Chapter Text
About that point in the conversation Sammy and May heard shouting in the lobby and the sound of Dean pounding up the steps to May’s apartment. He rushed in and skid to a stop. Cold and wet, like Sammy had been. Babbled about stopping by the room to look for Sammy, noticing the books were on his bed and one of the salt bags were gone. And then finding the salt by the front door of the motel and no Sammy inside.
He stared at Sammy as if he were one of the little boy’s fabled ghosts. The sight of his brother in a normal set of pajamas, a robe, and slippers, with his hair combed and sporting a hot chocolate mustache, was a shock.
Like seeing a glimpse of an alternative universe May told Francie later that week, as they deconstructed their impressions of the boys over a pair of hot chocolates spiked with peppermint schnapps: the iconic Smuggler.
While Dean stood transfixed, May took the opportunity to grab a few items from the lost box pile.
“Dean?” she said. “Dean?”
Got his attention, finally.
“Sammy was nice enough to agree to help me today. The lost and found box in my office is overflowing, and I was planning to take everything to a thrift store. He said he would take what he could. What about you? Could you take some things, please?? It would be a favor. Hey, and why don’t we have a pizza party? I’ll check in with Francie. We can take turns watching the front desk.”
Sammy turned the full power of those hazel eyes, glinting through his bangs, on his vulnerable older brother. If someone had told May that Dean literally would someday storm Heaven and Hell to save his baby brother, May would not be surprised.
May let the little boy sell his older brother on the nice shower and the soft towels and good-smelling soap. (Even then, Dean was a sucker for great water pressure.) Dean picked through the pile and decided on the Bronco hoodie and pants, something he knew a “normal” teenager in Colorado would wear. Let him fit in better. Sammy gave May the names of the favorite family celebration pizzas–meatlover with bacon and veggie special–and she called it in and doubled the order. Remembered as a kid how good leftover pizza tasted for breakfast. Watched Sammy munch through two more of those big oatmeal cookies. Called the pizza place back and told them she needed three extra-large of each, not two.
That night was fun. Felt a little like Christmas ought to be, Sammy said, with all the nice clothes and fancy food.
Two of the truckers were happy to finish the shovel and salt of the property for beer money; were very grateful for the 10% Francie knocked off the price of their rooms.
May washed the boys’ clothes. Stuck their tennis shoes into a laundry net bag, washed them on delicate/cold water, and held her breath. They came out just fine and survived the dryer the same way. When she gave the boys their clean tennies and clothing, she included the laundry net bag as well. Told them how it would make their clothing last longer.
Folded up the rest of the clothing and stacked them into two clean garbage bags. Easy to tuck into the corner of a motel room or car trunk.
And then there was the grey cashmere sweater. Francie demonstrated why she had graduated with honors from the University of Chicago Business School. That woman knew how to negotiate, even with someone as stubborn as Dean.
Francie told Dean that the sweater was expensive, not because it was for snooty people, but because the wool came from rare animals who were able to live in bitter cold, in the highest mountain passes. The yarn spun from the undercoat was stronger and lighter than wool, so the sweater provided extra warmth without the bulk.
“It’s not about fashion,” said Francie. “It’s about having the best tool for the job.”
Dean kept the sweater until he outgrew it. By that time, it fit Sammy, but just for a year or so. It lived in the bottom of Dean’s duffle bag for years and eventually found a permanent spot in the bottom of a drawer in his Bunker bedroom, the place where Dean kept things that reminded him of happy times.
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Everything changed after that night. Dean was less the cocky teen and more the friendly boy who loved to eat and play games with his younger brother. Would hug the women before he went to bed.
Started doing more handyman chores. Anything that needed a screwdriver or involved a motor the older boy could fix. And he glowed under the women’s lavish praise.
And Sammy talked and talked and talked. And talked. About everything and anything. Francie and May were willing audiences. Actually, Francie was delighted. Loved kids. Loved smart kids.
Sammy let on that Dean loved pie. May walked over to the grocery store and asked to meet the ex-military bakery manager to discuss a special order. His name was Roger. For some reason, they spent an hour discussing pies. The next day he showed up with a pie. And the next day. And the next. Refused payment. Said it was nice to have an appreciative audience. Brought thermoses of gourmet coffee. Containers of soup and casserole dishes from the deli department.
Francie and the boys exchanged looks, which May and Roger, the chef, never noticed.
But no mention was made of hunting monsters. And no word from their father.
Two more weeks. May and Francie talked about what to do. Francie considered kidnapping the younger boy and placing him in the best gifted program in the state. But the local school district was good, and they had several programs for kids like Sammy. And Francie’s old law firm had people who could sort out the legalities of keeping the brothers with them.
When they discussed the subject of school with the boys, Sammy lit up, but Dean looked sad. Told the women he was too stupid for a real classroom. To their surprise, Sammy yelled at Dean and told him that he was smart, really really smart, and to not put himself down. Wow.
Looking back, the boys knew what was going to happen, but they were determined to enjoy their time at the motel as long as they could.
And then an old truck pulled up to the motel with South Dakota plates.
