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“Books are uniquely portable magic.”
— Stephen King
“Dean,” Sam begins, tone heavy the exasperation of having already had this conversation one too many times, “the bookstore is not evil.”
In lieu of an emphatic finger point, Dean jabs at the air between them with the slice of pizza he’s holding. “We don’t know that,” he insists, as the crust flops over and a stray olive goes rolling across the kitchen table.
Sam’s eyebrows pinch together and his mouth twists; he frowns first at the olive, now resting against the base of his beer bottle, before settling the expression on his brother. “Dean.”
“Sam.”
The ensuing stare-off is a short one. After only a couple beats, Dean caves and says, “Look, something’s up with that place. The population of Lebanon is what, 300? Tops? The town can’t even support a strip club—a strip club, Sam. So explain to me how the hell a bookstore stays afloat without some sort of supernatural intervention.”
Sam shrugs. “Maybe the owner’s just really good at what they do. Running a successful business isn’t exactly a crime.” He reaches for his beer, adding, “Or, I don’t know, man, maybe strip clubs aren’t as lucrative as you seem to think.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
As far as concessions go, it’s pretty lacklustre. So Sam reiterates, “The bookstore is not evil,” because apparently Ground Control still hasn’t gotten through to Major Tom, and—for good measure—he follows that up by flicking Dean’s wayward olive onto the floor.
A telltale muscle in Dean’s jaw jumps once. Twice.
Bingo.
“Really?” Dean demands.
*
The thing is, Dean gets where Sam’s coming from: On the surface, Portable Magic looks just like any other bookstore—quiet, unassuming, and about as threatening as a paper cut. It occupies a small two-storey house just off Main Street that, since being re-zoned and purchased as a commercial property, has been given a fresh coat of rich blue paint (“TARDIS blue,” Dean’s traitorous mind supplies every single time he drives by) and outfitted with cream-coloured window boxes. A newly constructed bay window boasts an ever-changing book display, each one more whimsical than the last. Truthfully, it looks a hell of a lot more reputable than any bookstore he and Sam have ever frequented.
But it doesn’t sit right with Dean—like, at all.
For starters, those window boxes? Always overflowing with perfectly blooming flowers. Sorry, but no one’s thumb is that green.
And then there’s the matter of the store’s unnaturally strong customer base. Portable Magic has only been open for three months, at most, yet the parking lot is almost always packed to capacity. And the store isn’t just drawing in local traffic, either; the other day Dean spotted a Prius with California plates out front.
So, yeah. He’s pretty sure the bookstore is evil.
*
“Let me get this straight,” Sam finds himself saying a couple days later. “You’re upset because the window display is…too good?” Even as his mouth forms the words, he struggles (and fails) to parse their logic.
“No, of course not,” Dean scoffs, as if Sam’s the crazy one in this scenario. “I’m upset because it’s awesome, Sam. Bad awesome.”
“What does that even—” Sam cuts himself off. “You know what? Never mind.” He blows out a gusty sigh that somewhat eases his immediate frustration, but does little to help the brother-induced ache making a permanent home in his temples. “There’s this thing called practice. I hear it makes perfect.”
“Dude, it’s a dragon. A massive, freestanding dragon made out of books. Virgins were definitely sacrificed.” Dean walks purposefully around the map table, thumbing at his phone as he approaches. “Here,” he says, “check it out.”
Without ceremony, the phone gets shoved beneath Sam’s nose, so close that he momentarily goes cross-eyed trying to focus on the screen. Once he manages to turn double vision back into single, though, he’s forced to admit, “Okay, that’s actually pretty impressive.”
“It’s unnatural, is what it is. And so far we’re doing jack all to fix it.”
“Because there’s nothing to fix!”
Dean throws his hands up into the air. “The bookstore is evil, Sam.”
“The bookstore. Is not. Evil.”
*
Dean texts Cas the book-dragon photo.
Officially, he does this because bad awesome is still awesome, and therefore he has a moral obligation to share it. But mostly, he sends Cas the photo just because he can. Because after days and weeks of reaching for his phone only to remember, upon his mind catching up with his body, that his best friend was gone, he feels he’s allowed the indulgence.
And that’s what he tells himself when minutes slide into hours and he’s left staring at a read receipt and feeling increasingly like a clingy thirteen-year-old girl.
*
“Do you have any idea how hard it is to make it as an independent bookseller these days?”
Through sheer force of will, Sam resists the jolt of adrenaline that encourages him to flail at Dean’s sudden appearance in his doorway. “I, uh—I think the more important question here is, why do you?”
Light from the hallway spills into Sam’s comparatively dark bedroom, his donation-bin table lamp no match for the bright fluorescence of the bunker’s overheads. Cast in semi-silhouette, Dean stands on the threshold clad in his robe and sporting an impressive case of bedhead. His right hand is a flicker of constant motion at his side; as Sam’s eyes adjust, he realizes Dean’s fidgeting with his phone, turning it over and over in his palm.
