Chapter Text
“Hey- Einstein, book down while we’re on the town.” Dean flicked his little brother on the forehead.
“On the town? We’re just walking across the street to get coffee. In the town we’ve lived in since forever.” He kept reading, the tip of his nose nearly grazing the pages.
“Don’t question my wisdom, Sammy! Just take it when it comes and appreciate it.”
“That’s what she said.” Sam muttered under his breath, but put the book under his elbow anyways.
“No stupid potshots this early in the morning either. Can’t you just enjoy the weather?”
“And you keep telling me to stop calling you old.”
“Old people aren’t the only ones who can enjoy a nice morning walk to get a hot cup of joe…alright point taken, but that doesn’t change the weather.”
It was a beautiful morning. Fall was in the crisp breeze that set the leaves in the yellowing trees quivering. A paperboy’s bike flew by, the frame held together with duct tape and a dream rattling like it wouldn’t make it down another block. Some old men sat on a park bench with their wives knit scarves around their necks, waving their hands arguing about the daily crossword. Sam and Dean crossed the street to the coffee shop with a battered wooden sign hanging over the door, chipped and carved hand lettering reading “Angel’s Brew”. The door clanged as they opened it and Sam’s glasses fogged up instantly from the blast of heated air the radiator next to the massive bay window was working overtime to produce.
A dark haired man poured coffee from a steaming pot at the slightly scuffed diner counter, sleeves of a light blue dress shirt rolled up to his elbows and a dish towel thrown over his shoulder. Customers sat at hardy wooden tables around the floor, shoveling omelets, scones, and pancakes down as quickly as possible before taking off for work. The man pulled at an already loose tie around his neck as he flipped an egg, put a new pot of coffee on, and handed someone a muffin all at once. He might’ve had three arms for how fast he was whirling around the place.
Sam was moving to their usual table by the window before Dean could tell him to grab a spot. Dean grinned and sidled up to the counter.
“Mornin’ Cas! Got any coffee?”
The man, Cas, raised a brow as he rinsed off a plate. “How many cups have you had this morning?”
“None!”
“Plus?”
“Five– but yours is better!” Dean leaned across the counter to grab a mug and held it out to Cas.
Cas rolled his eyes, but grabbed the fresh pot and Dean’s cup. “Junkie.”
“Angel.” He took the full mug from Cas, careful not to spill. “You’ve got wings, baby. You’re this place’s namesake!”
“I’m cutting you off after this one!” Cas called after him.
Dean waved a hand behind him as he headed back to Sam. The phone rang a second later, distracting Cas, much to the annoyance of a man clamoring for ketchup.
He took a seat across from Sam who had pulled a book out of his bag but looked up when Dean put his coffee on the table. “Where’s mine?”
“Haven’t you heard that caffeine rots the brain? We’ve gotta keep you sharp so you can keep reading those big books- what’s that one anyways? For school?”
“Moby Dick. And it’s not for school, that was Emma and I already read it. I like this one better, though. And if that’s true about caffeine it’d explain a lot about you.” He put his head back in his book.
“I set myself up for that one, didn’t I? Fine, I’ll get you a cup– you’re the one who’s got school this early, not me.” Sam kept reading. Dean shrugged and went back to the counter.
Cas turned from hanging up the phone to glare at Dean. “You’re cut off.”
“What? It’s not for me. It’s for Sam, I swear.”
“You’re shameless.”
“Look, Officer Krupke. He’s right at that table, right over there.”
Sam shifted the book higher, covering his face.
“Come on, you know us!”
Cas sighed, “Here-” a full mug smaller than Dean’s “and here-” two fresh baked blueberry scones. “He really shouldn’t have any caffeine on an empty stomach. You shouldn’t either.”
“Thanks, Cas!” Dean trounced back to the table. Sam put his book away in his overstuffed bag once he saw the food. “There you go-” Dean pushed the mug in front of Sam. “The best coffee this side of the Mississippi and you better appreciate it.” He took a corner of a scone.
“Thanks!” He took a sip, trying not to screw up his face at the bitterness. Dean knew the straight black coffee he preferred wasn’t to the taste of most sixteen year olds, but Sam apparently thought it made him tougher to swallow it down without the aid of cream and sugar. “I still think school starting at 7:40 in the morning is legalized torture.”
“It builds character- and prepares you for an actual job where they don’t care about your beauty sleep.”
