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—
Kevin arrives at exactly eleven fifteen that night.
Despite the October chill, he asks to go for a walk at eleven nineteen. It’s a strange request, but no stranger than most. Sam can always go for an extra walk or run. Dean, on the other hand, complains about being made to move his body around any more than necessary. Sam all but shoves Dean—and his cane—out the door.
Before Kevin left the bunker for Chicago, he asked Sam to set aside a few things for his stay.
As the three of them walk away from the house for a late night stroll, Sam apologizes for the things he could not find: a cherry themed playing card deck, a specific brand of unrefined whole cane sugar from Mexico also known as chancaca, and blue, women’s flip flops size six. However, Sam left an almost complete dollar store deck of playing cards, two packets of Raw Sugar, and a pair of blue, men’s flip flops size thirteen—right next to the four mangoes and a magnet in the shape of Texas he also requested.
“That should still work,” Kevin says, walking on Sam’s right because Dean always walks on Sam’s left.
Sam decides that the corner store is an appropriate destination. It’s far enough away to get in a good walk, and convenient enough for Kevin to pick up anything else he might need.
Dean, the one responsible for the missing cards in the dollar store deck, uses his cane to knock an empty bottle of Modelo out of his way on the sidewalk.
“You working on something?” Dean leans heavy on his cane. “Or do you just get a kick out of bossing Sam around? It’s okay.” He pauses on the beat. “You can tell me.”
Kevin quietly laughs, then shrugs. He brushes his bangs away from his eyes. “Like I’d ever boss around Sam Winchester .”
Dean rolls his eyes. “Puh. What a suck up.”
Sam elbows Dean in the shoulder.
The sound of boleros on cassette echoes from a dimly lit apartment on the opposite side of the street. Lines from romantic folk poetry follow them, tendrils of ache and longing. Their trio approaches the corner store, the entrance bathed in marigold light, one of the few storefronts on the block. They could've walked to 18th, where storefronts sit jammed next to each other like wisdom teeth. But Dean likes buying stuff from this place. It's where he bought the scratch and win ticket that won him the two hundred bucks he used to buy the deep freeze in the garage so he could continue hoarding paletas. He has an entire system to the deep freeze, with the paletas organized by flavor, color, and date.
Sam makes a mental note to talk to the store manager at Home Depot again. Anything larger than a gallon of paint and the store manager is supposed to call Sam for permission to purchase the item in question.
Dean uses his cane to knock a crushed can of Sprite out of their way. He talks to Kevin about John Candy movies. Kevin’s been working through a list Dean gave him two years ago and finally made it to “C.” With the gravitas of a tenured professor, Dean provides a lecture on the key differences in John Candy’s performances in Uncle Buck and Planes, Trains, and Automobiles . Sam smiles to himself as his two companions meander through conversation that includes whether or not Dean would ever wear a fedora.
Always their intrepid leader, Dean opens and holds the door for Kevin and Sam to file into Gil’s Corner Store.
All three of them give a nod to Andrés—Mr. Gil's youngest nephew— who sits behind the counter, watching TikTok videos on his phone. At this time of night, there's no huge collection of customers in the tiny, anchovy-tin-sized space. It's just Sam, Dean, and Kevin.
Dean picks up a package of dish sponges, a Brillo pad, and some barbecue chips.
"It's after eleven," Sam reminds him. "Should you be eating that this late?"
"Well, probably not the Brillo pad, but the sponges go down easy."
Dean provides Sam with a smug, slightly crooked smile. Sam files that smile away for later and plays his best poker face. There is absolutelyl no need to disclose the squeeze in his chest whenever one of these smiles floats his way.
He pays for his peanut M&Ms, Dean's shockingly conservative assortment, and Kevin's collection of items from seemingly random shelves: two limes, a small bottle of Tajin, an air freshener, and a packet of Chiclets. Andrés rings Sam up without question and goes back to his phone.
In the end, Sam doesn't ask about Kevin's purchases. Sometimes it’s best to leave well enough alone. Dean commands his attention outside the store. Dean makes a big show out of prying open his chips. He plays up his expressions and mannerisms, brilliant and ebullient bathed in streetlight softened by a faulty bulb. Affection and admiration pull at Sam’s heart. He trades a handful of his M&Ms for a handful of Dean's chips, then pulls him in so their lips can meet for a moment in time. Dean doesn’t push him away. They keep walking. Kevin trails behind them, at least five steps back, and texts on his phone.
