Chapter Text
Middle of nowhere Oregon. 2010
Small, white waves were crashing softly on the cliffs behind a stout house. All around, trees of all varieties shot up from the ground, swallowing the house. Birds chirped softly with the rising of the sun, small animal feet crushed grass blades, and out beyond was the crunching of gravel under a dark hoof.
Everything was as it should be.
Inside the house, lay two people sleeping. One sprawled atop the other under warm, soft blankets. The other was just beginning to wake, the early morning sun shining through the window into his eyes. Groaning, he rubs his eyes with his only free hand before opening them. Sunlight met green in a burst of wakefulness. Taking the arm draped across him off gently, he pushed himself out of the bed stumbling to his feet. Grabbing a shirt, he quietly fled the room. Down the stairs he went, pausing at times to gaze softly at photos hung on walls. Each photo held a scene with one or both men in them, making up years of memories. The man made his way to a small, but obviously well-loved, kitchen and began puttering around making what only could be assumed as breakfast. He moved around confidently and assuredly, like it was something he had been doing for years and could only hope he would for many more.
Putting a least a half dozen pieces of bacon onto a pan, the man hummed to himself already thinking about the next thing. Unbeknownst to him, the other man who had been fastly asleep, was quietly making his way down the stairs and around into the kitchen. Lining his body up behind the first man, he wrapped his arms around the man’s chest and hooked his chin over his shoulder. The first, not appearing to be startled smiled, continuing to observe the bacon sizzling in the pan.
“Dean,” the other man graveled in his ear. “Coffee?”
“In the pot. Should still be hot, I just made it.” The man—Dean—whispered back at the one around him. The other man slowly extracted his hold on Dean and moved clumsily over to the pot of coffee sitting on the kitchen countertop. The man studied the pot for a moment before taking it in one hand and drinking straight from it, not even flinching at the heat.
“Y’gotta stop doing that, Cas. I swear, it’s bad for your tastebuds.” Dean shook his head, poking at the bacon with a spatula.
“I’m fine.” Cas swallowed another large helping of coffee from the pot. “I have no need for tastebuds. It’s all j—”
“’Just molecules’, yeah, I’ve heard that one before.” Dean sighed, scooping the bacon onto two plates. Setting the plates down, he cracked and scrambled eggs into the bacon pan.
“Dean, I wish to remind you that even if I were to ‘burn my tastebuds off’ I could just as easily regenerate them.” Cas, still gripping the whole pot of coffee, leaned on the counter next to Dean unafraid of how close he was to the burners. Dean huffed at the sight and lazily scratched at his brow.
“You’re lucky I look after you like I do, or else you would’ve been dead in a ditch in the first year you were here.” Dean moved the now done eggs off the pan and onto the two plates of bacon.
“That’s debatable.” Cas muttered while taking one plate in hand, taking it to the small kitchen table placed just past the threshold, almost in the hallway to the backdoor.
“You say something over there, feathers?” Dean said, smiling. Cas sat down and smiled softly back in lieu of a response. Dean placed his own plate before going back to the oven and checking the burner. After assuring himself that the stove wasn’t on anymore, Dean made his way back to the table and sat down across from the other man.
“Shit, I forgot forks,” Dean hung his head. “Hold on, I’ll go get ‘em.” Cas hadn’t even tried to make a move to get up, a piece of bacon hanging partway out of his mouth. Dean moved up from the table and to the kitchen and was just grabbing two mismatched forks when he heard the crunching of gravel under car tires. Freezing, Dean went through his mental catalogue of people who knew where he was with the means to get there and came up with only three names.
Bobby.
He would’ve let Dean or Cas know if he was coming for a visit and he hadn’t heard from Bobby in at least a week. Not Bobby then.
Ellen.
Like Bobby, Ellen would’ve told one of them if she was coming, and she it was her then there should’ve been more than one car. She had been begging Dean to let Jo come by during her next visit so he could take a look at her shitty Ford pickup. Not Ellen and Jo.
Jody.
Jody had come by yesterday, no way she had turned around on her way back to Sioux Falls to visit in the morning. Not after her talking about how fast she had to get back to the station because of some idiot demanding to see the sheriff and saying how she’d be back in the next few weeks. No, this wasn’t Jody.
Someone had found them. Someone who wasn’t supposed to.
“Cas! You hear that?” Dean whisper shouted from the kitchen dropping the forks.
“Dean.” Cas had already gotten up from the table and was quietly moving from one side of the kitchen over to Dean.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Dean looked over at Cas who had already pulled a sleek long-bladed knife seemingly out of nowhere.
“Probably. Here.” Cas handed Dean a pistol with an ivory and silver-plated wooden handle. Dean took the gun before motioning a code to Cas, signaling movements.
“Whatever’s out there ain’t friendly.” Dean clicked the safety off and slunk around the corner out into the hallway. Cas not too far behind, soon taking position opposite Dean. Slowly they moved to the only possible entrance, crouching, hearing a car door slamming and the unmistakable sound of boots on gravel. Freezing, the boots climb up the steps to the porch and thump, thump, thump their way to the front door.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Three solid knocks. Dean pulled himself up out of his crouch holding a hand up behind him telling Cas to stay back and behind. The door had tinted and frosted glass, covered by a sheer curtain—an indulgence on Cas’s part Dean felt rather strongly about. Dean could barely make out a tall figure standing on the other side of the door. Not wanting to risk it any longer, Dean sidled up close to the door and clicked the lock. One hand held the ivory gun and the other gently grasped the doorknob, sure to keep the gun out of sight. Dean turned the knob at a seemingly tortuous pace, pulling the door open inch by inch.
On Dean’s front porch, shadowed by the sun, stood a man. As his features became clearer, Dean could see the face of a boy he once knew.
“Sammy?”