Chapter Text
Sam doesn’t know what to expect when he walks into the courtroom. But of all the possibilities, he would never have imagined this one: his brother, grinning like the devil, in the defendant’s chair.
“Dean,” Sam says, the word lost in the tumult of the courtroom. His stomach feels suddenly, painfully twisted. It’s been six years, but Dean looks much the same – careless grin, restless hands. And Sam knows, in that moment, that his life is about to come apart at the seams.
Dean can’t be – he can’t be here, not in Palo Alto. This is Sam’s home. Dean being here, in court, can only mean trouble.
Then Mr. McKelvie, Sam’s mentor and the point lawyer for the case, steps up and claps Sam on the shoulder. “Well, Winchester,” he says, “are you ready for your first day in a courtroom?”
No, Sam isn’t ready for this. Dean means Dad and Dad means the demon and he can’t, he can’t, he can’t be pulled back into that life. Not when his own is just about to start.
Dean turns, just slightly, and their eyes lock. Dean’s smile falters. It’s slight, subtle, something no one save Sam would notice, but he does. Then Dean’s face hardens, he blinks twice, and turns away again without acknowledgment.
But– wait. Was this deliberate? Did Dean know Sam would be here, know Sam was working this case? That look – for a moment he looked just as surprised as Sam feels. Sam swallows, takes a heavy breath, and pushes forward.
His mentor reaches Dean first, extends a hand. “Brad McKelvie. I’ll be your defense attorney, Mr. Page.”
Dean reaches with both hands to shake. “Thank you, Mr. McKelvie. I’m James Page, though I guess you already know me.”
Sam snorts. Dean glances at him, licks his lips, and says, “There a problem?”
“No, just. That’s a new one, uh, Jimmy Page.”
Dean meets his gaze square-on. His eyes are flat, carefully so. “I don’t believe we’ve met. And you are?”
Sam is too stunned to speak. What is Dean doing? Does he seriously think he can get away with–
“This is one of my students at Stanford. He’ll be shadowing me for the case,” McKelvie says.
Dean glances at him, then back to Sam. “Stanford. Awesome. My little brother goes to Stanford.”
Sam clenches his fists. Whatever’s going on here, Dean’s being very careful about it. Which means maybe, just maybe, he’s not here for Sam.
“Sorry,” he says, and his hand stutters forward. “Sam Winchester. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I look forward to working with you.”
They shake hands. Dean has a strong handshake; when they were kids, Bobby once took them aside and said, “Now, boys, you can always tell a person by their handshake, so make sure yours is a good one.”
Sam has known Dean for twenty-four years. He doesn’t need a handshake to prove himself.
Dean drops his hand, turns to McKelvie. “Right, so, the trial. Think you can get me out of this one, sir?”
Sam had looked over the case himself this morning, before he knew Dean was the accused. Grave desecration, of this kind, is only a misdemeanor – at worst, a few months of jail time. But the case isn’t bad, and since Dean’s not in the system – not under this pseudonym, at least – the trial will be straightforward.
“I do,” McKelvie says. “A first offense is usually pardoned. You’ll be fined, certainly, but with character witnesses and a strong case we can probably get away with a warning. Mr. Winchester and I will take care of everything.”
“Awesome,” Dean says, and Sam thinks oh, he hasn’t changed one bit.
“The first day in court is just general proceedings,” McKelvie explains. “They’ll go through your case quickly, and then we can really get to work. Mr. Page, I hope you’ll understand that as a public defender and part-time lecturer I have a lot on my plate. Mr. Winchester will do the preliminary interviews with you.”
“Fine by me,” Dean says, and grins toothily at Sam.
The court proceedings drag. Sam takes notes, but he has trouble maintaining focus with his brother mere meters away. Why is Dean here, why now? What the hell is he even doing in Palo Alto desecrating graves? Sounds like a vengeful spirit, but Sam reads the papers. He keeps track of – of crop failures and disappearances and animal attacks. He’d have known if there was a case here. There’s been nothing, not in the six years since he came to Stanford. Nothing worth investigating, at least. Nothing worth desecrating graves for.
At the end of the day, Mr. McKelvie takes them for the most painful taxi ride of Sam’s life, then leaves them together outside the law office. Dean rocks back and forth on his heels, stands on the curb and waves goodbye to McKelvie with a smile on his face. Sam just stares.
Then, “Looks like it’s just us now, Sammy.”
“Don’t,” Sam says. “Don’t call me that.”
“It’s good to see you again,” Dean says, and he looks at Sam. There’s something in his eyes, something close to pride, and Sam tries hard not to think on it.
“Dean,” he says, rakes a hand through his hair.
“Hey now, it’s Jimmy. Jimmy Page. Or at least, that’s what was on the license they caught me with.”
He tries again. “Look, we can’t– I can’t do this. You can’t be here.”
Dean’s smile fades. He scuffs his feet against the pavement. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“It’s just that–” Wait, what? Since when does Dean– and Sam can’t help himself, he says, “Who are you and what did you do with my asshole brother?”