Sam can’t quite read his expression, but it almost looks like… Is Kevin smiling?
Dean’s voice whisks Sam back to their moment. They surf the sidewalk, side by side. Dean munches on peanut M&Ms as Sam snacks on barbeque chips. Their shadows pass through the neighborhood without issue.
“You know what the lights look like?”
“Nope.” Sam closes his eyes and laughs. “Tell me.”
“Onions,” Dean answers. He tosses a M&M in the air and catches it with his mouth. And he catches Sam looking, so of course, he slips Sam another smug, slightly crooked smile.
Sam clears his throat, looks aside, and sighs.
Sammy .
Dean?
It’s called ‘flirting.’
—
The next morning, Sam accepts a phone call in the kitchen at the somewhat decent hour of ten thirty. He answers with a long-suffering sigh and listens to ideations of a madman for two minutes before interrupting.
“What did I say about calling here?”
Silence, for a beat. Then, “It’s a free country.”
“Not in this house.”
“Kevin and I wanna go for breakfast.”
“That’s funny.” Sam holds the phone with his right hand and pinches the bridge of his nose with his left. “ I already had my breakfast.”
“Sasquatches eat their prey at abnormally early hours.”
Sam leans against the wall and hides his smile with the receiver. “What did the non-Sasquatches in this house have in mind for brunch?”
—
Dean fully expected Kevin to agree to breakfast at The Frida Room on 18th.
Sam pats Kevin on the back after they descend from the Impala. They stand side by side on the sidewalk off a busy stretch of Clark Street in the Lakeview neighborhood. Cars zoom past much faster than the allotted speed limit, just like Dean’s mouth races as he complains.
Later on, Dean will most likely convey their journey to Mrs. Martinez as a harrowing tale of deceit and danger. Not only did he have to drive outside of his self-imposed five mile radius from their home, but he risked peril to navigate the treacherous waters of Cubs fans, hipsters, yuppies, and bros. And then , Sam predicts, Dean will go into how impossible it was to find a parking spot right in front of Kevin’s desired restaurant, until he stalked and harassed a couple of hipsters taking forever to relinquish their spot. Nevermind the weapons in the trunk, Dean Winchester utilized his patented approach: “horn and holler.”
The Pick Me Up Cafe is an unassuming restaurant nestled within a cramped stretch of businesses in an affluent neighborhood. The graffiti on the outside welcomes customers into a brightly colored space, with tables crammed close together in the style of many long-standing Chicago diners. Despite the natural light from the windows facing Clark Street, the Cafe manages to stay dimly lit in the middle of the day.
After Dean pays for parking, the three of them head inside. Kevin takes the lead and selects a booth in the most sparsely populated area. Sam makes a mental note for their next restaurant outing—do not sit in the inside of the booth. Dean is all elbows, legs, and grumbling. They push back against each other until finally situated. Without the slightest hint of effort, Dean immediately cuts through any sense of personal space. He slings his arm over Sam’s shoulders. Their server, a college-aged Black woman, introduces herself and hands out laminated menus. Jess goes over the specials and patiently answers Sam’s questions about the different types of milk and milk-substitutes available. She collects their drink orders—orange juice, coffee, almond milk matcha latte—and disappears.
“So,” Dean starts, then pops his lips and looks away from their table. “What are we up to today, Sailor Scouts? Now that I’ve hauled my ass all the way out here.”
Sam would shoot Dean a look, but the fear that it might edge on the side of whiny little brother smothers that option. He then goes with his second-favorite response: a quick elbow jab to the ribs.
Dean flinches and shoves back at Sam. “Ow! What?! What’d I say?”
“It’s not what you said,” Sam clarifies. “It’s that you’re being obnoxious and I dislike it.”
On instinct, Dean raises an eyebrow and leans towards Sam. “Did I hear you say, ‘Please, Dean, find more ways to make a scene?’” Dean gives Sam’s left ear a quick tug. “Don’t be so grumpy. Makes your forehead wrinkle.”
“There is absolutely no science behind that.”
“Oh yeah? Well there’s science to me drinking coffee before I start arguing with you over nothing.” With his not-touching-Sam hand, Dean flicks an individual coffee creamer cup across the table towards Kevin, who wisely chose to text after being seated instead of squabbling with Dean. “Yo, my eyes are up here.”
