Work Text:
The first time Dean called him was not very long after he bid them adieu that evening. Aaron was still coming down from the adrenaline rush memorialized in splinters of wood, the golem, no, his golem solemnly picking up pieces of the destruction. Aaron didn’t have any expectations that night, given that he had given Sam his number purely for business purposes, relegating him to being the more responsible one, so when Dean’s voice came through the receiver it stopped him in his tracks.
The rest of the night was peculiar at best. They sat on the hood of Dean’s fancy car, Aaron lighting up a blunt and taking a long hit. He offered it to Dean, who took it between his fingers but never actually put it to his lips. For a long time, they didn’t say a word – the sporadic sounds of night punctuated by the gentle crunch of gravel beneath the golem’s feet, who was pacing quietly behind them.
Dean asked him how he knew, and Aaron knew better than to say knew what? Truthfully, he did not know. He told him that he realized only about halfway through their initial conversation that he may have struck something deeper. He laughed, trying to keep the mood light, but Dean was still stiff beside him, as if releasing the tension in his shoulders would kill him. He rolled the joint slowly between his index finger and thumb, staring at the charred end.
It was nothing new to Aaron, the feeling of being seen through, of feeling like you’ve been caught being something you shouldn’t be, well, being. The pieces slotted themselves together pretty easily in the second stretch of silence – closeted, perhaps curious, largely fearful. Aaron was overall doubtful Dean finds him particularly attractive, and he almost wanted to say I wouldn’t have gone through with it, which wasn’t a lie, but probably not the words Dean wanted to hear at that moment.
A few cars drove by and Aaron wondered what they must look like in passing, through the foggy window of a speeding vehicle.
Dean told him he was reckless. Reckless wasn’t a word often associated with Aaron Bass, known stoner and slacker. Reckless by proxy of being careless, perhaps, but certainly not a thrill seeker. Before he could argue that claim, Dean spoke up again, his voice low with the slightest waver.
What if your plan didn’t work?
What if I was one of those guys who would have hurt you?
What if I was one of those guys who would have dragged you out the back and left you for dead?
The rest of the night was silent, the conversation sort of fizzled out on its own, less of a gut-punch and more of a shiver. He passed the joint back and Aaron tossed it on the ground. They didn’t hug, but Dean told him to be careful, and Aaron figured that’s about as close to a hug as Dean Winchester would give a guy like him.
--
The second call wouldn’t be for several years (and thousands of miles apart) but Aaron’s fingers have definitely hesitated over the “call” button on a certain Winchester’s contact page more than once. In some ways, he too is now a hunter, though not for all monster-kind. He had finished off another job a few days back before he decided to take the night off to celebrate at some seedy techno-adjacent bar, the kind where you exchange your coat for glowsticks. It’s not really his scene, still being a man who favours going down over going up, but “letting loose” once in a blue moon has its benefits. Especially when those benefits come in the form of hot, sweaty guys all up in his business.
It was after he killed his first Thule that he found himself wanting to call Dean. There’s a cruel irony about the required “second killing” so to speak – the scooping up of a decapitated asshole’s various parts to be burned to ash. Even in a multi-process death there is so little suffering on the Thule’s end. The thing that terrified Aaron the first time he met Sam and Dean, the ease with which they disposed of a body, the readiness to kill, he felt it at the back of his neck. To be a hero is to be a killer, to be a killer is to be a hero. No amount of marijuana would put that particular conundrum to rest in his head.
Aaron’s always been a pacifist, perhaps borne out of laziness and risk-aversion, but he had certainly hoped he could get through life without getting his hands bloody. Sure, his cause is noble, and it’s a little invigorating to have his name strike fear among Nazis, but in many ways, he wonders if his life will ever go back to where it was. If it was even a possibility, really. In those times he thinks of Dean and Sam, people who have only ever known this, whose “back to normal” is his new reality. There’s a lot of questions he wants to ask them, but they’re certainly not close enough for Aaron to request some hunter Q&A session out of the blue.
He doesn’t call when the golem helps set the body on fire. Technically, he’s not alone, and if anything, he’s exceedingly well-equipped with his golem at his side, but it’s a lonely life. Kill, burn, hide, rinse and repeat. He didn’t have much of a social life to miss (and he barely remembers what he was even majoring in back in college) but it’s the principle of the matter – his life is irrevocably changed, and he has no one to talk about it with.
