets Dean’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. A couple slow, tired blinks, then his eyes widen a little.

“Dean? How long have you been driving?”

Dean shrugs, grins cheekily.

“Long enough to get hungry, Cap,” he answers, knowing it doesn’t tell much.

He sees Cap’s eyebrows furrow in contemplation before he turns his attention towards the other sleeping beauty, and he barely contains a jump when another pair of wide, blue eyes are looking back at him.

The corner of Barnes’s lips twitch in possible amusement at knowing he startled Dean.

Dean glares at him before exiting the car.

Somewhere along the very short walk from the parking lot to the diner, Dean has a belated internal freak-out at the fact that he’s about to treat Captain America and Bucky Barnes to a greasy diner breakfast.

As soon as they are seated—Cap and Barnes to one side of the booth and Dean on the other--Dean’s phone rings and he frowns slightly at Sam’s name. He had wanted to get some food into his stomach before tackling this long postponed conversation, but it looks like that isn’t going to happen. Steve notices and before he can voice his concern, Dean asks to order him a coffee and excuses himself quickly.

Sam had left a few voice mails while Dean had been out of commission, each subsequent one growing worried and agitated and hurt. Dean had listened to them on the drive and decided he would call back during the next stop where he could have the conversation in private.

Now, after receiving the call in the diner—of course Sam beat him to it—Dean tries hard keep his face emotionless and not to grit his teeth, in case he was being watched. His eyes absently rove over the parking lot as he stands outside the establishment, listening and not listening to another list of mistakes that make him a failure in the eyes of his younger brother.

When he glances at the windows next to their claimed booth to check on his present company, his hunched shoulders relax minutely when he discovers that the other two members are completely immersed in the diner menu.

“Dean, are you listening—”

“I get it, Sam,” Dean interrupts and his words continue, unbidden. “I would’ve asked for help if your priorities weren’t demon bitch-oriented.”

The silence that follows is cold, filled with held breaths; filled with anger and shame and regret.

Sam lets out a harsh sigh. “Fine.”

“Sammy, I’m—”

“I get it, Dean,” Sam repeats in a mocking tone, and then the line goes silent.

Dean doesn’t hang up until long after the dial tone.

There’s an orange juice waiting for him when he gets back.

The others are drinking their coffees like there isn’t something wrong here.

“Uh… where’s mine?”

Barnes wordlessly points to the juice.

“I thought I asked for coffee,” Dean says, turning to Cap.

“Dean,” Cap starts, and there is a gentle scolding in that single word. “You’ve been driving for a while without rest which you need and should also be drinking lots of fluids to keep yourself hydrated.” He nudges the glass of juice pointedly towards Dean. “Coffee is not an option.”

His face is one of worry and it makes Dean feel like a child who is throwing a tantrum, which is ridiculous because he’s a grown man. The eyes are too sincere in their expression and something twists uncomfortably inside his chest at the unfamiliar idea of being cared for. And the uncertainty makes him angry.

“Look, just because I let you along for a ride doesn’t mean you get to start telling me what to do. I know how to take care of myself,” he bites out.

But Captain America doesn’t waver under Dean’s scowl. If anything, he seems saddened by the words.

Of course; leave it to Dean to disappoint a superhero.

He’s thinking of a reply, still indignant, when out of the corner of his eye the glass starts to move away. His hand automatically shoots out to grab it, and it ends up wrapped around another rough, calloused one that is the culprit.

Dean looks down at his hand, confused, then follows the other hand up the arm to Barnes’s face, who’s still acting as if nothing’s wrong.

Barnes shrugs. “It’s not good to waste food.” He tugs it away from Dean’s loosened grip and takes a sip.

He knows he’s gaping, but Dean’s not sure what is going on. Barnes lifts the cup again, which spurs him to snatch it away before another drop makes it down that throat.

With that interruption over, juice in hand, Dean is at a loss. Anger is no longer fueling him, thrown for a loop by the weird tag-team effort from the other two. They both silently wait for his reaction, and he thinks briefly that two against one is completely unfair.

“It’s my juice,” he mutters.

Cap looks pleased, and Barnes returns to studying the menu.

Dean takes a drink.

It’s good juice.

Ordering takes a while since Barnes can’t decide what he wants.

“Hey, this isn’t the only diner, okay? You can order something else next time,” Dean says.

He doesn’t say it all that nicely, but his stomach needs food right now.

Then he realises what he just said. Implying that there will be another diner. That they will be around until then. When did he start hoping?

He pushes those thoughts away for now and is grateful that no one else seems to have questions about his words. They at least help Barnes make his final choice for breakfast.

They place their order: Cap with some muffin, yogurt and fruit crap, Barnes keeping it simple with pancakes, and Dean of course getting the greasiest thing they have on the menu, double portion.

Cap looks mildly disturbed.

It only worsens when Dean digs into his food with gusto. He’s not sure whether to be embarrassed or amused. Both, he decides.

Barnes appears to be enjoying his pancakes heartily. In fact, they might have to take away the syrup soon.

The waitress comes by every so often to refill their coffees.

Dean finishes his juice.

Chapter Text

He gets two motel rooms. Two doubles.

Dean told the captain and Barnes to wait in the car because it’s awkward enough that one is desperately trying not to reveal his identity while looking like he isn’t trying while another has a metal arm hidden underneath his jacket and is only wearing one glove.

As the two unfold themselves from the car, the desk clerk peeks out and gives them a look that is part frightened, part scandalized, and a whole lot suspicious. If Dean has to guess, it’s because of their haggard appearance, dark clothes, and the avoidance of any eye contact. They’re all tired, so their expressions aren’t that friendly, either. Although Dean tries to offer a reassuring smile, the way the clerk slowly retreats tells him the attempt wasn’t very successful.

He sighs, wonders if he should bet that the police may come banging at their door tonight. He mutters a small thanks for the keys and heads back to the Impala.
Barnes and Cap are all ready with their packs and take the key that Dean hands them.

“We should all get some rest for now,” Cap says with a smile, “then you can tell us what you’re planning to do, Dean.”

Dean hesitates for a moment, then nods. “Yeah. Sure.”

Here, Dean faces another problem. He doesn’t know how much the others know about his ‘profession’, about the weapons and equipment in the trunk. Some are due for maintenance and he’s safe to do it in the privacy of his room, but he supposes they’ll see it eventually. Should they ask questions, well... Dean will cross that bridge when he gets there.

Sam would be better at explaining all this, he notes with a pang.

Barnes enters the room first with a nod at Dean, then Cap follows.

After the door closes, Dean retrieves his own bag from the trunk as well as a box of salt. He stares down at it, contemplating the pros and cons of laying a line of salt for his companions, and he chooses to err on the side of caution. He unlocks his room and tosses the duffel onto the further bed as per habit, then steps out again.
He knocks on the other door, the salt held behind his back. Holds his breath.

It’s Barnes who opens the door. “Yes?”

And Dean blinks, because he hasn’t heard him talk enough to be familiar with his voice. His face heats when he realises that he’s staring. “I, uh, came to give you this,” he says and reveals the salt.

Barnes looks at it, confused, and before Dean can explain, Cap shows his face from behind the door.

“Dean?”

Dean clears his throat unnecessarily. “It’s for protection,” he says quickly. “Just put a line of this along the bottom of the door and windows. Trust me on this.”