“That’s rich, coming from the person who hit snooze five times this morning and only got up just in time to grab coffee.” Sam dipped his scone in the coffee which seemed to make it a little more tolerable.
“That’s why I always set my alarm with enough time to snooze, and I’m the adult here so I think that’s my prerogative. Speaking of time- don’t you have a chem test first block?”
Sam glanced at his watch. “Oh shit-” He snatched his backpack from the back of the chair, slung his coat over his shoulders, and took off, bumping the elbow of the guy who had finally gotten his ketchup, sending it splattering all over his pancakes.
“Go get ‘em tiger!” Dean chuckled. He finished his coffee and threw down some cash, waving to Cas on the way out. “See you later, Cas!”
Cas waved back distractedly while calming a lady who got caught in the crossfire of the ketchup splatter. The door clanged again behind him as he started down the sidewalk towards the shop. A slight smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, the sun was warm on his face and the shop shouldn’t be too busy on a Monday. It’d be a good one today- he could feel it.
***If you're out on the road, feeling lonely and so cold...****
“Stars Hollow Mechanics, this is Bobby…” He nodded to Dean as he hung his jacket on a nail near the door and grabbed a rag to wipe the grease off his hands. “Nah, sorry we’re booked for restorations on that day. Annual car show and all…”
Dean leaned around behind him to grab the stack of mail on the admin table. Bills, bills, and oh look, more bills.
“No, there’s really nothing I can do. Yeah, I’m sure. Positive. No, I don’t have to look, I- yes, of course I’ll look.” Bobby put the phone down and pointed at a letter Dean was holding. Dean gave it to him. He picked up the phone again. “No, I’m sorry we’re still booked.”
A guy walked up to the counter. “Hey, I was told you guys have my car ready-”
Dean shushed him. “Which one?”
“What?”
“What’s your car- the Pt loser?”
“The cruiser? Yeah. Did you fix it?”
“No, lucky guess. Here’s the keys.” He picked them out from a massive pegboard full of keys with nearly illegible labels above the admin table and tossed them to the guy.
“Thanks, have a good one.”
“You too.”
“Lady, you have no idea how desperately I’d like to help. But see, I’d have to build a separate wing of the shop for you myself, and I’m a mechanic, not a carpenter. So the best I can do is suggest you try for another weekend. Any weekend. Fine, the twenty-first—” Bobby snapped at Dean. Dean pulled out the datebook from under the pile of mail and handed it to him. Bobby licked his thumb and flipped through it, the days growing emptier the further back he went. “Hold on, I’m looking… No, sorry, we’re booked—” He pulled the phone back from his ear. “Pfft.”
“Hey, has the electrician fixed our garage door yet?” Dean asked. He signed some of the bills and put others to the side to wait until after a few of their sales went through.
“He was here, he did nothing, it’s a hundred dollars.” Bobby passed Dean the phone. “You- yeah, you- that yellow line’s on the floor for a reason, get back!” He stomped off to go save the idiot’s neck.
“Hi Marco, Dean. Talk to me about the garage opener. What was wrong with it?”
Sam walked in while he was talking and laughed at Bobby chewing the line-crosser’s ear off.
“Uh-huh? I thought you replaced that already.” Sam dropped his backpack next to Dean’s coat and plopped on a raggedy stool Dean kept meaning to throw out. “Well, because you told me you did and I never forget anything. So this one’s on you, right? Good doing business with you.”
Bobby sent the guy on his way, it turned out it was the owner of the Pt cruiser. Figures.
“What’s up, Sam? What’s he doing?” Bobby turned to Dean. Sam was rummaging around the table.
“I need stamps. Can I have these?” Sam held a sheet up.
“No. We’re tight on them.”
“Take them.” Bobby shrugged, but found another sheet to use on the new mailers they ordered. “How’d your chem test go?”
“Pretty good. I think I passed.”
“Unless you blew up a lab and I didn’t hear about it, that’s Sammy for a hundred. I don’t know, but blowing something up might be cooler.” Dean tried to tussle his hair. Sam dodged him.
“Stop-”
“I’m just saying, maybe getting out there and doing something that’s not sitting and studying all day like a nerd might be good for you!”
“And now we say goodbye-” Sam picked up his bag, his book mysteriously materializing in his hands.
“Hey, have Bobby look at your physics homework before you go.”
“Excuse me?” Bobby looked up from organizing a drill kit.