So, when Dean finally calls, Aaron feels about a million emotions all at once, the most prominent of them being confusion. He can’t help but feel his heart sink a little for some weird reason when he realizes Sam is on the line as well. It’s a business call first and foremost. He immediately cringes when he phrases his progress in killing the Thule as “nailing” them, thankful that they cannot see his face flush red. They casually riff off shards of information as if they’ve been doing it for years. In some ways, it’s jarring; the last time Aaron and Dean had spoken had been on the hood of that fancy car, Dean’s mind somewhere far away and Aaron uncharacteristically at a loss for words.
A beautiful woman leaves the bar in the middle of their call, wavy hair and confidence, and Aaron lets his eyes follow her for a moment. His thoughts are punctuated by the way Dean calls him “bud” before ending the call. It’s familiar and distant all at once in that trademark straight-guy way, a three-letter shoulder clap. He knows Dean isn’t straight, the man basically admitted as much, but he wonders if this would be different if he were that girl, sweet perfume and a glint in her eye. If he was someone who could be fleeting, who could be remembered today and forgotten tomorrow by calloused hands and furrowed brows. Before he can think any longer, he heads back inside in search of a very, very strong drink.
And maybe he finds a temporary escape in a tall blonde man’s bed that night, all broad back and freckles, and maybe tonight he’ll be the one doing the forgetting. When he drags his palm across the softness of the stranger’s side, he wonders when his hands became so rough.
--
Aaron isn’t really even attracted to Dean. He’s put-on masculinity, cropped hair and clenched jaw, and not to mention the unfortunate tan he had when they first met. Conventionally, he ticks all the boxes (and so does Sam, for that matter, but he has less of a read on the younger Winchester, having not been his “gay thing”), but it doesn’t take a genius to tell that the guy is seriously unwell. Maybe some people find that tormented complexity that he unknowingly presents appealing, a psychological experiment to analyze under bedsheets, but Aaron’s never been one to want things complicated.
He’s heard stories of the Winchesters throughout his travels, developing a better eye for hunters across dimly lit bars. A few of them mentioned a third person, though no one’s sure who they are or what their affiliation is to the brothers. It’s really none of Aaron’s business, but he can’t help but be curious about that person. Sam and Dean seemed like the kind of guys who were self-sustaining, who enlisted help only as needed. Two brothers who never stuck around in one place for too long, esoteric as they are legendary.
Fame is certainly not something Aaron would ever want out of this life. Sure, his name is slowly becoming known among those who are aware of the Judah Initiative, but thankfully he is nowhere near the legacy of Sam and Dean (and, he learns, their father). It’s unsettling to imagine a life like this from birth, a path paved for you in the dried blood of monsters. Despite how binding the circumstances, Aaron still feels like he chose this life. Dean and Sam never chose theirs.
--
The third phone call is a significant shift in tone. It’s odd to hear a cheerful Winchester over the phone, but Dean’s gleeful (and maybe a touch too enthusiastic) exclamation that he had “killed Hitler” is unexpected but welcome. They talk for a bit, Aaron leafing through the ledger and noting that, thanks to the Winchesters, a large part of his job is complete. He figures there are still a few more of them flitting about in Germany that he would have to take care of. Dean explains the situation with Christoph as a potential lead for further hunts, a reminder that there is still work to do, but even the golem seems to relax his shoulders at the sound of Dean’s voice.
Dean tells him to come visit once he’s back in America. It’s an odd request, and Aaron chalks it up to his good mood, and the way Dean’s voice clips at the end of his sentence tells him he caught himself in the middle of it. They don’t acknowledge it.
Dean mumbles something about time zones and tells Aaron to be careful before hanging up.
--
It’s after lengthy consideration and a handful more body burnings that Aaron finds himself back in America. The Winchesters had mentioned the Men of Letters bunker in their offer to safekeep the golem, and he knows it’s somewhere in Kansas, but he would have to confirm with them the exact location. As far as historical records go, his job is mostly complete, and if there is a safe way to protect his golem at the end of it, then he has to consider it. Besides, it’s not like a college-dropout-turned-righteous-murderer has access to a near-impenetrable bunker.
His finger twitches over the call button like it has for years. He can’t help but still feel like he’s overstepping, that maybe he read into Dean’s friendliness a little too much. It’s been around a year since that last phone call, another long stretch of time between correspondences. Time is weird in the way it sets everything into perspective – only after he acknowledges the passing years does he start to notice the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes.