Although the confusion remains, they seem to accept his words and the salt for now. Actually, they don’t look all that surprised by his strange request. Did they know?

“Thank you, Dean,” says Cap. “I hope you sleep well.”

Dean wishes them the same and then the door closes again.

He returns to his room and lays his own salt lines, then throws himself onto the unoccupied bed. The room is large and quiet save for the murmurs he can barely make out from the other side of the wall. There is a smell that lingers in the air, a mixture of old fabric, possible decay, and cleaning supplies. The walls are an ugly beige colour. Unclean.

Dean throws an arm over his eyes so that he can’t see how Sam isn’t on the other bed.

There’s always too much blood. It makes Dean wonder how he’s not sick all the time from the overwhelming smell. Maybe he’s used to it by now, and that’s worse.

Everything blurs.

Sometimes he’s in pain; sometimes he’s causing pain. Either way, it hurts and breaks him just that little bit more each time.

And Alastair stands there watching, like he couldn’t be any prouder.

“Good boy, Dean.”

He wakes suddenly. Doesn’t remember falling asleep.

Still tired. A little hungry. A lot thirsty.

With a groan, Dean rolls out of the bed and stretches, wincing. The mattress hadn’t been uncomfortable, really, but it’s not very suitable for recovering from injuries and sickness. He recalls the hospital bed and how soft it was, cradling his wounded body, then shakes his head to banish the thought. Needless luxury, he reminds himself, not something he should want.

Dean heads over to the bathroom to splash some water on his face and have a drink. There could be things in the water, sure, but he could also die of thirst. Dean’s phone rings as soon as he’s finished, and he hastily wipes his hands on his shirt before rushing over to the other bed where he tossed it.

It can’t be Sam. It can’t—

It’s Bobby.

He wets his lips nervously and presses the button to answer.

As soon as he lifts it to his ear, Bobby yells, “What the hell is wrong with you, boy!”

“Hey, Bobby,” Dean croaks.

“Shifter, my ass!” Bobby continues like he hasn’t heard. “All I saw was things getting blown up to pieces in the air like the damn apocalypse decided to get a head start and you wouldn’t pick up any damn calls and next thing I know a couple black-suited yuppies are showin’ up at my door all ‘Mr. Singer please put your gun down and calm yourself’ like they ain’t the suspicious ones—“

“Bobby!” Dean half-shouts.

“Don’t you take that tone with me,” Bobby growls.

Dean lets out a breath. “Yeah.” He swallows. “Yeah, I know. I’m sorry.”

There is harsh breathing on the other end, then it calms down with a huff.

“So. I don’t have to bail you out, do I?”

Dean laughs. “No. I’m, uh...”

“Didn’t think you were a fan boy of Captain America.”

He blushes at that, covers his face with the other hand even though there’s no one around.

“Come on, Bobby.” It’s a near whine.

“You’re not gettin’ off easy with all the trouble you caused,” Bobby says gruffly, but there is a hint of a smile in his voice. “What about Sam?”

Some part of Dean’s chest aches.

“He. He’s fine. He knows,” he replies. “I’m on my way back to him.” And he’s not sure if that’s a truth or a lie. Hasn’t decided yet.

“Yeah, well, you boys let me know when you’re together and safe. I’ll keep my eye out for more seals.”

Dean’s throat tightens, grateful. “Alright, thanks, Bobby.”

The line cuts and Dean takes a moment to get his thoughts in order. The time on his phone reads six forty p.m. which means he slept a little over five hours.

First things first: food.

He walks next door and knocks, identifying himself.

This time, it’s Cap who answers. “Evening,” he greets. “Did you have a good nap?”

His voice is rough with sleep, hair slightly mussed and eyes bleary. It’s kind of cute.

And all of a sudden, Dean’s feeling a little shy where two seconds ago, he was ready to break the door down so he could announce his intentions to get food. He stands straighter, puts on what he hopes is a confident look.

“Feeling a lot better now, thanks,” he answers, which is a half-truth. “I’m hungry now, though, so I was wondering what you wanted for dinner. Thought I could get some take-out.”

Cap opens the door further saying, “Why don’t you come in and the three of us can decide together?”

Dean shrugs. “Sure,” then steps inside with a casualness he doesn’t have, trying not to squirm at feeling like an intruder somehow.

Barnes is sitting on the far bed, remote control in his right hand, clicking through the channels. He looks up when Dean nears and stares like he has nothing better to do. Waits.

Dean wonders what the hell he’s doing here, what they are doing here with him. “So, dinner?” he asks again, assuming that Barnes has heard the brief exchange at the door.

A pause, and some more staring. And Dean trying harder not to squirm or hunch his shoulders.

“Anything’s fine.”

The answer comes from two different people at the same time, and Dean looks from Barnes to Cap who appears annoyed yet amused, then back to Barnes. The other two then glance at each other, and Barnes slowly smirks at Cap when he huffs.

Okay, definitely intruding, Dean thinks. He turns around quickly and heads for the door, calling back about getting Chinese or something.

“Dean.”

He stops, one hand on the doorknob about to close it behind him.

“You’re coming back,” Cap says.

It’s meant to be a statement—a fact—but it sounds a lot like a question. As if Dean might drive away from them. As if they want him to return but don’t expect it. And it’s a shock that he might be wanted company and that they aren’t sure if they’re wanted the same. Yet neither offer to go with him to make sure he doesn’t possibly run. Out of trust? Respect? He can’t be certain.

It makes him partially face the room, just a turn of the head over his shoulder in acknowledgement because his heart is stuttering and he can’t show his expression.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Yeah, of course.”

He closes the door.

Not that he wanted to run, but he thought they were too good to stick around and were best kept separate from his issues. Take some time off, explore the States for a bit, then go on their separate ways without either party having revealed much.

But when Dean comes back with too much fried rice and sautéed beef and spring rolls, and Cap meets him with a warm smile and a ‘welcome back’, he thinks that maybe.

Just maybe.

Chapter Text

“Can I ask what the salt was about?”

The question comes as soon as they start eating, Cap on one of the beds while Dean and Barnes sit at the only too-small table in the room.

(The guy had seemed put off by the food at first but succumbed to its wonders quickly, both metal arm and intact limb working away. Dean’s glad he brought extra forks. Rest in peace, chopsticks.)

Dean chews slowly, pondering over his answer. He must have taken too long because there is a foot nudging him mere moments later. He glares at the perpetrator, and Barnes ignores him in favour of biting into a spring roll.

“How much do you know about me?” he asks both of them.

“Coulson mentioned that you’re a specialist of some sort,” Cap answers, “that you hunt things in the dark.” And then he throws Dean a puzzled look.

“Okay,” Dean says, and shovels another spoonful of fried rice into his mouth. “This ain’t exactly meal conversation material.”

The words come out muffled, and he may have sprayed a grain or two. There’s a noise that might be disgust from next to him, and it makes him grin. Nothing like grossing people out with his eating habits.

And the thought sobers him quickly, when Sam’s face flashes across his mind. It’s hard to swallow around the lump in his throat.

“I’ve heard bad things before, dinner table or not,” Cap says.

“And you’re ready to check for monsters under the bed for the rest of your life?”