“That’d be great!” Sam yanked his binder out of his bag.
“No, I’m busy.” He shuffled around some extra bits.
“Come on, Bobby. I’ll tell everyone you’re the best mechanic around.”
“I believe that memo has already been sent.”
Dean put the last drill bits in their place. “Oh, please, Bobby.” He dropped his voice to imitate Bobby’s gruff, no-nonsense, tone. “Help the kid out. If he fails this class he might be so bummed he’ll remember it forever and turn into a grumpy old man like you. I will stop talking like this…”
“Ugh, leave it. I’ll look at it if I get a chance.”
Sam set the binder on top of a box, carefully avoiding a loose pile of bolts. “It’s due tomorrow. And pay special attention to the right formulas. I’m going to go say hi to Charlie!”
Bobby moved on to putting the bolts in plastic containers based on size. “I despise you.”
“Love you too, old man.” Dean patted him on the back. Bobby grunted and kept grouping the bolts. A crash came from out back. “I should probably go check on that-”
Dean weaved his way through the work floor, each spot taken by cars up on blocks with their wheels missing, cars getting their oil drained with pans catching the drip under them, or cars with engines getting a replacement of a belt or such. Quick tuneups or fixes for the most part. Out back was where the real grunt work went on.
“Charlie? You alright?” Dean called once outside.
“She’s okay! We’re over here!” Sam answered.
“Where?” The place was a veritable labyrinth of classic cars in varying conditions.
“By the blue VW bus!”
“Which one?” Dean could see at least two blue VWs in his line of sight, and a couple more in other colors. Those engines could never work right. “Nevermind, I’ll find you.” He poked around until he heard more crashing, turned the corner and there was Charlie leaning against a beautiful red beamer surrounded by miscellaneous tools. Sam was trying to clear the mess, but was barely making a dent.
“What did you do now?” Dean held out a hand, she took it, and he pulled her up. “I need you to be more careful!”
“I know, I’m sorry! Hey, I fixed this one’s cooling system!” She pointed at the car excitedly.
“That’s blood, you’re bleeding. Why are you bleeding?” Dean searched his pockets for bandaids.
“Oh, my stitches opened- I switched the hose out! It had a hole in it I couldn’t see!”
“When did you get stitches?” Dean knew he had bandaids somewhere. He started keeping them on him after Charlie broke a shop record for most minor cuts gained in a week.
“Friday night. Stubborn hubcap.” She pushed past him to the car’s door.
“Okay, stop moving.” He found a bandaid in the same pocket he kept his tape measure. He had to start emptying them out every now and then.
“I have to start it now! You’ve got to see it while it’s still working.”
“Okay, Charlie, here-” He gently closed the car’s door and gave her the bandaid. “I need you to be more careful. I need there to be fewer accidents-”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah-” She put the bandaid over the nasty cut on her left thumb, then snaked around him to crank the car’s engine. It roared to life, quickly fading to a smooth purr.
“Oh, dear God almighty- that’s incredible!” Dean high-fived her non-injured hand.
“I know! I got rid of that awful clunking noise in the process!”
“I could listen to that engine forever!”
“I will fix more!”
“Someday, when we open our own shop, classic car owners who beat their cars to shit from around the country will line up for you to make their engines sound like that. Won’t that be great?” Dean patted the car’s hood.
“Yeah!” Charlie pumped her fist.
“But the key to someday achieving that dream is for you to stay alive long enough, so we can actually open a shop. Do you understand?”
“Yeah, I understand.” She turned the car off. “Hi, Sam! How was school?”
“Good! I passed a chem test, finished a paper, and Gabriel didn’t knock my books out of my hands at all today. He must be getting bored of it.” Charlie shot Dean a look over Sam’s head. Dean looked away guiltily. He might have happened to catch up to the kid after school let out one day to give him an extremely gentle talking to. Nothing serious. Not that Sam couldn’t take care of himself, but it didn’t hurt to help him out every once and a while.
Sam was digging around in his back pocket. He had picked up Dean’s habit of keeping a whole arsenal of useful tools in various pockets. Sam always joked that there could be a ring of invisibility in one of Dean’s and he’d never know. “Found it! Here, Charlie, I made this for you-” He passed her a crumpled piece of notebook paper. “I drew it in my science class.”
“Shouldn’t you be paying attention?” Dean ribbed.
