Work Text:
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Every town had some little quirk that made it stand out.
There was the small town in Idaho with the Farmer's Market that still had the best blueberries he had ever tasted, the one place in Georgia that looked like it fell from the pages of a storybook, that place in Arizona with the best running paths he had yet to explore.
This town was similar to so many others- small police force, volunteer fire departments, one newspaper covering hundreds of miles, and the nearest city an hour's drive away.
But the one thing he could say for this town was that it had, undoubtedly, the most beautiful library he had ever seen.
The plaque gave a brief history of the place, originally a mansion belonging to one of the town's founders, later donated as a community centre, until finally it was revamped to its current purpose.
It had been ages since his passing interest in architecture, but he also knew well enough that this would have been a marvel back in her heyday.
Even now, against a backdrop of grey and khaki buildings with their vibrant splashes of colour, the bright purple uniformity of the exterior, the marble steps, and the stained glass windows were breathtaking.
The inside was just as extravagant, most of the original woodworking and some of the original decor still proudly displayed. The small elevator still boasted hints of its Edwardian predecessor, and the stained glass inlay of the former ballroom ceiling provided plenty of natural light, nixing the necessity of the crystal chandelier.
Every room seemed to be overflowing with warmth and light and knowledge, an entire floor of the building dedicated to fiction, another to children's literature, yet another two to nonfiction.
In comparison to some of the libraries he had seen, it was still fairly small, with some rooms dedicated to meetings and studying, others to magazines, newspapers, and media, various oak tables set up between shelves, a play area, and at least ten different computers.
But for a town this small, he was still pleasantly surprised by just how much it had to offer.
He took a few moments to wander, simply enjoying his surroundings- the detailing in the plastered ceilings, the stuffed peacock, the ancient astrologically thematic grandfather clock- before making his way to the local history section.
The ghosts they were chasing down were proving to be far more a pain than either he or Dean could have anticipated, and they were both getting mildly irate about it.
He wanted to go home for a few days and crash. But they had to finish this case first.
"'It's just a quick salt-and-burn, Sammy,' he says. 'We'll be done before you know it,' he says." Sam scowled at an empty bookcase, with only a nearby portrait serving witness to his annoyance. "Dammit, Dean."
Much to his continuing dismay, most of the books he was looking for were not on their shelves, despite still being checked in on the database.
With an annoyed sigh, he made his way back downstairs, approaching Circulation as politely as possible, and learning quickly that the books were most likely being hoarded at one of the many tables upstairs. Fortunately, the librarian's assistant decided to guide him herself, chit-chatting the whole way about who he was, his favourite author, what brought him to town, and any other detail she was able to tug out of his fake identity.
The hoarder was soon located, at least one dozen history texts scattered in front of you, each opened to different pages, your fingers typing quickly on their laptop, one index lifting temporarily before you finished your sentence.
Your tired eyes met his over the laptop lid, a warm smile soon following as your attention shifted to his guide. "'Sup, Anne?"
Introductions were soon made, his situation explained, and you freed up the remaining chair, gesturing at the pile of literature as Anna returned to her post. "Have at 'em. But you lose any of my bookmarks, and you're dead."
He fought a smirk, only to force it away at the completely sober expression on formerly jovial lips.
"I'm not joking. I've spent too many hours trying to get this damn chapter written, and so-help-me-God, you ruin my flow, Pretty Boy-" You followed your proclamation with a slow trace of your fingers across your neck, steady and certain.
He offered mock surrender, trying and failing to hide his smile when you beamed at him.
"Cool, cool, cool. Cookie?"
In a surreal way, it almost reminded him of his college days, as many decades ago as they were for him. Finals Week often had him camping out in the library, sharing snacks and a study room with other students as they all frantically tried to finish essays and memorize hundreds of pages of text they had understood the week before.
Every once in a while, during a small lull in your writing and another dead-end in his research, the pair of you would take a short break, exchanging small talk, gradually shifting into more personal details.
He found it easy to be honest with you, to the extent he was able, anyway. It helped that you had some core common interests, bonding through book references and your combined fascination with serial killers.
At one point, when he had been suspicious about how on-target your one guess was in regards to "the chip on his shoulder," he had slipped in a "Christo," earning nothing but a vaguely concerned, slightly amused "Gesundheit," in response.
He was quick to turn back to his work, blaming the changing light and the late hour and internalizing his panic at how much he had already confided in you.
Too much more, and he'd surely be putting a target on your back.
With any luck, he'd find the gravesite before sunset, and they could wrap the case up tonight, head out tomorrow, and he'd never have to worry about coming back to this town again.
You turned back to your own work, and quite some time passed before he started to grow aware of how little writing or reading you were doing, and how much staring you had taken up instead.
Your gaze was heavy on him, and soon enough it was the only thing he could think about.
"Can I help you," he finally snapped, turning his focus over to his fellow patron, who had blatantly given up on work for the night, laptop put away and bag resting on the table.
You seemed surprised to see him addressing you, eyebrows shooting up and lips parting slightly. But then a soft smile was fast replacing the shock.
"Not really. Just-" Your head turned slightly, reminding him of Cas. "I guess I'm just trying to figure you out."
The lighthearted reply had all of his frustration drifting away, a small scoff riding the wave. "Good luck."
Something in your expression shifted, something he couldn't quite read. "Is that an invitation?"
He was about to reply, ready to offer a denial, but-
Sam took a moment to trace over your slightly mussed hair, the tired, playful eyes, the pencil behind your ear, the soft glow of the lamp framing your entire face in gentle light.
You were peaceful company with a warm heart, good humour, and a quick mind.
Fuck it.
Maybe it was time to try again.
"Not really, but um-" He frowned, feigned fatigue. "I could go for a coffee. You?"
Your smile did more to brighten the dim room than any megawatt bulb could have ever hoped to dream.
"I know just the place."
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