Cap looks up at Dean after putting down his fork, serious and resigned. “It isn’t like I haven’t had my fair share of things that tried to kill me.”

There’s a loud crack that follows, startling them out of conversing. The source is the ruined plastic fork in a hand of flesh, and next to it a carton of food that didn’t survive a clenched metal fist. Barnes inhales sharply, and Cap makes a low, pained noise.

“Bucky, that wasn’t what I—that wasn’t you.”

The man beside Dean shakes slightly, and he doesn’t know what they’re talking about because he saved Barnes from the bad guys and together they helped the captain. It must have been before he arrived in D.C. Dean’s contemplating if he should say or do something, if it’s a good idea to lay a hand on the man’s shoulder.

But then Cap is there in front of Barnes, on his knees, trying to make eye contact with him with quiet murmurs of ‘it’s okay, it’s okay, Bucky’. Reassurances that he’s fine, that they’re both fine, that they still got each other. And Barnes responds by folding in on himself slightly, leaning towards Cap like it’s instinctive, as if he doesn’t realise he’s doing it.

It’s too intimate a scene for Dean to be sitting there watching, feeling like a voyeur. He can’t disturb them and can’t stay, so he moves to get up to clean, change spots, or remove his person from the room he doesn’t know—

Except there’s a hand on his knee under the table, and it’s warm and grounding, just like the hand he remembers—dreamed about—wrapped around his ankle when he was hurt. He glances back, meets Cap’s eyes that are saying something to him. He can’t read it, doesn’t get it, but he stops moving.

Instead, with boldness that comes out of nowhere, he reaches the short distance across the table to the metal fist, starts prying it open gently. Cap watches with slightly wide eyes, going wider in alarm when the fingers suddenly tighten over Dean’s making him wince. But before either can do anything, the fingers slowly relax, letting Dean continue the task of removing the ruined take-out container. He raises his eyes, sees Barnes’, wary and curious. As if nothing happened, Dean grabs a napkin and starts wiping off the grease.

“You’re gonna need something else to get these nice and shiny again,” he jokes weakly, then tosses the napkin somewhere on the table. He proceeds to coax open the Barnes’ other fist and take the snapped fork. A deep red spot marks where the broken ends were digging into the palm. Dean tsks.

“Thank you, Dean,” Cap says, still in that low, quiet tone. The hand on his knee tightens briefly before it’s taken away.

Dean tries not to miss it.

“Well, then, guess meal time’s over,” he says with forced cheer, and finally moves to clear the table.

There’s a cold, greasy grip on his wrist that halts him, and the disgust shows on his face when he meets Barnes’ gaze.

“Don’t waste food,” Barnes says, and makes him sit back down, glancing pointedly at Dean’s half-full plate.

Dean once again stares incredulously, and Cap laughs.

After they finish cleaning, it’s like storytime with Dean on one bed as the story-teller and the others on the opposite bed as his grandkids or something. Except age-wise—they’re old enough to be his grandfathers (or fathers, if he included his time in hell says a voice that he ignores). And whoa, if that isn’t the weirdest thing that Dean has come to realise recently.

“You guys are like, my grandpas,” he blurts out.

The room freezes for a moment, with Barnes scrunching his nose and Cap frowning hard with his eyes. For a few seconds, it’s very uncomfortable and Dean colours in embarrassment for his foot-in-mouth comment.

“I just, uh, I mean—so, yeah, the salt,” he quickly continues. “We—I’m a hunter and basically that means I go around killing things that you thought only existed in horror movies and ghost stories.”

“Such as?” Barnes asks.

“You know. Like ghosts, vampires, werewolves, among other creatures.”

Dean raises his head from where he was staring at the floor from the earlier mortification when there is no reaction. Neither Barnes nor the captain seem nervous or frightened in anyway, which is understandable since they’ve fought against aliens and monsters disguised as human beings and have risked their lives many times over, but Dean still thinks of them as ‘civilians’, ones without any knowledge of the supernatural. They only look expectant, so Dean takes that as a sign to continue.

“Then there are demons, nasty sons of bitches.”

“Demons,” Cap says.

Dean nods. “Demons, satanic beings, evil from hell.” And then he blinks, again slowly, trying not to think about how he was a part of that not too long ago. “The salt keeps them and ghosts away from you, so you line doors and windows with it or make a circle around you.”

Cap makes a contemplative sound, Barnes stays quiet.

“So you’ve been doing this alone?” Cap asks. “What about your family?”

A dull pain squeezes his heart at the question, at the reminder of how his family had been torn apart by things out of his control and how he’s on the verge of losing the only one he has left and it will be all his fault. Dean looks away, feels eyes on the side of his head. Barks out a humourless laugh and says roughly, “One thing at a time, Cap.” He doesn’t face them, wary that he might see pity in light of his response.

It goes quiet again, and Dean’s tired so he sighs and runs a hand over his face. Too much emotion in one day, like all the touchy-feely situations he avoided with Sammy are coming back slowly with a vengeance. But they deserve better and he needs to teach them now that he has started.

“If you’re gonna stick around for a while,” he says, “you have to learn how to hunt.”

He finally turns back, startles when sees a cup of water held out to him by Barnes. Dean hadn’t even heard him get up. He takes it, remembering vaguely a lecture on the importance of fluids.

“Thanks,” Dean mutters before bringing the cup to his lips for a drink.

Barnes rejoins Cap on the bed, and they wait for Dean who ends up finishing all the water.

“Let’s see how good a teacher you are, then,” Cap says. A hint of challenge, a hint of encouragement.

Barnes snorts. “How hard can it be?”

Dean tosses the empty cup at Barnes’ head, but the man catches it out of the air—metal fingers crushing it—smirking at the lame attempt.

Oh well, at least he tried.

Chapter Text

Due to driving for long hours in mediocre condition on top of the after-effects of pneumonia, Dean had tired quickly after dinner, having agreed that he’ll start training Captain America and Bucky Barnes for hunting when he’s feeling better.

After having pushed himself to the limit far too often for so long, he sometimes forgets that a combination of a good meal, regular hydration, and a good night’s sleep goes a long way towards recovery. The medication he received at the hospital helps with the chest pain, sure, but he knows it’s more than that when he wakes up surprisingly refreshed the next morning.

He doesn’t recall exactly when he fell asleep, but it’s a bit past six now, according to his phone. He gets up, stretches, and heads to the bathroom for a quick shower. When he’s clean, he almost feels good enough to go on a solo hunt.

And then his stomach growls, so Dean figures he should get some breakfast while the others are still in dreamland. He dresses, packs his usual gear under his clothes even though the 24-hour Denny’s he saw on the way isn’t too far from their motel because one never knows what might happen. Being prepared for any situation is something that has always been ingrained into his mind for as long as he can remember.

Boots all laced up, Dean grabs his phone, wallet, keys of both the car and motel kind, then steps out the door.

The morning is a calm, quiet one, and the door shutting closed behind him is a little too loud that Dean suppresses a flinch. With a light fog in the process of clearing, random blurry silhouettes in the distance, it’s almost eerie. The air smells clean at least, thanks to their location being near a forest of trees rather than buildings.

He breathes in deep, hears every second of the air leaving his lungs as he exhales.

It’s too quiet.