“Says the man who told me to blow up a lab. And I drew it after the test anyway, we weren’t doing anything else.”
“Dean!” Charlie mock gasped, holding the paper to her face. “You should be a better influence for your brother! Now let me look at this-” She unfolded the paper. “Oh, Sam! This is amazing!”
“I knew you were fixing up this car, and it matches your hair…”
Charlie pushed Dean out of the way so she could leap over the pile of tools and give Sam a bear hug. Dean could see the drawing in her hand. It was done with a ballpoint and red marker in the style of old DC comics, depicting Charlie revving up the beamer in front of him, a cloud of smoke pouring out of the tailpipe. Sam nailed the likeness, down to her favorite aviators.
“It’s going on the fridge.” She held it up like she could already see it there.
“You own a fridge? You can cook?” She knew perfectly well that Dean had a collection of Sam’s art on their own fridge at home.
She socked lightly in the arm. “Who’s one of the few standing between you guys and a lifetime diet of cup o’ noodles and chef boyardee? Just because my meals are simple, doesn’t mean they aren’t wholesome!”
“Yes, mom.” Dean griped. “It’s a sick drawing, Sammy.”
“Thanks!” Sam beamed. “Cars are so difficult to get down right- especially when I can't see it…”
Charlie nodded sympathetically as both of them continued clearing up the tool pile. Dean left them to it, he wanted to check Charlie’s work under the hood, but the back door slamming made him jam his finger on the latch.
“OW!”
“Dean! You might want to take a look at this letter I found in the pile.” Bobby marched over to them. He eyed the beamer. “Was the coolant system the problem?”
“Yeah, you were right. I managed to get it working again, though!” Charlie patted the roof. “A couple more tweaks and she’ll be good as new, thanks for the help!”
Dean snatched the letter from Bobby’s outstretched hand. He thought he recognized the fancy seal on it and didn’t want Sam to see it first. He shouldn’t have worried, Bobby was walking Sam through some physics problems he missed.
“Is that–”
Dean shushed Charlie and ripped the letter open. He didn’t even need to get past the first word.
“Congratulations…”
Sam’s head whipped around and Bobby tucked the homework away.
“We are happy to inform you that we have a vacancy at Chilton Preparatory starting immediately. Due to your ward’s excellent credentials and your enthusiastic pursuit of his enrollment– I offered to fix the principal's car for free for the rest of his life– we would be happy to accept him as soon as the first semester’s tuition has been received.”
“Oh my god, Sam!” Charlie screamed and hugged him.
“I got in! I can’t believe I got in!” Sam squeezed her back and grabbed the letter from Dean. “This isn’t a prank? Ashton Kutcher isn’t going to pop out from around the corner?”
“No, son, that seal looks pretty official to me.” Bobby patted Sam on the shoulder. “You’re a good kid, you’ve earned it.”
“This calls for a party! I’m feeling burgers– I’m feeling beer– for the grownups– I’m feeling loud music and keeping the neighbors up until two am– who’s with me?” Dean pointed at Sam with a flourish.
“Me! Me!” He jumped up and waved his hand. “I can’t believe this! I have to go tell Kevin immediately!” He ran off to the garage.
“I’d totally be down! I assume you’ve got the barbecue covered, so I’ll bring drinks! Sam is going to Chilton! Sam is going to Chilton!” Charlie chanted and danced away, swooping down to pick up a tool here and there.
“You–” Dean said sternly to Bobby. “You’re also going to be there, I know you don’t like parties, but come on.”
“Of course I’ll be there, you idjit. This is a big flipping deal.” Bobby’s grin belied his gruff tone.
“Sweet. Invite everyone you know! I don’t care that it’s a Monday! Rager at our place tonight!”
“Rager” ended up meaning a smallish gathering of close friends eating good food to celebrate good news– but what more could you ask for? The weather was still warm enough to fire up the grill on the patio, and Dean hummed to himself while he flipped burgers in the apron Sam had fingerpainted for him in elementary school. Charlie made root beer floats at the beat-up picnic table– a lucky Facebook marketplace find. Drips of ice cream ran down overflowing cups to feed a small line of black ants marching across the sun-bleached tiles. Bobby was teaching Sam and Kevin to play Blackjack, and Dean could tell he was taking it easy on them.
“Burgers ready in five!”