The benefit of a golem is its manipulability, meaning Aaron isn’t always wandering around with a seven-foot giant lumbering behind him. Clay, the material of choice, is malleable and reformable, and a few simple commands can make the golem a little more travel-friendly in stature. He has, however, long given up on explaining the trails of dried clay that he leaves behind. They’re somewhere between Illinois and Nebraska now, having made an initial pit-stop back in Pennsylvania to tie up some loose ends. His mother is still warming up to the idea of his new “lifestyle” (which, déjà vu) but he figures there’s no point in being dishonest about the supernatural.
The fourth phone call doesn’t happen because when Aaron pulls up to a roadside diner, trying to stretch his hunger as long as he can on his quickly dwindling financial reserves, he sees an all-too-familiar figure hunched in the window.
--
“Dean?”
The diner is empty enough that only one head turns as he walks in. Dean looks up from the cup of coffee he’s nursing between two hands, his face as sullen as his posture. It’s not an enthusiastic greeting, but it’s certainly not disdainful. He’s tired, and so is Aaron.
“Hey man,” Dean grumbles, rubbing at his eyes – has he been crying? – “what the hell are you doing out here?”
Aaron shoves his hands into his pockets, standing a healthy foot away from Dean’s booth. It seems rude to just slide into the seat across from him. “Well,” he sighs, “funnily enough, I’m out here looking for you.”
Dean seems to startle a bit at that, his eyes narrowing in suspicion, and Aaron quickly puts his hands up in defense.
“No, not like, specifically here. This,” he gestures loosely at the diner, “was a total accident. I was on my way to Kansas, had some things I wanted to talk about.” Aaron breathes a sigh of relief when Dean seems to relax at that. It’s clear the guy’s going through something.
A waitress appears to top of Dean’s coffee and Dean nods towards the seat across from him, inviting Aaron to join him. He slides onto the semi-sticky vinyl and orders a coffee for himself as well.
“I was gonna call you first, but sort of got ahead of myself. Missed a step in the middle.” It’s only partially a lie, but it’s close enough to the truth that it doesn’t leave a bad taste in his mouth. The waitress returns with his coffee and he immediately tears apart three sugar packets. Dean makes a face at him that he ignores.
Dean clears his throat. “Where’s the big guy?”
Aaron takes a sip of his coffee (it needs about four more sugar packets, but he feels a weird pressure to not be weird in front of Dean all of a sudden) before pointing his thumb towards the window. “He’s outside, I taught him how to look as inconspicuous as possible in public,” he replies, and Dean raises an eyebrow.
“So, you guys are getting along now, huh?” he jokes, his lips upturned into a sarcastic smile. Aaron rolls his eyes.
“I suppose the last time you saw us we didn’t show too much camaraderie, fair,” he laughs drily. The waitress interrupts them again, a plate with a generous slice of pie appearing in front of Dean, and Aaron’s stomach instinctually grumbles. Before Aaron can reach for a menu, Dean pushes the plate towards him.
“All yours. Not hungry anymore.”
Not one to turn down free food, Aaron happily accepts the offering. It’s mediocre pie, but it’ll be sufficient to last him until the next motel. When he looks up after the first few bites, he notices Dean looking at him, his expression unreadable.
“What, regretting your choice?” Aaron chuckles. He waves a forkful of pie in front of Dean who playfully bats it away.
Dean looks out the window, his brows furrowed. “Nah, nothing. Just tired.” It’s a good enough explanation for their level of familiarity, but Aaron can’t help but feel curious. They sit in a little more silence while Aaron finishes the slice of pie.
It’s Dean who speaks up first. “So, what did you need from us?” he says, and Aaron notices the shift in his tone. It’s stern, professional. The same kind he had heard all those years ago.
Aaron shrugs noncommittally. “Well, it’s been a busy year, and most of the Thule are taken care of.” The bell above the door rings as a couple walks into the diner, the man’s arm around the girl’s shoulder. They make brief eye contact with Aaron and Dean before choosing a booth on the opposite side of the diner. Aaron turns his attention back to Dean.
“Years ago, you and Sam offered to keep the golem safe if I so chose to,” he explains, and Dean nods slowly, though Aaron’s not entirely convinced Dean remembers that conversation. “Well, now that I’m nearing the end of this mission, I need to map out my options. The golem’s going to be passed down eventually, and I could keep him with me like my ancestors did, but yeah. Options.”