His Baby waits patiently for him at the end of an almost empty lot where he usually parks to avoid careless drivers. Dean walks over while scanning the area (just in case) and relaxes as he reaches the car. He’s unlocking the door on the driver’s side when a low voice behind him suddenly says, “Where are you going?”

“Jesus fu—“ Dean yelps, whipping around, hand on his gun tucked into the back of his jeans.

Barnes stands two feet from Dean, unperturbed like he didn’t just cause a near-heart attack.

“What the hell, man,” Dean snaps, heart still pounding. His hand stays at his back. “Trying to be a ninja?”

Said ninja appears unimpressed, waiting for an answer.

“I’m just getting breakfast, no need to friggin’ stalk me. Geez,” Dean huffs as he forces himself to calm down, hand coming back to his side.

“Alright.”

Dean frowns with all the annoyance he can muster, waves a hand. “Go on, go back to the shadow.”

Barnes gives him a strange, confused look.

“I’d like some eggs,” he says before walking back to his room, and Dean makes sure he’s back inside before starting up his Baby.

He does not check the rearview mirror for ninjas.

Last night had been like some fucked up karma, as if all the emotional moments that he had avoided with Sam are coming back one at a time with a vengeance. It’s not something he wants to think about, but he has nothing better to do at the moment while he waits for his order. He blames it on how exhausted he was, having no energy to guard himself, and he vows to himself to be more careful in the future. After all, it isn’t necessary for them to hear about his life in order to learn hunting.

They call him when the food is ready, and by then Dean is hungry enough to focus on nothing else but the prospect of breakfast.

By the time he gets back, it’s seven o’clock and Cap is sitting on the curb of the parking lot in front of his room. Dean parks away from the other cars and walks over with bags smelling of eggs, bacon, and a whole lot of grease.

“Hope you’re hungry,” he calls out to Cap. “I’m starving.”

Cap stands and greets him. “Good morning. You got up pretty early.”

“Yeah, I was out like a log last night.” Dean says. “We’ve got a big day ahead of us, so let’s eat and get started.”

He manoeuvers the bags and fishes out his room key. “Is my room okay?”

“Of course,” Cap says, taking the key from Dean and opening the door for him. “Let me just get Bucky.”

Dean thanks him and goes into his room to place all the food on the table. He removes containers one by one, trying to remember which order was for which person. The heaviest one is his, obviously.

As he waits, he picks up the newspaper he grabbed on the way back to check for any nearby incidents. If there is something easy, he might as well let them get practice since words and head knowledge will only do so much.

He finds nothing local, but two hours northwest in Ohio a homeowner was found dead in his basement, the third owner of the same house to die within the last two years in the exact same way: stabbed in the stomach. No eyewitnesses, no sounds or screams, no signs of breaking and entering. Seems like something worth checking out.

“Hey Sammy, what do you think about this—”

And then he freezes, because there is no Sammy. Just an empty bed that speaks volumes about how much things are broken between him and his brother. Broken like the pieces inside of him.

His fingers itch to make a call, so instead he tosses the paper, grabs a fork and opens a container.

Breakfast is good except for the part where Cap lectures him about his excessive consumption of greasy pork meats—why have a single portion when you can have double?—to which Dean responds with a roll of his eyes and saying how it won’t kill him before eating more enthusiastically.

The three of them, sitting on the beds with their food in front of them, end up getting into an argument about who may be the better weapons expert when Dean brings up the topic with regards to hunting.

“I mean, you guys may have been professionally trained, but I’ve lived and breathed this my whole life.”

Cap looks troubled. “How old were you when you started?”

Dean answers with a mouth full of pancakes. “Old enough.”

Neither Cap nor Barnes seem convinced, but he doesn’t give them the opportunity to question it further.

“So yeah, I’ve probably got more experience than you two when it comes to fighting with weapons since different creatures require different methods to kill them. And trust me,” he pauses and finishes swallowing, “there are a lot of them out there.”

Dean pierces the last piece of bacon with his fork and points in Barnes’ and Cap’s general direction.

“You guys ready, then?”

“Sounds interesting,” Cap says.

Barnes plucks the bacon off of Dean’s fork and eats it.

The man who had his bacon stolen is understandably upset for the next half an hour.

Many things have happened in Dean’s life that he never signed up for, and trying to teach a couple of Super Soldiers about the supernatural is another that goes on his ever-growing list.

Without a laptop, books, or even a chalkboard to illustrate—Dean doubts stick figures would have accurately presented key features of the baddies—there are only so many words Dean can spew at them and have them actually understand. He can only show the few sketches in his dad’s journal. Their memories are impressive though, he admits, when they recite the facts back to him. So far, they’re eight monsters down and still loads to go.

Cap asks a lot of questions:

“Where did they all come from?”

“Are they naturally inclined to hurt people?”

“How do you find out about new ones?”

“Why are silver bullets effective for some but not for others?”

“Dean—”

“Cap,” Dean cuts him off, already feeling tired. “I’m just giving you the facts because that’s what you need right now. We can always drop by a library for the other stuff. Capiche?”

Cap deflates a little but nods in assent, and the image he presents is similar to a student in class who just got scolded by the teacher. It doesn’t help that Barnes is quite visibly holding back a grin when he nudges Cap’s shoulder.

The captain nudges back, but harder. “Shut up, Bucky.”

Dean just ignores them and flips to the next page in the journal.

“Okay, so, wendigos are these, tall, thin, fugly monsters...”

Chapter Text

In the end, they go to the local library so Dean can continue his research about the potential case he found before they got ready to hunt. He reads through only a couple of online news articles before they all start sounding the same so he switches his attention to helping Cap discover books of his own to read on further mythology to expand his newfound knowledge. He and Barnes are taking this all in better than Dean initially thought.

“I can’t believe this part of the world actually exists,” Cap mumbles as he turns another page.

“I’m surprised that we never knew about it considering how long they’ve existed,” Barnes says.

“You’d think we’d all be eaten by now, right?” Dean joins. “But they’re not organized; they all do their own thing.” Except demons and dicks with wings.

They’re all occupying a small, rectangular table in the back corner of the library where hardly anyone passes by. Books of random thickness are opened and scattered over the table in a parody of an intense study session. Although, looking at Cap and Barnes, it may not really be a parody.

Dean just sits there flipping pages while the other two satisfy their curiosity. And then he remembers.

“Oh right, you guys need tattoos.”

They both look up.

“Anti-possession tattoos, to avoid demon-possession,” Dean explains, pulling his shirt collar down briefly to give them a glimpse.

To Dean’s surprise, Cap grins slightly. An awkward, crooked twist of the mouth that’s not, absolutely not endearing. As if they planned it, both the captain and Barnes pull down their shirt collars at the same time, revealing exact replicas of Dean’s tattoo. When Dean meets Cap’s eyes in surprise, the man looks rather pleased.

“Coulson had us get them when we let him know that we planned to leave with you,” he says cheerfully.

Dean tries not to gape.

There is the part of him that’s balking silently at how insane these two men are, to go so far to accompany a guy they barely know, and then there is the part of him that shrinks away at their willingness to stay because it’s too good to be true. But there’s also a small, very small part of Dean that admits how warm he feels inside when he sees the evidence with his own eyes.

He shows none of these things when he leans back casually on his seat, says gruffly, “Yeah, well, good for you guys.”

