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Not a speck of vamp neck remains on the decades-old machete, but Dean continues to polish the blade all the same. He isn’t finished with the distraction the mundane activity provides him.
The husks of human bodies tossed in a corner like forgotten toys.
A dab of rubbing alcohol.
The scream of a teenager just out of sight as fangs pierced their neck.
A swipe of a worn rag.
The stop for an unreliable witness that wasted ten valuable, probably life-saving minutes…
A clang of steel clashing against the glass map table.
Dean presses the heels of his hands into his temples, breathing heavily.
She stands frozen on the library’s bottom step. Her heart splitting at the seams, she watches the latest wave of guilt and self-loathing wash over the tortured hero.
She needs to get him out of his head.
Get him out of here. He hasn’t left that chair in three hours.
“Hey,” she offers quietly, her second boot hitting the floor.
Dean’s shoulders mildly decompress, his hands falling to fidget with a bottle of oil.
“What’s up?” he asks as if he has a chance at hiding his state of mind from her.
“I’ve got an errand to run.” She leans over a neighboring chair so she’s closer to his eye-level. “Feel like being my taxi?”
Dean smirks, the comfort from her humor sinking in automatically. “Fine, but you should know I’ve raised my rates to--”
She shoves his elbow fondly. “Meet me in the garage in five.”
***
The roar of Baby’s engine echoes off the confining walls of the Bunker’s garage. Dean shifts into Drive and sets the black beauty free.
“Where to?” he inquires once they’re out in the moderating heat of the early-September evening.
“Main Street.” She immediately cranks up the radio’s volume so James Hetfield’s singing prevents further questions.
Lebanon is a small town, and the ride is a short one.
She points across the dashboard. “There’s a spot.”
Dean pulls in quickly, braking with a lurch. For some reason, she never tires of that rush.
He digs out a couple of quarters from his pocket and feeds the meter. Once the machine confirms he’s good to go for the next hour, Dean looks up and sees she’s waiting patiently for him on the sidewalk behind a line of people.
She motions him over with a repeated inward curl of her index finger and a sly expression. His stomach twirls as he pictures her doing so in a different scenario.
Dean blinks harshly and forces his focus to land on the pastel walk-up window. “This is your errand?”
“You bet it is,” she insists, admiring the Grand Opening banner atop the seafoam sign showcasing Iris’ Ice Cream in a fancy script. “I need to try one of their Mixers.”
Dean scans the hand-written menu until he locates the correct category. “‘Our homemade vanilla soft-serve blended with your favorite treats.’” He continues to the list of flavors. 100 Grand, Almond Joy… “Apple pie?” His eyes are emerald oceans of wonder when he turns to her.
Her smile extends for what feels like miles. “You’re a predictable one, Winchester.”
He scoffs. “All right, Miss Birthday Cake.”
Her jaw drops in mock offense, and the only remaining customers cast her a judgmental glance as they depart with their orders. Dean raises his eyebrows, daring her to prove him wrong.
“Get up there,” she commands with a laugh and a gentle push.
***
She and Dean claim a paint-chipped bench in a prime location for people-watching, and dive into their sweet concoctions.
Dean’s enthusiastic moan of satisfaction causes her to break out in goosebumps. Thankfully, her brain doesn’t have time to catch up with her body because he quickly tacks on a muffled “This is friggin’ awesome.”
She shakes her head. “No way it beats this. ” Her second bite contains a silky ribbon of frosting along with the cake and manages to outshine her first.
“You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” Dean insists as he digs around in his mountain of ice cream, collecting the perfect spoonful. He extends the sample in her direction, urging her to taste it.
With a sigh, she allows him to direct the soft serve past her lips. Her assumption was accurate, but she makes Dean wait for her response so she can enjoy his anticipation.
“It’s not bad,” she states halfheartedly.
“‘Not bad,’” he huffs.
She fights to hide her amusement. “Here.” Mirroring him, she feeds him a highlight of her Mixer.
Dean coughs. “Holy crap.” He swallows roughly. “You should call Garth and have him check you for cavities. That thing’s pure sugar.”
She whacks his thigh with the back of her hand before gesturing to his bowl. “What do you think pie is?”
“Uhh, it’s fruit, ” Dean retaliates. “ Apple pie. S’right there in the name.”
“O-kay. Whatever you--” A dramatic gasp cuts off her sentence.
Nearly crushing his dish, Dean startles at her change in demeanor. He follows her line of sight to a blond, shaggy dog sauntering down the sidewalk. He should’ve known…
She abandons her ice cream and clutches his arm. “Look at her! Dean, that’s a Goldendoodle! ”
“What are you still doin’ here?” he wonders aloud, even though he’s confident she’s too distracted to notice him. “Go s--”
Instantly, she’s on her feet and eagerly approaching the dog. Any words exchanged won’t be audible from so far away, but Dean’s watching her every move.
She speaks first, clearly seeking permission to interact with the Doodle. The human holding the leash nods, slightly bewildered. Dean chuckles, proud of her unabashed enthusiasm. She sits--fully sits--on the concrete and extends her palm to the pooch. After a brief sniff, the dog flops onto her lap, and she gleefully trails her fingers through layers of curly fur.
A couple of minutes later, she returns to the bench, beaming in a way that gives the summer sun a run for its money. Caught in her glow, Dean’s suddenly warm all over.
“Isn’t she gorgeous?!” she marvels, sneaking one last peek at her new fluffy friend.
“Yeah. She is.” Dean captures his tongue between his front teeth, tempted to elaborate.
A frown overtakes her face as she picks up what’s left of her soft serve. “It melted that fast?” She sips the contents of the bowl without satisfaction. Something about chunks of cake swimming in liquid just doesn’t cut it. She rises and tosses the remnants in the nearby garbage can.
“That’s where that stuff belongs, ” Dean quips, setting his empty dish next to his boot so it’s out of the way for the moment. He stretches his arms across the back of the bench, smug.
“You are relentless, ” she grumbles, taking a seat.
A very close seat. Dean sits up a bit straighter, nerves settling in. She moves into his side and rests her head on his shoulder. He wonders if she can detect his heart’s increase in pace.
After mentally arguing with himself for an embarrassing length of time, Dean finally dares to put his arm around her and pull her toward him an extra inch.
A sigh of contentment leaves her lungs as she observes the passerby. She was never one to stay in a place too long. But little Lebanon? The Bunker? The playful man--her best friend --beside her? All of it just feels like… home.