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“So this is how it is.”
It’s a school. No one calls it that, and you’d never find it in the Yellow Pages or anything like that, but that’s what it is. Just…not like any other school you’re likely to find.
People have a hard time looking Dean in the face. It’s the eye, milky white and useless, the lid drawn askew by the thick white line of scar tissue that goes from his grizzled gray hairline to mid-cheek. Hari’s always been able to do it, though; just look him head on and not back down. She backed down exactly once in her life, and it cost her everything. She’s not going to do it again. Certainly not for some half-crippled and broken-down old man, even if he is tough as braided rawhide.
“Look,” she starts, putting on hand on her hip, “if you think you’re…”
Dean waves a hand at her. “Relax,” he says. “I’m not going to try and talk you out of it. I get it. You got things you need to get done and you don’t feel like you’re getting them done here. Fine. Whatever. I just want to tell you a story before you go.”
Which, Hari has to admit, is…intriguing. In her experience, Dean doesn’t tell stories.
Then he smirks. She’s come to like and hate the smirk. On the one hand, it makes him look years younger and she can actually believe that once upon a time he did all the things they say he did. On the other hand, it’s usually a sign he’s about to pull some move on her that you wouldn’t even think someone that old and fucked up could pull off, moving his twisted oak cane like a third leg.
“Okay,” he admits. “Maybe it’s not so much a story as some words of wisdom.”
“So I’m supposed to believe you’ve suddenly become wise?” she demands, crossing her arms.
Dean spreads his hands. “Hard to believe I know, but I have learned a thing or three in my time.”
The door of the suite opens and they both look as Sam slips through the half opened door. He doesn’t look surprised to see her, but given that Sam works with the spook kids maybe she should’ve expected that. Or maybe she’s just as obvious as Dean says she is. Sam gives her a quiet smile—which she returns, because you just can’t not smile at Sam, no matter how pissed you are—and disappears into his room.
“Look,” Dean says, drawing her attention back to him, “I know how it is. Some shit happened to you that shouldn’t ever happen to anyone and now you want your payback. So much you’re damn near choking on it. So you’re going to go out there and get some. And you don’t care much if you live or die trying to get it.”
Hari turns her face away, uncharacteristic blush heating her brown skin. She hadn’t realized that she was quite that transparent.
“But at some point—if you live that long—you get older. And you get your revenge. And all you’ve got left is this…life,” Dean’s smirk widens into a smile, ironic and amused, “that’s left you unfit for pretty much anything else.”
“You got a point?” Hari interrupts, tilting her chin up at him. She hates that knowing look in his eyes, like he’s seen and done it all already. What the hell does he know about her, or… She can’t even bring herself to think about them yet, nothing but a gaping black hole with bleeding edges where they used to be. “Because I got counselors across a couple different states that would tell you I’m already pretty unfit for much.”
Sam comes out of the bedroom, towel slung casually over his shoulder and they repeat the process of look, smile, look away. Sam disappears into the bathroom and a moment later the tired pipes creak to noisy life. A moment later, Sam starts singing, something off-key and country about engine oil and popsicles in summer. When Hari looks back at Dean, he’s grimacing and rubbing his scar with two fingers.
“Twenty years. Damn near twenty years and he still doesn’t know a damn thing about good music,” Dean mutters. Then he looks up, scooping his hand over his bristly hair. “Yeah, I got a point,” he says finally.
“’Cause I’m still going.”
“I know.” Dean leans back in his chair, carefully arranging his gimp leg out in front of him. “If you’re looking for someone to talk you out of it, we’re not the ones. Just about everybody here’s lost as much as you, if not more. We know all about revenge.”
“Well, what then?” She throws up her hands. “Because if you’re just going to yap me into submission, I got better things to do.”
Dean sobers and she feels a bit of a chill step walk its way down her spine, because Dean serious is the man who can still put a full clip through a moving target at center mass and head without thinking twice. “Get your revenge,” he says. “And then get older. That’s it. Just…live to get older. Because going out in a blaze of glory seems like everything when you’re your age, but it’s a hell of a lot more satisfying to keep living and make sure that they’re the ones dying instead.”
“Yeah, okay,” she mutters, and she knows she’s being ungracious about it, considering all they’ve done—finding her, taking her in, teaching her—but it’s that or cry and there’s just no fucking way she will let anyone, especially Dean Winchester, see her cry.
“Go over to the cabinet.” Hari knows the thing Dean’s waving at is called a secretary, but somehow she thinks the distinction is lost on Dean. They…they used to have one. Before. She goes over and at his direction opens the lid of the writing desk and finds a rosewood box. She doesn’t have to open it; she knows what’s inside.
“Are…are you sure?” she asks, turning away with it clutched in both hands. It smells pleasantly of gun oil and wood; something cared for and loved and deadly…which really could describe just about everything here.
“What, I’m going to send you out into the world unarmed? What do you take me for?” Dean’s grin is infectious; despite herself, Hari finds herself grinning back. “There’s other stuff there. Some papers, some IDs…all the research Sam could dig up for you, a little money. It’s not much.”
She hugs him. She gets it all wrong, banging into his shoulder with the gun box and knocking her teeth on his temple, but it doesn’t matter. “Hey!” Dean yelps. “Careful with the hair!”
And Hari laughs.
***
By the time Sam comes out of the shower smelling like the fruity girl soap he insists on using, Hari is gone. Sam goes into the kitchen, his damp bare feet patting stickily on the wood and comes back with a couple beers. He twists the cap off Dean’s and puts it on the table in easy reach before flopping down in his chair with a tired sigh. He puts his legs up on the table, wincing as it stretches out his bad knee. It’s been real wet the last couple weeks and they’re both starting to feel it.
“So? You think she’ll be back?”
Dean shrugs like it doesn’t matter and takes a long gulp of his beer, swishing it around on his tongue like he’s trying to get rid of a bad taste. “Who knows? It’s a crap shoot with any of them, Sammy.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “Sam,” he corrects, a reflex. “And at least we did everything we could to get her ready for what she’ll face out there.”
“Yeah.” Dean twirls his cane across the floor with his free hand, the one that’s missing the first joint on the ring finger. “Not that there’s ever any such thing as ‘ready’.”
“Well,” Sam downs half his beer in one long pull, licking his lips. “I’m still betting she’ll be fine. She’s a lot like you, Dean.”
Dean laughs. “Yeah. That’s what worries me.”
Sam grimaces and puts his half-done beer down on the table. With a coaster, of course; all the pale ghost rings of old beers are squarely on Dean’s doorstep and Sam bitches about each and every one. Then he stands. “Well, I’m off to bed,” he announces, stretching. “I’m beat. You gonna be up?”
“Yeah.” Dean doesn’t look up. It’s been long enough they know exactly what each other’s expressions are going to be. “For a while, anyway.” Sam nods and pats his shoulder on his way by.
“’S a waste of good beer, Sammy!” Dean calls after him.
Sam flips him the finger in silent and eloquent reply before adding, “You don’t buy good beer, Dean,” and closing the door behind him.