But Barnes’ knowing smirk says different. “If you need a hug...” he trails off.

Dean’s right middle finger makes a prompt appearance.

A two-hour drive has never been shorter, Dean finds. Between an early lunch of burgers, two bickering children and great music, he’s in an energetic, almost happy mood by the time they arrive there. Not that a possible ghost with stabbing tendencies is good, but let it be known that Dean Winchester can find contentment in the little things. Plus, it has been a while since he felt anything but stressed, worried, and helpless.

Minerva, Ohio is a village currently bustling with life that comes from being in daylight. Clean roads and even cleaner establishments greet them as they roll in, and there is as much greenery as there are buildings. People walk around none the wiser about the unnatural cause of the recent murders.

On the way over, they had discussed how to go about investigating, since two of them were a little out of place and quite conspicuous. Cap prefers not to take his hat off, and Barnes wants minimal interaction with strangers. In the end, they decide to split up so that Dean, already dressed in his suit, can interrogate the police while Cap and Barnes pose as visitors to the village and strike up random conversations with the residents to see if they spill anything. Dean doesn’t know well enough how convincingly they can act as someone they’re not, so he keeps it simple for now.

After stopping at a park two blocks down from the suspected haunted house, he pretends not to notice Cap’s raised eyebrows as he digs out the fake FBI badge in the glove compartment; he really doesn’t need to see the judgemental and righteous look on top of already feeling self-conscious for committing illegal actions in front of Captain America.

Yet, there is nothing of the sort in the voice that says, “You’re very resourceful.”

When Dean meets his eyes, he can’t read what they’re saying which is something that has been happening too often for Dean’s liking. He tosses Cap a smirk, then shuts the compartment.

“What can I say, I’m a man of many talents.”

Dean leaves them with explicit instructions not to go near the house until he regroups with them. He grins when they both mock-salute him as he drives away.

“Here you are, agent.”

The officer, a short but muscular man who looks to be in his forties, drops some files onto the desk that Dean is currently waiting at while drumming his fingers.

“Seems like a serial killer, doesn’t it?” the officer continues. “Right up your alley.”

Dean just stares at the man, unimpressed by how casually he’s handling the idea of three murders. The officer has the decency to blush at that.

“Thank you for your cooperation, officer,” he says coolly before opening up the first file.

The latest victim’s name was Howard Yi, a thirty-two year old Asian man, tall with an athletic build. According to the report, there were no signs of struggle which could mean that the perpetrator was someone he knew or he never saw it coming.

Evidence points to the latter when Dean reads up on the other two victims: a twenty-nine year old Caucasian woman, Katie Roberts and a thirty-five year old African man, David Williams. None of them had anything in common with each other except for being homeowners of the same house for a brief time before their death and the fact that none had defended themselves against the assault.

There had been no witnesses, no mention of any person-shaped thing that may have entered or left the premises, strangely enough, considering that all three victims died at various times of the day. And, he recalls from the first article, no breaking and entering.

“The house will be closed down soon, yes?” Dean questions. “I’m surprised it was even sold a third time considering two murders took place there, coincident or not.”

The officer sighs, shaking his head. “People like their rumours, agent.”

Dean looks up. “What rumours?”

“About the gold.”

Silence follows where there should be an explanation, and Dean tries not to grit his teeth. “If you could elaborate...”

“Ah, let me tell you a story: in the mid 1700’s, the French had a fort from where they were transporting about a ton of gold to somewhere in this state. The fort was taken over by the British army and they found out about this gold and were out to get it for themselves. In order to prevent the enemy from getting their hands on it, the French supposedly buried the gold somewhere in this city,” the officer says, looking proud as if he aced a history presentation.

“And what does this have to do with the current murders?” Dean prompts impatiently.

“Well, these two idiot brothers apparently obtained information from somewhere that the gold was buried where that house is. Wanted to dig it up for themselves before the place got built. But you know, guy gets a little greedy and then family doesn’t matter anymore. Got into a huge fight, they did. One stabbed the other and is now spending the rest of his life in jail.”

“Wait, so these guys,” Dean indicates the files, “aren’t the only ones to die in that place?”

The officer nods. “That’s right. Those people thought they might try and sit on a pile of gold, too.”

“And how long ago was the incident with the brothers?”

“Hm, three years ago, I think.”

It’s very likely the work of a vengeful ghost, Dean thinks. The ghost of a brother who got stabbed because the other one wanted too much.

He asks a few more questions, mainly to know where the dead brother was buried. He’s surprised that he was able to figure everything out so quickly that he feels a bit wary. He can only hope for the best with tonight’s salt-and-burn process.

“Thank you; you’ve been very helpful,” Dean nods, giving the files back.

“Anything for the hard-working agent, agent.”

The officer grins, and Dean’s pretty sure the guy’s being deliberately obtuse. He gives a tight smile in return before walking straight out of the station without looking back.

Two hours later, they meet again where Dean had dropped his passengers off. Barnes and the captain have heard a similar story about the gold and how people are still looking for it to this day. They comment on how people really haven’t changed over the years, obsessing over practically non-existent riches.

Dean shares the information he gathered, watching the fascination mixed with scepticism grow on their faces.

Still, Cap shares an excited look with Barnes.

“Guess we’ll finally be able to see if ghosts are real.”

Chapter Text

Kenneth and Luke Griffin had lived in a somewhat isolated house on the opposite side of the village from the haunted building.

Dean, who is currently playing the part of a passionate journalist looking to write about the legendary lost gold and Cap, his co-worker, are invited into the home by a mother who seemingly couldn’t care less what they came here for.

Barnes sits outside in the Impala, guarding it with his life.

Mrs. Griffin is a small, frail woman; the reminder of losing both her sons to greed only increases the vulnerable air surrounding her as she moves around, preparing tea for her guests. The husband, if he lives here as well, is nowhere to be found.

Dean and Cap sit on one sofa in the living room decorated with soft colours and photos, and she soon joins them on the opposite-facing sofa after placing three cups onto the coffee table between them.

According to the unfortunate mother, the body that needed to be burned to release the spirit of one Kenneth Griffin had been cremated.

Dean offers his condolences and makes sympathetic noises where appropriate, and Cap, visibly saddened by the woman’s loss, takes her hand and holds it.

“I’m truly sorry for your loss, ma’am,” he says.

Mrs. Griffin sighs, resigned. “Thank you. The boys, they—they were grown men, free to make their own choices. But it was completely unexpected, you know? The awful way they turned on each other...”

Personally, Dean thinks that the potential had always been there, seeing as the murder happened at all. She is just too soft-hearted to have seen it.

“It must’ve been hard, organizing your sons’ things,” Dean says.

“Yes, yes, it was. And we never even got Kenneth’s watch back.”

“His watch?” Cap asks.

“Kenneth had a sterling silver watch that we got four years ago for his twenty-fifth birthday, and the boy had never taken it off since. I don’t understand how it got lost, even though he was wearing it that day.”

“That sucks,” Dean says. He perhaps should have been a little more tactful with his vocabulary, but Mrs. Griffin surprisingly cracks a small smile at that.

“Yes, indeed,” she sighs. “It was a reminder of a good memory.”