“C’mon, Sam, I was just–”
“What are you – a shifter? Demon? Where’s my silver knife when I– damn, and I left my holy water in my other jacket.”
“Sam, you little shit, it’s really me,” Dean says, but they’re laughing now, and God, it’s easy to fall into this again.
Dean must be thinking the same thing. They sober up. “Why are you here, Dean?” Sam asks.
Dean stares at the fence across the street. “Honestly? It’s nothing. Restless spirit. She’s gone now, I torched her bones, but that’s it.”
“That’s– but I read the newspapers, I mean, I haven’t seen–”
“Yeah, and why do you think that is?” There’s a frown tugging at the corner of Dean’s mouth, small and unusual for him. “I’ve been here for a couple of weeks, y’know, poking around. Got my suit and my badge, trying to keep things from hitting the papers. It’s good they didn’t catch me with that badge, or this would be a helluva lot worse.”
“Hang on, did you say weeks? You’ve been here weeks and you didn’t, I don’t know, pick up a phone?”
Dean laughs, something self-deprecating in it. “Come on, Sammy, why would I do that? I know you don’t wanna see me.”
Sam starts to protest, but Dean cuts him off with a hand on his shoulder. A woman, a stranger, passes by. Right, because they’re still on a public sidewalk.
“Let’s get inside,” Dean says, quiet.
San takes him into the office, into a room that locks from the inside – just in case. They sit across from each other with an old wooden desk between them. Sam takes out his yellow pad of paper. He started buying these freshman year, because that’s what lawyers did on TV.
“Of course I want to see you,” Sam says, without preamble. “It’s been years since I’ve heard from you.”
“Four,” Dean says. “And the last time I called, you said I shouldn’t do it again. Really encourages communication, Sammy.”
Sam digs his pen into the side of his leg. “You were drunk, and it wasn't a good night for me either, I was missing her too, Dean. I was pissed. But four years is a long time.”
“Yeah? So’s six." Dean pauses. "You look good, Sam. Taller. You grew into that jawline.” He laughs. “Need a haircut, maybe.”
Sam sees the diversion for what it is, but he lets it slide. “Yeah. You look good too. The vengeful spirit, that’s… so you’re still, you know…”
“Hunting? Yeah. Not much has changed for me,” Dean says, but he glances off to the side when he says it. Sam’s played a lot of poker with Dean; he knows his tells. “What about you? Stanford Law School, huh, that’s something.”
But Sam knows he can’t do this. He has a life here. The more Dean gets involved, the harder it’ll be to separate that life from this one. “We have to do this interview, Dean.”
There’s a pause, and Dean makes a face like he’s forgotten something. He says, “Right. Right, of course. Fire away.”
So Sam looks down at his notepad, at the questions he prepared. His handwriting is neat, collected. That was from before he knew Dean would be his client. “Okay. So. Grave desecration. Did you know when you committed the crime that your actions were illegal, Mr. Page?” It feels wrong, so wrong. Too formal for them.
“Sure did,” Dean says, with a salacious smile.
“Dude. Come on. You’ll only make this harder on yourself.”
Dean’s eyes go wide. “What? Sam Winchester, lawyer-to-be, encouraging a client to lie on the stand? Shocking.”
“Dean,” Sam sighs, “I’m trying to save your bacon here. Just go with it, okay?”
“Fine. I defer to your authority, little brother.”
And he does. Sam asks questions and writes answers and they keep it mostly professional. Until, finally: “What would help the case most,” Sam says, “are character witnesses. People who can vouch for you. Obviously I can’t get up there on the stand–”
“Yeah,” Dean cuts in, “can’t have your perfect college life ruined by the brother doing jailtime.”
“Dean,” Sam says. “Come on. Is there anyone who can? Anybody who knows you well enough to testify. Not Dad, not with his record–” he sees Dean flinch and makes a note to ask about it later, “but what about Bobby? Pastor Jim?”
Dean sits in silence for a long, long moment, eyes fixed on the grain of the table. Maybe he doesn’t have anybody. Oh, Dean, all these years and–
“Shit,” Dean says, sudden and harsh. He wipes a hand over his face. Says, more to himself than to Sam, “I’ll have to call him.”
“Him? Call who?”
“Cas,” says Dean. “My, uh, my friend.”
Sam’s never heard Dean nor Dad mention someone named Cas. “Sorry, again, who?”
“He lives in Idaho. I don’t know, I think he’d drive out if I asked him to.”
Okay, that’s… “Fine. That’s a start.” Sam writes down the name Cas, uncertainly. “Anyone else?”
Dean thinks further. “Ellen, maybe. Or Jo.”
“Um, okay. Three’s good. We’ll start with that. Do you want to call them now? Or at least, um, Cas? Here, I have my cell phone; you can–”
“Yeah, okay,” Dean says. He dials a number without hesitation.