Sam cheered. Dean wiped his hands off on the dish towel hanging over his shoulder, then unfolded the acceptance letter from his apron’s center pocket.
“Pause your game for a sec, guys. Charlie, can I have one of those?”
She dramatically presented him with a float.
“Thank you, thank you very much. Alright, while we wait for burgers–”
“We have to listen to you talk? But you talk all the time!” Sam whined.
“No heckling!” Dean snapped the letter and raised the float. “Tonight, we toast to the greatness in our midst. The next Albert Einstein– the next Stephen Hawking– the next Dickens– the next–”
“Newton!” Charlie cried.
“DaVinci!” Kevin slapped Sam on the back.
“Locke.” Bobby deadpanned.
“Ooh, nice one there. But better than all of them, because Sammy will always be our one and only Sammy.” Dean sniffed and pretended to wipe a tear with the paper. “And I hope he’ll remember his humble beginnings when he joins the annals of awesomeness someday.”
“Hear, hear!” Charlie raised her own float, and a general tapping of red solo cups ensued.
“Speech! Speech! Speech!” Kevin pumped his fist in Sam’s face.
“Thanks, guys, for the party– it’s great. And it’s stupid, but I guess I just can’t believe it’s really happening. I’m actually going! And thank you, Dean, I couldn’t have done it without you.” Sam raised his cup to him, and this time Dean might have wiped away a real tear or two.
“You’re welcome, and I didn’t even have to fix the principal's car! But that’s enough chick flick moments for tonight– who wants burgers?”
The phone rang behind the shop’s desk the next day. Dean was taking a break from sweating under a Toyota Camry that he couldn’t figure out what was wrong with, to go through the never ending pile of mail.
“Bobby, the phone.”
“Mhm. It rings.” He was filling out complicated insurance forms from a totaled Element they had in a few weeks ago.
“Can you answer it? I’ve got my hands full here.”
“Nope, I’m busy too. And people are stupid today, I can’t talk to any more of them.”
“You know who’s really nice to talk to? That junior mechanic that really wants to learn how to fix AC’s.”
Bobby looked up from his forms to see the over-eager fresh high school graduate with a bad sunburn and freckles wave enthusiastically from across the shop. Dean waved back.
“Ugh, fine. Stars Hollow Mechanics, Bobby here–”
Dean finally ripped open a thick envelope he was struggling with. He skimmed the contents.
Crap.
He left the shop early, so he’d be home before Sam got out of school. The look on his face must’ve been expressive enough for Bobby not to question him. He held the house phone with his shoulder while he scrubbed the grease from his hands and waited for someone to pick up.
“You’ve reached the Chilton Student Services office, my name is Mrs. Bell, how may I assist you?”
“Hi! This is Dean Winchester, and my kid brother, Sam, has just been accepted– awesome– thank you! But I got the invoice for your enrollment fee and, wow! That is a lot of zeros behind that five!
“Congratulations to your younger brother, Mr. Winchester, am I understanding correctly that you are unable to make the invoice payment?”
“No! No, I guess what I’m wondering is if you couldn’t take, say, part of it now? Just to get him going?” He wiped his hands on his jeans, but kept the phone on his shoulder so he could grab a soda from the fridge.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Winchester. We are unable to accept payments in multiple parts. If you wish to defer enrollment until next semester, in order to acquire the necessary funds, that may be arranged. However, your brother may be required to reapply with the incoming cycle.”
“But he’s already been accepted. He’s supposed to start Monday. It just doesn’t give me a lot of time to pull a bank job.”
“Excuse me?”
“I was just kidding.”
“Are you saying that you don’t currently have secure employment, Mr. Winchester?”
Dean sat on the couch with his soda. “No, a bank job is robbing a bank but–”
“Please do not take any drastic measures that might reflect poorly on this institution to pay the invoice.” Dean couldn’t tell if she was joking. “But if there is no possibility of payment, I’m afraid we may have to give your brother’s spot to the first in line on the waitlist.”
“Oh, no, no, no, I don’t want you to give up his space. I’ll have to figure it out.”
“Are you sure, Mr. Winchester? We need to receive the invoice soon or the spot automatically goes to a waitlister.”
“I’m sure. Thank you, it’s been a real treat talking to you.”
“If you have any more questions, please feel free to call again.”
“Yeah, thanks. Bye.”
He hung up and tossed the phone on the empty couch cushion next to him. His soda sweated, unopened, in his hand.