They don’t stay much longer after that, having gotten a clue as to what is keeping Kenneth’s ghost tied to the house. It’s most likely that the missing watch was lost during the fight the two brothers had when they had broken into the house in the midst of construction, and it’s rolling around somewhere in the basement.

Cap thanks her for the tea as they stand. It’s clear that they barely took any notes for their supposed article, but Mrs. Griffin doesn’t seem to notice. She had simply wanted someone to talk to, and Dean feels a twinge of sadness for the woman who looks lonely as she stands at the door, waving goodbye to them.

When they get to the car, Cap silently slides in next to Barnes in the backseat, and Dean sits in front of the wheel, waiting for something.

A few quiet moments of breathing pass before Cap opens his mouth. “We fight for freedom and peace—so that people can live—and in the end, a brother kills another for his own ambition.”

Dean shrugs, starts the engine. “People are stupid and selfish, Cap; they always have been.” The music starts playing and fills the inside of the car before he continues. “But people are also good and—and they’re suffering. They’re worth it.”

The words fall from Dean’s mouth like it has been rehearsed many times, and he’s not sure who he’s trying to convince.

He gets no reply, and when he glances in the mirror, he sees Cap looking out the window towards the house they just left, Barnes pressed against his side.

“So, time to review: how do we check for ghosts?”

The three of them have just had dinner at a local family restaurant where Cap had made Dean try something remotely resembling a vegetable, even if it was off his own plate; it had been his treat, because he thought Dean should be eating better. And then after making sure Dean was properly hydrated for the day, he had allowed a piece of pie for dessert.

Barnes and the captain were able to witness Dean’s undying love for the baked good. Needless to say, they had been quite impressed and amused.

Now, they’re sitting in the Impala down the street from the targeted house, waiting until an appropriate time of night to break in.

Cap sits up from his slouched position in the backseat. “Check with the electromagnetic field reader—”

“Just say ‘EMF reader’, Steve,” Barnes cuts in.

“—flickering lights, a sudden drop in ambient temperature—”

“Disfigured corpse in your face displaying obvious transparency,” Barnes adds.

“Okay, awesome,” Dean says. “And how do you defend yourself while getting ready to salt and burn?”

“Iron weapons will dissipate it, and you can surround yourself with a salt line,” Cap answers.

“Or shoot them with salt,” Barnes says.

Dean nods. “Try to remember all that when we’re inside.” Then as an afterthought, he adds, “And don’t freak out.”

Soon enough, a bit past eleven p.m., Dean is reinserting his lock pick into his inner jacket pocket and opening the door as quietly as he can. He steps across the yellow police tape scattered on the porch. With a flashlight in his left hand and a handgun in his right, he goes in low and Barnes covers him high with an iron bar, Cap following at the rear holding a rifle loaded with rock salt.

It’s dark and quiet, eerily so, the usual for unoccupied houses in the middle of the night. Anticipation of danger—of the hunt—heightens Dean’s senses, and he quiets his breathing and footsteps as if the ghost might hear. The others do the same.

The front entrance connects to a small lobby that stretches into a hallway. The hallway leads into a living room and dining room on the left, a restroom and stairs leading up on the right, and a kitchen at the back.

The silhouettes left behind as the flashlight passes over the different areas appear darker in contrast to the light, covering anything that wishes to be hidden. And Dean’s quite the expert on things hiding in the dark. He walks slowly, signaling at the others to move out and clear the rooms; he’s surprised yet not, but mostly pleased that they understand his meaning right away.

Cap goes into the dining area, Barnes to the kitchen, and Dean quickly checks the restroom before entering the living room. There is a convenient fireplace in here, perfect for burning objects, so he moves to get a fire started. After they clear their respective places, he tells Cap and Barnes to stay nearby, just to be safe.

They’re both on guard. High-alert. There is a slight fear of the unknown, only having Dean’s words to go on, as well as Dean’s own nervous energy itself. It has been a while since he hunted with anyone else other than Sammy, even more since with first-timers. He needs to trust them to watch his back even though they’re in an unfamiliar situation.

At least they’ll be more resilient than him, he thinks with wry amusement.

“I thought handguns were ineffective against ghosts,” Cap whispers.

Dean says nothing while he concentrates on the fireplace, and it crackles to life a couple minutes later. Thankfully, the person who had lived here previously before getting murdered kept it well-stocked with extra wood and lighters. He stands and dusts his hands on his jeans.

“It’s mostly for distraction,” he replies. “Won’t send them anywhere but they’ll get aggravated by it.”

The fire casts their shadows long and menacing over the furniture and walls. Even Barnes looks mildly disturbed by how it’s looming over them. The utter quiet of the house doesn’t help much.

“Did anyone find a door to the basement?” Dean asks, pulling out the EMF meter.

“It’s this way,” Barnes says, leading them into the kitchen.

A small window lets in minimal moonlight over the sink and counter against the back-right wall, and they’re able to avoid bumping into the refrigerator and stove on the immediate right side of the entrance. A glass door separates the kitchen from the dining room in the left wall, and adjacent to it, also in the back, is a sliding door leading to the backyard.

Barnes leads them around the appliances on the right, and they walk further in to see a wooden door.

Dean steps ahead, shifting the flashlight to grasp the doorknob. He looks back at the other two, an eyebrow raised as if to ask, ‘Ready?’

He gets two short nods and faces of grim determination in response.

He opens the door.

The stairs creak like a cliché, three times louder with three of them climbing down. They reach the bottom of the stairs with no problem, solid cement meeting their shoes.

It’s impossibly darker down in this basement, even with three flashlights. Nothing moving, nothing ruffling, not even a wisp of air indicating a possible draft.

The EMF reader is unexpectedly quiet considering all of the incidents took place here.

“Hey, Cap,” Dean’s voice is loud even though he speaks softly. “You remember what the watch looks like?” He refers to one of the family photos they saw back at the Griffin home.

“Yes.”

“Alright, then let’s split up and start searching.”

The basement appears to have no other purpose other than for storage, with piles of unopened boxes and miscellaneous objects lying around here and there. The previous owner must have been in the middle of organizing the before he got caught. Dean sighs internally as he looks around, seeing the imminent struggle of digging through all this junk.

Leaving the unopened boxes alone, he focuses on the items on top of and scattered around them while listening to the reassuring shuffling of two other pairs of feet. There are photo albums, a toolbox in which Dean finds nothing but tools, and a creepy garden gnome that he wants to kick over so it would stop grinning at him. He then sweeps his gaze along the floor, into every crevice and space, just to make sure the watch isn’t hidden underneath of thick layer of dust.

Dean turns to the others when even the dusty corners of the empty wall shelves yield nothing on his section of the room. "Anything?"

He sees Barnes and Cap facing him, shaking their heads. Dean shrugs in return and goes back to looking, this time moving the boxes to see behind them.

He's thinking about kicking the gnome, consequences of property damage be damned, when suddenly hairs stand on the back of his neck as the next exhale comes out as condensation. The reader in his hand starts blaring, shattering the silence.

Dean whips around, flashlight travelling all over the basement to find the ghost, and in the corner of his eye, he sees a figure phase through the wall behind Barnes.

"Behind you!"

Cap and Barnes immediately turn, iron bar already swinging halfway and rifle aimed, but then they pause.