With a jocularity belied by the anxious tick, Dean says, “Screw you, I research.”
Sam scrubs a hand over his face and checks the time on his laptop: it’s two o’clock in the morning, a revelation that goes a long way toward explaining the dry heat behind his eyes. “I thought you hit the sack hours ago,” he says.
Dean shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Got distracted looking into this bookstore thing.” Flip, flip, goes the phone.
“Do you think,” Sam ventures, starting to collect the array of papers spread across his mattress, “that maybe you’re fixating on this case as a way to…I don’t know, distract yourself from all the other crap we’ve been spinning our wheels on?”
“Ah! So you admit it’s a case.”
Sam doesn’t even have to look to know Dean’s plastered on a smug, toothy grin.
“The bookstore is not evil,” he says vehemently. “And don’t think I don’t know you’re deflecting.” He slaps the stack of gathered papers onto his nightstand, shuts his laptop lid with a snap. “All this stuff with Jack and Ketch, with whatever Asmodeus is up to, with—with Mom—it’s got me spun out, too. And I don’t like Cas going off on his own any more than you do. But—”
“But ‘Cas’ll be fine, he always is.’ Right?”
Dean’s voice has acquired an indecipherable edge, and his triumphant expression has melted into a mask of perfect blankness. Later, Sam will blame the mistake of replying “Right” on exhaustion.
There’s an interminable pause. Then Dean purses his lips and slowly nods to himself. “Right,” he echoes. The tiny, bitter laugh that follows is barely louder than a breath. “That’s—yeah. Okay, good talk.”
He turns on his heel and departs as abruptly as he arrived.
Into the judgmental emptiness of his room, Sam says meditatively, “Yeah, I fucked that up.”
*
In Dean’s nightmares they drive for hours, a caravan of two vehicles bound for home. Around them, the night deepens to its blackest black; shadows twist and tangle at the edges of the highway, threatening to swallow the small band of weary travellers whole. Dean can’t stop flicking his eyes to the rearview mirror, double, triple, quadruple checking that the twin headlights of Cas’ truck are still there in the reflection. Occasionally, out of his peripheral vision, he catches Sam doing the same.
The fifth time he notices the flash of Sam’s moon-paled face tilting up and to the left, Dean gives himself permission to ask: “Think he’s all good back there?” The question’s been sitting heavy on his tongue for miles, but it doesn’t roll off any easier for it.
Something in Sam’s behaviour shifts. Goes cold. “Dean,” he says, “you know there’s no one there.”
And he’s right. When Dean checks the mirror again, the road behind them is entirely dark.
This recurring dream is a new one that, while fairly benign given the horror show crammed into his brainpan, always leaves him with shaky hands and sharp pangs rocketing around high in his lungs. As a result, he’s spent a few sleepless nights researching the book industry.
Sue him.
*
“Morning!”
Dean halts his bleary shuffle into the kitchen and visibly recoils from the enthusiastic greeting. “…Morning?” The final syllable tilts up in an unasked question.
“I just got a fresh pot of coffee started,” Sam says. “It’ll be ready in a few.”
“Great.”
Sam tries not to be obvious in his scrutiny as he watches his brother make his way over to the fridge. Despite clearly being only half-awake at best, Dean’s dressed—in worn jeans and an old Henley with a hole in one sleeve, but dressed. And he’s pouring himself a glass of orange juice instead of going for a beer, which is usually a good sign. If it weren’t for the tense line of his shoulders, or the heavy bags beneath his eyes, Sam would almost be willing to ignore what had happened the night before.
Almost.
He clears his throat. “So, uh—have you heard from Cas lately?”
Dean slams the fridge door shut with much more force than the ancient appliance should reasonably be expected to weather. “Nope.”
Sam isn’t sure which is more telling: the popped p or the over-bright smile Dean offers up afterward. Yeah, he’s definitely found the right nerve.
“Not unless a thumbs-up emoji counts,” Dean continues. “Because the guy’s really on the ball with those.”
“He’s probably just caught up with a lead on Jack,” Sam says, more out of habit than any real belief it’ll help. “He’ll call us if he needs back-up.”
Dean hums noncommittally and takes a grudging sip of his juice.
“And anyway, we’re busy, too.”
“We are?”
“Well, I mean, we’ve got our own leads to work on. Plus, I figure we might as well go check out that bookstore today. Just in case, you know?”
Dean’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “Thought you said it’s not evil,” he says. “I don’t need another one of your pity hunts.”
“My—?” The coffeemaker beeps. Saved by the bell. “Oh, hey. Coffee’s done. You wanna grab some before we head out?”