“What do I do?”
Dean paced on the porch in front of Charlie, who was sitting on a white wicker couch and painting her toenails with her feet propped up on the glass table in front of her. It was one of those summery fall evenings that smack of mid-June. Fireflies blinked in the yard and moths swarmed the porch light by the door. Sam was inside with Kevin, previewing the latest Everclear album at full blast. Grungy chords filtered through the window along with Kevin’s trembling tenor.
“You can have anything I own! My car!” She waved the red nail polish bottle at her cute little spring-green bug parked in the driveway.
“I don’t want your car…there’s something I haven’t thought of– I know there is. There’s something out there, staring me right in the face, I just haven’t seen it…” He ran a hand through his hair distractedly.
“You know, you might consider calling your dad–”
“Nope!” He paused at the rail to stare out at the yard. There sure were a lot of fireflies out tonight. And cicadas, their droning was almost loud enough to drown out Charlie’s awful advice.
“But I don’t think you have–”
“Stop!”
“You can at least go and–”
“Ah, ah–”
“Okay, can I at least say one more thing?”
Dean turned to face her as she screwed the top back on the polish and gently set it on the table. “I think it’s your only option.”
“Charlie. There are several chapters from a Stephen King novel I’d reenact before I’d resort to that option.”
“Okay, dropped–” Dean glared at her. “Dropped!”
“Thank you.”
They lapsed into silence. Dean leaned comfortably against the railing and watched her dry her toes with a cheap paper fan, enjoying Everclear’s cover of “Brown Eyed Girl”-- though he liked the original Van Morrison version better.
“Dean!” The front door slammed as Sam ran out onto the porch. “What do you think?” He tugged at his new uniform jacket. Kevin walked out behind him, shutting the door properly.
“I think you could give a very good open house tour.”
Charlie laughed and Kevin cracked up too. “For all you know, I could. And there’s not much I can do about it looking like that.” Sam said primly.
“Yeah, I know, I was ribbing you.”
“I can’t believe today was my last day at Stars Hollow High! Today, I was so excited I played football during gym.” He mimed throwing the ball to Dean.
“You’re kidding.” Charlie said, stopping her fanning. “With other people?”
“He’s not, I saw him.” Kevin smiled. “He was awful.”
“I wasn’t that bad!” Sam shoved him. “I caught the ball! Sometimes.”
“Hey, better than no times. Oh, for dinner, why don’t you and Kev dig around in the fridge for leftover pizza, I think there’s some meat lover’s in there from the other day.” He didn’t want to bother with cooking. Besides, it was nice out and he wasn’t ready to leave the porch yet.
“Okay. Man, I can’t wait for Monday! Do you think they’ll have gargoyles there? It seemed like that kind of place from the fliers.” Sam absentmindedly walked back into the house, Kevin filing after him.
“You’ll have to tell me if there’s a big library– like with actual wooden bookshelves. Not those MDF ones that smell like plastic in our school’s one…”
The door slammed again behind them. They were such dorks, worrying about how nice the library would be in a school that must receive millions in alumni donations every year. Charlie noticed him smiling fondly.
“You have to ask about that money.”
Dean hated that she was right.
The house was an imposing greystone and wouldn’t look out of place on the bleak, foggy moors of England– looming above a lone, bedraggled traveler, lit by the lonely light of the full moon, maybe with a faint howling echoing over the hills. Dean wished a werewolf would dash out of one of the prickly hedges towering above the low wall surrounding the property and devour him before he reached the door. He sighed, disappointed, as he dropped the brassy lion door knocker hard enough to chip the paint. Maybe another day.
A man in a snappy suit you usually only see in movies, opened the door. He had coattails for Christ's sake. “May I help you?”
“Yeah. Dean Winchester. Here to see my Dad.”
“Please, come right in.” The man ushered him inside and took his coat, only to put it on the hook by the door. “He’s in the sitting room.”
The man disappeared, Dean wondered if he was absorbed into the deep mahogany wood paneling lining the walls to reappear when summoned again. As he followed the curve of the hall, his boots and the high ceilings made it sound like an army was storming the place. He was sure that was purposeful. The paranoid bastard.
Sure enough, John Winchester was waiting– on his feet, whiskey tumbler in hand– for him in the stuffy sitting room, which was draped in heavy curtains that tried to recall medieval greatness but reminded Dean of a “Medieval Times” with a ridiculous budget.