It’s a terrible explanation, and he’s realizing how ridiculous it sounds as he’s saying it, but Dean seems unfazed. He chugs the rest of his coffee before setting his mug down and levelling his gaze with Aaron’s. Dean looks different now, noticeably less tan, but time has etched the lines in his face. He wonders if Dean is noticing the same thing about him.
“Seems like the kind of thing that could have been a phone call, don’t you think?” Dean says matter-of-factly and Aaron scowls at him, earning another smile from Dean.
“Well, for your information, I didn’t come all the way back here just for you,” Aaron retorts, flushing slightly at his phrasing once again. Nevertheless, he trudges on. “I was in Pennsylvania first, and given my thorough work in Germany, I figured it wise to bring the search back here. Well, whatever’s left of it, anyway.”
Dean, thankfully, doesn’t seem to see through his semi-lie. Granted, Aaron’s not sure what he’s even lying about at this point. He clears his throat.
“I’m happy to ask Sam to look up some stuff for you. Options, that is,” he says, pausing while the waitress clears the empty pie plate from the table.
Aaron quirks an eyebrow at him. “Not accepting visitors, I take it?”
Dean seems to flinch at that but recovers immediately. “Nah, not exactly the best time for that,” he mumbles, the far-away look back on his face.
They’re quiet for a moment longer. The couple on the other side of the diner laughs at something on their phones. Aaron wrings his hands together.
“You’re not okay.”
It’s not a question, and maybe Aaron should have phrased it like a question, but he’s said it before he can take the words back. He braces himself for impact, yet all he gets in response is a humourless chuckle from Dean.
“Understatement of the century.”
--
Dean tells him about the motel he’s staying at only a short drive from the diner, and Aaron follows him down the highway. It’s easy to allow dirty thoughts to creep into his head, but nothing about their evening indicated any inclinations of the sort. They didn’t talk much after at the diner, Aaron figuring that companionable silence was the best he could offer in his current state, and Dean seemed grateful enough for it. Room keys in hand, Aaron thinks he sees Dean give him a long glance before turning into his own room, but in his exhaustion, he assumes it was just his imagination.
He’s awoken somewhere between midnight and dawn by the sound of his phone ringing, Dean’s name lit up on the screen. He hears his golem scoff, an increasingly common reaction around Aaron. He has half the mind to command an attitude adjustment, but instead he slips on his shoes and a coat before heading outside.
--
It’s almost a comical re-enactment of that night four years ago, on the hood of Dean’s fancy car, an unlit joint in his hand. All Dean had said over the phone was that he couldn’t sleep and wanted to talk, which was ominous at best, but he figures, now that he’s no longer en route to Kansas, this might be his last opportunity for a while to talk with him.
Dean tells him about the family friend who had died days prior, a psychic, and her granddaughter who inherited her powers. A golem and psychic powers are not exactly comparable inheritances, but the sentiment is close enough. Dean tells him how he told the girl, Patience, to live a normal life, and Aaron asks him if that’s what he wanted for him as well four years ago. Dean shrugs.
--
“So, what are you gonna do once you’re done? Go back to your normal life?”
Aaron sighs. “I mean, I’ve certainly thought about it, but I don’t think I have a normal anymore.” Dean hums in agreement.
“I guess the whole idea of putting the golem away was sort of wishful thinking.”
--
When Aaron asks the same question to Dean, he doesn’t get a response.
--
The sun starts to rise, early summer mornings and all, and they’re still on the hood of the car. They’ve shared a few stories of previous hunts, some of them proud victories, others fatally close calls. In passing, Dean mentioned someone named “Cas” during one of his stories, but judging by how stiff his shoulders became, it wasn’t something worth pressing him about. Hunters don’t indulge in friendships and the sharing of secrets, after all.
--
It’s unfair to feel foolish for wanting something so normal.
--
Turns out, Dean does hug guys like him. The hug is short, but he feels Dean squeeze him in a way that makes his breath catch. It almost feels like an apology. He knows for certain that it’s a goodbye. Arms folded across his chest, Aaron watches Dean’s car (which he now knows is a ’67 Chevy Impala) drive off onto the highway before heading back into his motel room to catch a few more hours of sleep.