*
It’s not that Dean was hiding the tape, per se. It’s just that he was really, really hoping that if he stashed it in the back of the battered box of cassettes that no one (Sam) would come across it before it could be returned to its rightful owner. And quite frankly, he thinks it says a lot about his life that his pain-in-the-ass brother does exactly that within the first five minutes of their drive into Lebanon proper. He doesn’t even know why Sam was looking through their music collection to begin with—the drive totals out at fifteen minutes, if that. Yet here they are: Sam’s holding the tape up and saying, “This one’s new,” and the tips of Dean’s ears are catching fire.
“I made it for Cas,” he says-yells, snatching ‘Dean’s Top 13 Zepp Traxx’ out of Sam’s grasp one-handed and stuffing it into the breast pocket of his jacket. He can’t explain the defensiveness, or why his heart feels like it’s about to climb out of his throat; all he knows is that he feels caught at something he can’t (is afraid to, isn’t ready to) put a name on, and Sam’s looking at him like a dog finally able to see colour. Desperately trying to return them to some sort of equilibrium, Dean elaborates, “Now that he’s stuck driving like the rest of us poor schmucks, he could use some good road music.”
“Sure,” Sam says easily. Too easily.
“‘Course,” Dean goes on after a moment, a restless finger tap tap tapping the steering wheel, “the idiot left it behind when he decided to take off on his own. Again.”
And there. It’s easier to be pissed than it is to be worried, or—or anything else he might be being right now.
If Sam disagrees, for once he keeps his platitudes to himself.
*
“It really is bigger on the inside.”
Sam blinks. He’s about ninety percent sure that was a Doctor Who reference.
He’s also one hundred percent sure he should let it go without comment.
So instead he says, “It’s definitely got a wow factor.” And it’s true: Portable Magic boasts an open concept layout, floating lights that look like they’ve been taken straight off the set of Harry Potter, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves accompanied by honest-to-god rolling ladders. Not to mention the dragon display in the bay window, which is even more impressive in person.
Beside him, Dean wonders aloud, “Why are there mini cactuses everywhere?”
Busy admiring the old-fashioned cash register at the front counter, Sam says absently, and to his immediate regret, “Succulents are really popular right now.”
“Okay, Martha Stewart,” Dean snorts. “I’m gonna go have a look around. You okay to interview the owner, or will you get distracted trading decorating tips?”
“Dean!”
Cheeks twitching with the effort of restraining his amusement (and whether that amusement is aimed at his own own joke or Sam’s reversion to a whinier, pre-teen self is anyone’s guess), Dean says soberly, “Sam.”
“Shit,” a third voice chimes in.
*
A short redhead stares at them through heavy plastic-framed glasses, the corners of her mouth tugging further and further down with each passing second. Her ever-widening eyes skate first over Sam, then Dean; slowly, her head draws back until her chin is nearly flush with her neck. “Shit,” she says again, louder this time.
“Uh—” Dean glances at Sam for help, but none is forthcoming. The girl’s wearing a black dress with a white Peter Pan collar that gives off some serious Wednesday Addams vibes, and an incongruous pair of sunshine yellow shoes designed to look like sleeping cats. He has no idea what to make of her.
She pushes past where they’re loitering near the store’s entrance to peer out the screen door. “Seriously?” she demands of the parking lot. “Fuck my entire life.”
“Are—do you work here?” Sam tries. “We can move the car if it’s—”
She whirls to face them, expression of abject horror still firmly affixed. “Was it the flowers? It was the flowers, wasn’t it. Or—the dragon? The dragon tipped you off. Shit. But look, gravity is a cruel mistress, okay? So yes, fine, I used one tiny little adhesive charm. But I really don’t think that’s worth killing me over.”
The buoyant joy of being right bubbles up in Dean’s chest.
“You’re a witch,” Sam says.
“She’s a witch,” Dean confirms. “Hah!” He slaps his wrong-footed brother on the shoulder. “I told you that dragon was bad awesome.”
*
The witch—“Excuse you, I’m a specialized book retailer, and my name is Lee”—ushers them to the back of the store. At 10 AM on a Wednesday the place isn’t exactly crowded, but the elderly gentleman browsing the biographies section looked like he was beginning to take exception to the excess of foul language (Lee’s, mostly) and so the executive decision was made to relocate.
“It wasn’t the flowers,” Dean says once they’re huddled next to a shelf labelled ‘Corner of Shame,’ even though it kind of was. “And it was only sort of the dragon.”
Lee raises both eyebrows, a single eyebrow evidently not enough to convey the depth of her skepticism. “Then what the ever-loving hell did I do to deserve a murder visit from the Winchesters?”
“No one’s murdering anyone,” Sam says, shooting Dean a pre-emptive glare. “And to answer to your question, we just found it kind of…” He stops to search for a neutral phrase. “…hinky that your business is doing so well. Lebanon, Kansas, isn’t exactly a thriving metropolis.”