Uncle Bobby was greeted with laughs and hugs. Both brothers were thrilled to see him. Dragged him in to meet May and Francie. Both boys, talking at once, told him everything that had happened the last three weeks, Sammy leaving out the snipe demon fiasco.
“Okay, boys,” he said. “Time to go. Your daddy got tied up with business down in Texas. Couldn’t get away. Asked me to come get you. We’re going back to Sioux Falls. Need to keep me company. And the dogs miss you both. Time for a visit.”
The boys ran to their motel room. Bobby stayed behind to talk to the women, who had watched the happy reunion in silence.
“You have done right by my boys. Hell, I ain’t their real uncle; they are sort of like my adopted kids. Their daddy is a good man, but since their mother died, he is…obsessed. Don’t know what the boys told you. Frankly, I would take them away if I could, but they adore him. He doesn’t beat him or nothing like that. If he did, I would handle it myself. But, he forgets. I think he forgets his own children, sometimes. Drinks too much. Wounded.”
Bobby smiled.
“Never seen them happier.”
He pulled out a thick roll of bills, but May turned away to hide the tears streaming down her face. Francie was braver. She stepped forward and pressed her hand against Bobby’s.
“No thank you, sir,” she said. “It was our privilege and pleasure.”
He nodded. Still managed to hide the money in the top drawer of the front desk, for Francie to discover that night.
The boys returned, rosy-cheeked and breathless. Obviously, going to stay with Uncle Bobby was a treat.
“We loaded the truck. Can I drive?” asked Dean. Bobby pretended to weigh the question. A little dance they had done before.
“When we get back, on the property. You know the rules.”
Dean beamed.
Sammy walked up to the women. Francie was hugging May. They broke apart to greet the boy.
Dean and Bobby watched.
“We’ll be back. Don’t cry.” He looked determined.
“You’ll always be welcome,” said May.
The daily evening box of donuts had already arrived, and May thrust it in the boy’s hands.
“For the road.” An excuse for her to call Roger for another shipment, she said.
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Roger and May became an item. Married. Roger found the right property on the abandoned industrial park a block from the motel and opened his own bakery and coffee shop.
Francie managed the business side for both. She had a whole new customer base to flirt with. May stuck to her guns and made sure the motel, even with upgrades like wi-fi and premier cable, was affordable for the truckers and working class folks who came through, looking for cheap and good.
And Dean and Sammy came back, sometimes with their father, sometimes with Bobby, or other men and women who called themselves Hunters. One of those bigger rooms at the end of the property were reserved for them, even when the place was filled up.
Would touch base. Treated it like a vacation. Another home.
May and Francie watched the boys grow up into fine young men. And came to realize that they did important work. And, finally, over single malt whiskey and one of Roger’s pecan pies, Dean and Sam told May and Francie and Roger the truth. Well, some of it. Three shots of the good stuff and tipsy Sam told his version of the story of Sammy and the Snipe Demon. Dean laughed so hard he fell off his chair. Good times.
Sam finally got to throw ten of Roger’s third-best knives into a homemade target. Ten bullseyes.
The father, John, died. Strange things happened, things that Bobby, Dean, and Sam knew too much about. Sometimes years would go by without a word, and then the Impala would appear, like the Flying Dutchman, portending evil, out of the tail end of a blizzard that dumped a foot of snow in a day or one of those slow-moving, giant supercells that filled dry creeks to overflowing and scoured the Platte River with 10-foot tall tsunamis of water and debris.
The men, Dean and Sam, broad-shoulder and tall, would hug Francie and May until their old bones creaked. Roger would deliver a pie, or three.
If they stayed, Dean would scout the property for repairs that needed to be made, and Sam and Francie would sit, shoulder-to-shoulder, checking the computer system for upgrades to install.
Bobby died. And, through a couple of slips of the tongue, May, her husband, and her best friend realized that both of the two good men had died, more than once. Had bested Hell and Heaven, God and Death and the Devil.
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If you would happen to visit the motel today, you would admire the latest paint job, which includes a mural on the front wall of a peaceful white beach under blue skies, with a small flock of shore birds pecking in the shallows.
Open the lobby door and inhale the intoxicating odor of donuts and pie and strong coffee. Meet the two white-haired ladies who run the place with the help of a couple of interns–hospitality business majors from the nearby community college. (There’s a waiting list.)
If the Impala is parked outside, you might see Sam and Dean, long legs stretched out from beneath a side table in the breakfast nook, papers and laptops taking over every spare inch. Or, Dean will be lounging on the comfy couch in front of a state-of-the art, high-definition television, watching a football game with a couple of truckers, drinking clandestine beer, and sharing a pizza. Sam will be sitting at a breakfast table with his latest laptop, a giant slice of some exotic veggie quiche that Roger whipped up on a dinner plate in front of him. He will be close enough to keep up with the game but still able to troll the Internet for info for their next case.
Both Dean and Sam look happy.
Are you sure you're in the right place? Go outside and check the sign, big enough to be seen from Interstate 70 as you head into the foothills.
Shelter from the Storm.