Sam leans back in his seat, watches his brother’s expression as the phone rings. A click, and then a gruff voice on the other side.
Dean: “Hey, hey, yeah. It’s me. Mhm. No, I’m fine, I just– don’t laugh, I know you’re gonna laugh, but I got arrested. You ass! I said you weren’t allowed to– fine. Yes, I’m fine. No, nothing big, just grave desecration. I’m, uh, I’m actually with Sam right now. Yeah. No, no I haven’t. Cas. Cas. Okay, look, he’s just, he’s working on my case. He says I need something like – will you just listen, Christ, for one second – character witnesses. I need character witnesses.” A pause. A long pause. Then, “Yes? Maybe. Yeah. And Ellen and Jo, I was thinking. Do you think you can– I mean, will Nora give you the days off? Okay. Yeah. Yeah. Thanks, Cas, I–” Dean swallows thickly. “See you in a couple of days, buddy.”
He closes the phone, sets it on the table between them.
“So this Cas, he’s coming?”
Dean drums his fingers, once, and then curls them. “Yeah.”
Sam wants to ask about it, wants to ask who this man is and what he means to Dean. Dean doesn’t make connections, not lasting ones. He never has. For him to now have people he can call, people who will drive from three states over at the drop of a hat, means something Sam has yet to understand. Dean has changed a lot in six years – not on the surface, maybe, but he has.
“Good,” Sam says. “That’s good.”
Silence settles. Dean pretends to be interested in the books on the desk. Sam clicks and unclicks his pen.
“I’m getting married,” he says, for lack of anything else to say. Dean looks up, first in surprise and then in delight. Genuine happiness, maybe, with the smile that cracks open his face.
“Married? You’re joking.”
“Am not. Five weeks from Thursday.” The tension in his muscles dissolves at just the thought of Jess.
“No way. Really? Sam, that’s–” Dean searches for the words, and Sam braces himself for a careless one-liner. “That’s good,” he settles on. “No, that’s great. Damn, does that make me happy.”
Oh– oh. “Seriously?”
“Yeah, seriously. My little brother’s getting married? I’m just hurt I didn’t get to be best man.”
The joke falls flat. Dean didn’t get an invitation. Sam didn’t even think to–
He remembers, early on in the process, coming to the realization that he’d have no guests for his side of the aisle. But Jess just kissed him and said, “We’ll have a small wedding. No aisles or anything,” and that had been that.
Sam thinks about trying to explain. Explain how hard the last six years have been, without Dean at his back. Explain how, when he first came to Stanford, everyone thought he was the paranoid scholarship kid with a thing for salt. Explain how he’d never been able to invite Jess home for Thanksgiving.
But Dean beats him to it, and says, “So, who’s the lucky lady?”
“Um,” Sam says, “Jess. Her name’s Jess. You can meet her if you like.” He says it before he thinks it through, because he’s embarrassed, but Dean can’t do that. Jess, she’s kind and innocent and– and good. Sam’s childhood was muddy and violent and he’s worked so, so hard to keep it from tainting her.
Maybe Dean picks up on that. “Thanks,” he says, “but I shouldn’t. When you- if you and McKelvie get me cleared, I should get back on the road. Things to do, monsters to gank. So it goes.”
“Yeah. Okay.” Silence again, but a little easier this time. Sam looks down to his notes. “We should keep moving. I have some more questions, and then we can be done. For the day.”
“Sounds good. I’ll call Ellen and Jo when I can get to my phone; it’s in the car. I don’t know their numbers.”
But he knew Cas’s. Sam thinks about that for a bit. Then, “The car? Do you mean–” He pauses, something like cautious hope in his throat. “Do you mean the Impala?”
Dean grins – really grins – at that. “Yeah, I’m still driving her. She runs smooth as always. Bet you’d want to see her again, huh?”
“Of course, but– hang on, when you were arrested–”
“No worries, dude. Stashed her a mile or so from the graveyard. Cops got nothing, far as I know, ‘cept my car keys. Got those back when I paid bail, so–”
“You paid bail?”
Dean laughs. “Well, Jimmy Page did.”
“You’ll get in trouble when they figure that out.”
“Hopefully you and Mr. Hot-shot Lawyer do your job, and I’ll be halfway to Idaho when they figure that out.”
“Right,” he says. “Well. McKelvie’s given me the rest of the day off. I was– well, I can’t–”
“I get it, I get it, you have plans.” Dean waves him off with a hand. “Let’s finish up here, and then you can go do whatever it is college kids do.”
Six years, Sam thinks. “Do you, um, need a place to stay?” he asks, because he feels he should. This is Dean.
“Nah, my motel room’s good for another week. You have fun.”
The trial isn’t until Thursday. “We should. Um. We should go out for drinks or something, before Thursday. Really, you know, catch up.”
Dean gives him a funny look, a calculating look. “Sure,” he says, like he’s testing the word out. “Sure.”
Sam nods, and Dean nods, and then they get back to work.