“I told you, I’m a specialized book retailer. It’s not that hard to be successful in this industry if you find your niche,” she says.
“Okay, one,” Dean begins, “don’t be cute, we know that’s code for ‘I use magic to make money.’ And B, don’t think we’re going to skip over the part where you somehow know who we are.”
Lee squints at him. “No offence, but I own a bookstore. And you guys have a series of books written about you. If you can’t put two and two together, that makes me kind of sad.”
“Yeah, well.” Dean frowns and works his jaw as he casts about for a witty retort. Failing that, he settles on: “Offence taken.”
“I think we’re getting off track here,” Sam interjects, summoning up a smile that manages to be only sort of pained. “Lee—no one’s gotten hurt that we know of, so just explain to us what’s going on. We’ll go from there.”
She considers him, and considers him, then seems to come to a decision. “I don’t use magic to make money,” she says carefully. “There’s this thing called bibliotherapy. It’s basically the idea that if a person reads the right book at the right time, it can help them. Give them something they need in order to grow, or heal. You know?” She waits for them to nod their understanding before continuing, “I get that it may sound stupid to you, but books have gotten me through a lot. And I believe they can get my customers through whatever they’re going through, too. So I cast a charm on all my inventory as it comes in. It makes the receiving process a lot longer than I’d like, but in the end it ensures that everyone who walks through my door finds the book they need most. It calls to them.”
Dean lets out a contemplative “Huh.”
“That’s…actually kind of sweet,” Sam says.
“I’m wearing cat shoes,” she replies. “I don’t know what you expected.”
*
They let her off the hook, with a halfhearted warning that they’ll be keeping an eye on her should she even think about straying from the straight and narrow. They’ve live-and-let-lived with way shadier characters in the past, after all; Lee’s just a girl who wants to help people and make epic book-dragons, and there’s nothing wrong with that, as far as Dean’s concerned.
He’s snapping more photos of said book-dragon when Lee approaches him.
“Sam’s still drooling over the history books,” she reports. “And that’s on the house by the way.”
“Oh,” Dean says. Visions of him and Sam attempting to wrestle the dragon down the bunker stairs explode across his mind’s eye. None of them end well. “Listen, it’s cool and all, but I don’t really have anywhere to put it, so…”
“No, oh my God.”
Lee gestures vaguely, and he realizes he’s holding a book. Right. That makes more sense.
Or it would, except he doesn’t remember picking it up.
“Oh,” he says again, thrown. “Thanks, but, uh—I don’t—I don’t even know what it’s about.”
Lee studies him with her lips pressed tightly together. At length, she says, “I’m going to go with ‘space adventures,’ because I feel like if I say ‘the nature of love’ you’ll bust out in hives and won’t take it.”
Okay, but: “You literally just said—”
“Which would be a hella bad move, my dude, because apparently, you need it.”
And that’s pretty difficult to argue with.
*
“‘What is essential is invisible to the eye,’” Sam recites when he notices The Little Prince sitting between them on the Impala’s bench seat. A distant memory tugs at him—a sun-dappled library table, Jess’ long blonde hair obscuring colourful illustrations and tickling his bare arm, two crappy coffees from the student lounge sitting side-by-side—and it makes him smile. “We had to read that for an English course at Stanford. Did Lee give it to you?”
“Yeah,” Dean says. “Guess I picked it up when I wasn’t paying attention, and she insisted I take it. I dunno. What’s with the Yoda impression?”
“It’s a line from the story. A pretty famous one, actually.”
“Huh.” Dean mulls that over. “Well, no more spoilers.”
Sam’s brows tick up. “You’re actually going to read it?”
“I was promised space adventures.”
“You get that’s not really what it’s about, right?”
“Whatever, dude.”
They lapse into companionable silence, and for the rest of the drive home, Sam’s free to pick and pull at the implications of The Little Prince’s presence in the car. He thinks about a fictional boy who misses the rose he didn’t know how to love until it was too late; he thinks about a perfect September afternoon in California; and he thinks about a mixtape tucked away in the pocket over his brother’s heart.
As they pull into the bunker’s garage, Sam says, “I know it’s been a tough few months for both of us, and we haven’t exactly seen eye-to-eye on things lately. But if you ever want to talk, you do know I’m here to listen, right?”
Dean allows the words to settle between them while he parks. “I know,” he eventually tells the windshield. Then: “You maybe weren’t totally wrong. Last night, I mean. Maybe I was using this case to distract myself from some of the other stuff we’ve got going on.”
“You maybe weren’t totally wrong, either,” Sam admits. “Turns out the bookstore was a little bit evil.”
Dean finally meets his gaze, eyes crinkled at the corners and twinkling. “Yeah, it was.”