The ghost of Kenneth is the very image of a human: a tall, dark-haired man wearing a hand-knit sweater and a pair of jeans, face contorted in anger. An ugly stab wound punctures his stomach, one side of his face bruised a deep purple, and his skin is grossly pale. They must not have expected to come face-to-face with something resembling an animated corpse.

"Shit. Shit. Barnes!" Dean shouts as he runs across the basement, watching as Barnes snaps out of it and finishes his swing.

Kenneth Griffin dissipates as the iron rod slices through him. The cold remains.

All three of them release a breath that they had been unknowingly holding.

“He’ll be back soon, so we’ve gotta hurry now,” Dean says.

When they look at him, he meets their eyes in turn and notes that the shock of their first encounter with the undead has been shaken off, if not the disbelief. He narrows his gaze at them.

“Next time, do not hesitate.”

Chapter Text

They search faster after that, but find nothing much to their frustration. The ghost comes back more and more determined with each time he’s driven away, angry at the men who he assumes have come to steal his gold.

“Maybe it’s not here!” Cap says, narrowly avoiding a furious swipe by ducking low.

“Upstairs!” Dean calls. “The murdered guys could have found the watch and moved it somewhere else!”

They run to the stairs, Barnes in the lead and Dean following last. He grunts when he’s pulled back by his right leg, making him trip. His left forearm that reflexively came between his head and the step bangs harshly on the wood, the pain stunning him briefly, and he hears someone call his name.

“Keep going!” he yells and then swiftly fires a shot over his shoulder to where he knows Kenneth is. The aggravation tactic works, releasing him from the chilling grip, and he wastes no time rushing up.

He bursts through the door of the basement, just in time to see Kenneth materialise behind Cap, a kitchen knife hovering next to him.

“Look out, Cap!” Dean warns.

Cap spins and raises his right arm just as the knife flies, and it slices through his jacket and into flesh. Barnes comes up from behind him and swings the iron, dispelling the spirit once more.

“There’s the stabby bastard we know about,” Dean mutters, ushering the three of them out of the kitchen.

“You okay, Steve?” Barnes asks as they run down the hall to the base of the other stairs.

Cap tries to keep the embedded knife stable as they move, wincing slightly when jostled too much. “I’m fine.”

With adrenaline pumping through them, it doesn’t take long to reach the top of the steps, revealing a second floor with four doors. They jump into the first room on the right.

As soon as Dean slams the door closed, he pulls out the box of salt he grabbed from the kitchen during their earlier exploration and lays a line across the doorway. Then he takes Cap’s uninjured arm and moves him to the far side of what looks like the bedroom and draws a circle around him.

“Don’t move,” Dean tells him firmly, then turns to Barnes. “We’ll check the dresser and the closet.”

A queen-sized bed takes up most of the space in the middle of the room against the wall, with the dresser against the adjacent far wall next to where Cap is standing. The closet is on the opposite side, and beside it a body-length mirror.

The dresser reveals some cufflinks and a couple of watches, neither resembling the one they’re looking for. Barnes also finds nothing in the pockets of the clothes in the closet.

Dean sighs in frustration and looks around, left arm throbbing less than before. He rounds the bed past Cap to exit the room and search another, but when he opens the door, he gets shoved past Barnes into the wall by a cold, spectral force of malicious intent. He falls to the floor coughing after Barnes disperses the ghost, waving away the concern he vaguely hears. The healing hole in his chest aches.

Kenneth is well on his way to becoming a poltergeist, he thinks tiredly, before moving to get up. Then something catches his eye.

A discarded flashlight is illuminating the dark space under the bed, and inside it there is some sort of reflection. Dean crawls to the bed and stretches out an arm to reach for it. Fingertips graze cold, solid material and he forces himself further under and grabs it. He looks.

It’s the watch.

He rolls over onto his back, meets Barnes’ eyes and tosses the watch to him. The man understands. He grabs the box of salt immediately and runs out the door. A loud impact is heard a moment later, which Dean assumes was caused by Barnes jumping over the banister and landing on the first floor.

A hand is on his arm after a second, and Cap’s worried frown hovers above him.

“Dean. Are you alright?”

Dean tries for a grin that may have come out more as a grimace. “Nothing new, Cap.”

He gets pulled up with Cap’s help, groaning at the pain in his back, and together they quickly make their way down the stairs.

Barnes is cautiously looking around for signs of the ghost as he waits for the watch to melt when they reach the fireplace. In that moment, Kenneth appears between them and before any of them can react, he goes up in flames, much to Dean’s relief. He sees the others relax as well.

“So. Not bad for a first hunt!” This time, he smiles with more cheer and receives twin looks of incredulity, which he matches with an innocent one of his own. “What? A couple bruises and scrapes, no broken bones, not much blood loss. All in a good day’s work.”

He tells them to pack up whatever they dropped which unfortunately meant going up and down more steps, but they manage to gather everything they brought before leaving the house as soon as possible.

Cap in the backseat still has a knife sticking out of his arm, Barnes has too tight a grip on the iron rod as he helps him hold the arm steady, and Dean is bruised all over. But tonight is the closest he’s gotten to the normal, simple hunter life he used to have before everything went to hell, pun fully intended. Nothing to worry about except getting rid of the monster and resting up for the next hunt.

The sound of sirens fades as Dean drives them far away from the mess they left behind.

“Is it always like that?” Cap asks, halfway back to their motel.

It startles Dean from the relaxed, almost zoned out state he was in. Thankfully, his reflexes keep him from swerving.

“What, you mean hunting?” Dean tosses back. “What about it?”

“It was the same when we first met all those years ago. It’s rather dangerous for you to be working cases alone.”

There’s a pause, Dean trying to hold back some annoyance at what he feels is questioning how he does his job.

“Where’s your brother, Dean?”

And just like that, thoughts of Sam come crashing into his mind, breaking out from the corner in which he suppressed them. His grip on the wheel tightens.

“We decided to work separately for the moment,” he says a little too casually, shutting down the topic at the same time. He doesn’t look in the mirror.

Barnes is quiet throughout the conversation. If Dean didn’t know better, he would think the man is sleeping.

“I see,” Cap says, even though he doesn’t. But he accepts Dean’s refusal to talk about it.

They ride the rest of the way in silence.

It’s around four in the morning that they finally arrive back at their motel. After everyone is stitched up and wrapped—Cap and Barnes not looking too phased by the physical exertion from earlier, which Dean envies— equipment back in place with the new addition of a kitchen knife, they settle into their respective rooms.

Dean stares at the ceiling, exhausted and lax from the medication for his chest. Sleep doesn’t come, mind in overdrive.

He thinks about tonight’s hunt, how it was caused by one man who decided some stupid gold was more precious than his only brother. He thinks about Sammy who is drifting away from him, like sand that falls through his fingers the more he tries to grasp it. He thinks about their last phone conversation, how he should’ve been the last person to be pointing fingers at the only family he has left.

He thinks, as his eyes eventually close, that he should make a phone call when he wakes up.

Chapter Text

Loud knocking has Dean jerking awake from the blood and pain and screams. And scrambling for the gun under his pillow.

“Rise and shine, buddy!” comes Barnes’ muffled words through the door.

Dean breathes deeply, forcing his aching muscles to relax. He falls back onto the bed, releases his grip on the gun and rubs a hand over his face. He feels gross. Needs a long-ass shower.