Kevin glances up from his phone, his eyes partially hidden by his bangs. This is the longest Sam’s seen his hair, though that might be an odd thing to notice, and most likely doesn’t matter. What does matter is Kevin’s quick exhale. He places his phone on the table, slightly away from him, screen down.
Reading people is an art. John did not always approve of art—either the expression or appreciation of it—but he unknowingly practiced it. Not only could he read anyone, including those who tried to scramble the messages, but he could match them. A suspect who came off as calm and easygoing? John could be calm and easygoing too. He’d reflect their language, mannerisms, and tics back at them in such a way that would either build trust or persuade them into cooperation.
Sam matches Kevin’s posture. He leans forward just enough for his hair to frame his face and doesn’t bother brushing it back.
“We’re both free,” Sam offers up. He keeps his tone conversational. “I gave my Ethics class the day off and Dean can take time off from the back-breaking work of lying around the house.”
Dean smiles, shrugs, and tilts his head. “Aw, well, you know… I hurt my bon-bon eating hand the other day, so this? This is way better.” The tone of his voice snaps from playful to serious. “But for real, you two? I only make trips out here to bury bodies.”
Jess arrives with their beverages. She eyes Dean for a second, then carefully sets down his coffee. She looks at Sam and Kevin. “Y’all know what you wanna order?”
Kevin clears his throat and looks down at the menu in front of him. He quickly scans it, brow furrowed, and murmurs off his order. Jess writes it down on a pocket-sized notebook in the shape of a heart. She flicks her pen towards Sam, prompting him to order next.
Sam keeps pace with and continues to match Kevin’s posture and voice—its pitch, tone, and volume. “Green eggs and tofu for me, and the small lox platter for him, please.”
“What kind of bagel?”
Dean opens his mouth to speak—Sam interrupts him. “He’s going to say an everything bagel, but you can ignore that. Plain, please. And if he asks for extra onions, you can ignore that, too.”
Jess nods and continues writing. “You get a cup of soup with that. Chicken noodle or garden vegetable.”
“Does the chicken noodle have carrots?”
“Yep.”
“He won’t eat it. Garden vegetable, please.”
Sam hands Jess everyone’s menus before she disappears again. Dean makes the best use of his time by scowling at Sam.
“Remember," Dean quips, "when you chew my food for me, make sure you take small bites." Before Sam can provide a rebuttal, Dean flicks another unfortunate creamer at Kevin. “Gimme a status on the bunker. You didn’t leave Cat there by herself, did you? Did you fix the leak in the roof above the pantry?”
Kevin reaches for the bowl of creamers and drags it close to him, protecting it from future attacks. He creates a small stack of them in a way that kindles fondness in Sam’s soul. Building stacks and structures out of those things is universal.
“I fixed it,” Kevin says, with a quick roll of his eyes. “And no, I didn’t leave her alone. She’s with a friend while I’m gone. I changed a bunch of lights to LED over the summer.”
Dean nods, stretches out, and takes a long pull from his coffee. “Smart. Very smart.”
Gently, Sam asks, “Is there anything in particular you would like to see or do while you’re here? Or something we can help you find?”
The creamer castle Kevin builds reaches four stories high. He plops the last one into place and smiles for a brief second, then takes a picture of it with his phone.
“No.” Kevin puts his phone back down on the table. He begins the process of dismantling the castle in order to build a pyramid. “But thanks.”
So what the hell does he want?
People are capable of just visiting us, Dean. They don’t have to have motives.
No motives? That’s some shady ass shit and you know it.
Don’t push.
Who says I’m pushing? I’m not pushing.
Add another creamer to your coffee and I will disown you.
And I’ll hire a mariachi band to play outside our window every morning at three just for you. It’s my coffee—lay off.
I do kind of wonder though…
Yeah.
Why ask to come here for breakfast?
To irritate me?
No, that's my job.
Quit it. You're gonna make me laugh, Sammy.
Sam smiles and relaxes against Dean. He breaks from Kevin's manner of moving through the universe. It's a useful skill, but exhausting. Maybe this partially explains John's more fatigued moods and states of being.
“I've heard," Sam starts, then pauses to take a sip of his drink. “...that onions are supposed to dispel bad spirits from homes.”
Kevin glances up. He nods. He looks at Dean, then back at Sam.
“You're covered.”
Dean complains non stop over breakfast.