More knocking comes from the door.

“Alright, alright! Sheesh,” Dean groans and rolls out of bed, accidentally dumping the sheets tangled around his legs on the floor. He grabs the pair of jeans that were discarded last night and wrestles it on before opening the door.

He knows he looks like the mess he is, so Barnes can shove that look where the sun doesn’t shine.

“Not everyone wakes up looking like sunshine and rainbows. Sue me.”

Barnes says nothing for the few seconds he continues staring, making Dean wonder what his problem is. His eyes are a pale blue in the morning light—not that Dean has to try and stare creepily to see that—and remind him of another blue, unwavering gaze. What is it with people and their staring problems, lately?

Finally, the guy smirks. “You know what time it is?”

“Yeah; too early in the morning,” Dean grumbles, slightly cranky from his less than restful sleep.

“Afternoon,” Barnes corrects.

Dean yawns pointedly. “Where’s Cap?”

“Getting brunch.”

Wait. What?

Dean knows his eyes widen as he checks his jean pockets, and then turns back to the room to see if his keys are still on the dresser. They are. But just to make sure, he rushes out the door—Barnes swiftly moving out of the way—and sees that his Baby is right where she’s supposed to be.

“Relax,” he hears from behind him. “No one touched your precious car.”

Now he’s confused. Then how...?

As if to answer his question, the sound of running feet approach them much too quickly. When he faces the direction where it’s coming from, he sees Cap less than ten feet away. In the next second, the man is beside them holding paper bags that are emitting a delicious smell. He looks barely out of breath.

“You ran?” Dean asks, slightly awed. He reaches automatically for the food and discovers that it’s still quite warm.

“Good morning, Dean,” Cap smiles. “Oh, it’s afternoon now, isn’t it?”

“Um, yeah. Afternoon to you, too.”

“Watch out, Steve. His highness is a bit moody today,” Barnes teases.

“At least I don’t look emo,” Dean retorts lamely, mind already looking forward to a good meal.

“Alright children, enough bickering. Let’s eat,” Cap says, then nudges said children into Dean’s room.

They’re in rather good spirits today, very different from the tension that was present last night. Dean’s somewhat curious as to what changed, but maybe they simply got over whatever was bugging them. Probably post-hunt jitters.

Anyway, the first sip of coffee is a glorious rush through his veins, and the appreciative noise he makes gains him two amused looks.

“What? It’s good coffee.”

After brunch, it’s two in the afternoon. They discuss where to head next—which is Cap and Barnes asking and Dean giving vague answers—before Dean excuses himself for a walk before they start travelling. He ends up down the road about half a mile away from the motel. Five minutes later, he dials a number he can recite in his sleep.

With each ringtone that sounds, Dean’s heart seems to pound harder.

He’s not sure if he’s more afraid of his call being answered or not. He can only imagine the reasons for why Sam might not pick up, and then his heart is pounding because of that.

The ringtone stops, but no one greets him on the other end. No message instruction follows.

Dean swallows. “Sam?”

“What do you want?” The reply is flat with a hint of anger.

“Nothing. I mean. Just wanted to know how you’re doing.”

“Oh, you mean how am I doing with my priorities, Dean?”

He can’t help but clench his jaw briefly, reminded of his mistrust of Sam and disdain for his suspicious actions from not too long ago. It hasn’t gone away, not completely, but he doesn’t want to fight again.

“Don’t, Sam,” Dean says wearily. “Not that. I just want to talk.”

“Then talk.”

“You doing okay?” He means to wait for a reply, but he keeps going. “I mean, you gotta be okay, right? Picked up the phone and all, saying stuff, maybe a bit angry, at least somewhere safe—”

“Dean,” Sam interrupts, maybe more annoyed and confused now, rather than angry. “You’re rambling, dude.”

Dean sighs. “Right. Yeah.”

There’s a pause, a suspended moment in which Dean’s not breathing and worried that Sam might hang up now because this all sounds pointless.

“Did something happen, Dean?”

He shakes his head, then catches himself. “No. No, nothing.”

“Really?” Sam sounds sceptical, and although Dean won’t talk about his feelings—about the hunt that made him think of his brother—he’s glad Sam is asking. Taking interest. And they’re talking.

“It’s nothing, Sam,” he denies, then he adds quietly, “It’s been a while, that’s all.”

Another pause. “Yeah.” Sam’s now quiet, too. “Weeks.”

Weeks. Dean hasn’t seen his little brother for weeks

“God,” he barks out a bitter laugh. “I shouldn’t have left you like that. Running away in the middle of night.” Like I was abandoning my brother, he finishes in his head.

“Yeah, you shouldn’t have,” is the rough reply, and God help him, Sam sounds hurt though he probably didn’t mean to.

I’m sorry, Sammy, he thinks, but the words don’t come out of his mouth like he wants them.

“Maybe we should meet up,” he says instead. His tone is soft, hopeful; there’s an apology in there somewhere.

And Sam must have heard something in his voice, because a moment later he says, “Maybe.”

Sam doesn’t say what he has been doing after being left behind in Cheyenne, Wyoming. Dean doesn’t ask.

The kid’s in New Mexico now, still over a thousand miles away. They don’t quite make plans for a rendez-vous point yet, but somehow they know they’re going to work their way towards each other. Dean in the Impala and Sam in his current stolen car. In the meantime, they will call each other. Try to mend damaged bridges.

It’s easier said than done, obviously. Dean knows that Ruby had most likely been keeping Sam company for some of the time they had been apart, and that his brother is lying about his activities to some extent. But it’s all he’s got to work with.

Dean’s short vacation is coming to an end. Seals are still being broken, and he needs to stop them. Angels are looming over his shoulders, waiting to cast him back down if he refuses to cooperate. Hell is a whole other universe in his too small brain.

And he decides that he will tell his two... companions? Travel buddies? Maybe they’re friends, now—none of these things when he says goodbye to them. Meet with Sam, drop them off at a nearby motel. They can easily find themselves a ride home.

Last of his luggage packed in the trunk, Dean leans on the side of the car to wait for the others. A private conversation, he guesses, since they didn’t open the door when they answered his knock earlier.

Everything feels too heavy. He feels like he might collapse at any second. His Baby supports him, though, a constant presence at his back.

Two, three minutes later, Cap and Barnes walk out of their room with their bags. They toss it in the trunk, close the door.

“Did you have a good walk?” Cap asks when he comes to stand next to Dean.

“Got enough fresh air to make the next trip.”

“Maybe you should rest, Dean. I can drive to our next destination.”

“Whoa, Cap.” Dean looks at the man, scandalized, then partly amused when he puts up his hands in defense. “Nice of you to offer, but unless you’re me, you don’t drive my Baby.”

“The attachment you have to your vehicle is unhealthy,” Barnes says from the other side.

Dean turns his head towards him, offended. “That’s because she ain’t just a vehicle.” He pats both of them on their respective shoulder and pushes off the car. “I’ll forgive you this time since you guys didn’t know any better. Get in.”

He leaves two bewildered men and gets into the driver’s seat. Contrary to his expectation, they only look entertained instead of eyeing him like he’s crazy when they enter the car after him. Dean grins.

“Driver picks the music.”