“Dean. This is a surprise. Is it Easter already?” He drained the rest of his drink.
“I just got finished with my business class and I thought I’d stop by.”
“To see me?”
“Yes.”
“Well isn’t that nice.” He walked over to the drink cart by a particularly horrible tapestry depicting the decapitation of one of King Henry’s wives. John probably thought it was funny. “Want a drink?”
“I’m good.”
John poured himself another generous glass of whiskey from a crystal decanter. “You said you were taking a business class?”
“Yeah. I take a business class at the college twice a week. I’m sure I’ve told you.”
“Well if you’re ‘sure’ then you must have.” He took a swig of drink, then sat on a worn leather recliner, the one piece of furniture in the room that looked lived in. He motioned for Dean to sit on the stiff tufted leather couch across from him.
“So…I'm the lead mechanic at the shop now.”
“Really? You haven’t burned the place down by now?”
“No.” Dean bristled. “It’s only a matter of time before I can buy my own garage.”
“Phew, the only places I know of up for sale around there are rotting dumps. Where were you looking?”
“That warehouse off the interstate to Hartford. Steven’s old place.” The guy was a local legend– a rich, eccentric, type who owned his own planes and flew trick shows for holiday parades. The place off the highway was his old hanger.
“You could do worse. I don’t think it’ll fall in on you–at least in the first year.” Like Dean had asked him. “Are you staying for dinner?”
“No, I’m not. I actually came here for a reason.”
John let him sit in silence for a moment. He always knew the perfect amount of silence that would make someone uncomfortable while still being able to have the polite excuse of gathering his thoughts.
“You need money.”
“I have a situation.”
“You need money.”
“Would you please let me get this out? Please? Sam’s been accepted to Chilton.”
Silence again. Dean fidgeted with a loose stud on the couch.
“That’s a pretty good school. Only five minutes from here, right?”
“It’s a great school. I’ve been trying for two years to get him in there. And now there’s an opening and we just found out about it. He can start as early as Monday. The problem is I have to put down an enrollment fee plus this semester’s tuition and I have to do it immediately or he loses his spot.”
“So, you need money.”
Dean regretted not accepting that drink. “Yeah, I do.”
John finished his whiskey and set the glass heavily on the monstrous claw footed coffee table. He clearly never used a coaster, the table looked like it had a nasty case of ringworm.
“It’s not for me, okay? It’s for Sam. This is an awesome opportunity for him, and it would just be a loan, I’ll pay you back every cent. I just can’t miss something this important. I don’t ask for favors, you know that.”
“Yes, I know.”
He didn’t have Dean’s nervous habit of shifting around, the one that always got him in trouble at fancy dinners when he was little. Dean wondered if the Marines trained it out of him.
“I’ll get the checkbook.”
“Really? I mean thank you. I can’t tell you…thank you.” The loose stud dropped back into the couch, safe until the next victim of an excruciating conversation sat in the same spot.
“On one condition.”
There it was. “A condition?
“Yes. Since I’m now financially involved in your life, I want to be actively involved too.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means that I want more contact. Not just holidays and birthdays. Sam’s going to be in a school five minutes from here, and you’re in town at least twice a week. As you made a point that you’ve already told me.” John leaned back in his recliner and looked at Dean down his nose.
“So?”
“I want a weekly dinner.”
“What?”
“Friday nights, you and Sam will have dinner here.”
“You can’t cook.” Not that it would matter. Dean was sure that the butler he had seen earlier was also handy in the kitchen. Or there was a separate private chef. Or different household items were magically cursed to perform menial chores at John Winchester’s leisure.
“And you have to call me once a week to give me an update on his school and your life. That’s it. That’s the condition. If you agree, you can come to dinner tomorrow night and leave here with a check. Otherwise, I can’t help you.”
Dean considered how much money Sam would get out of his life insurance policy. Not enough to cover all those zeros in the invoice. “I don’t want him to know I borrowed money from you. I want this to be between us.”
“Does seven work for dinner?” John had fished the checkbook from a junk drawer in the whiskey stand and was scrounging around for a pen.
“Fine.”
“Mornin’ Cas.” The door to Angel’s Brew clanged shut behind him, blasting a gust of cold air across the tables closest to the windows. A lady wrapped in scarves and cradling a steaming mug glared at him.
“Dean. Next time could you try to be a little gentler with the door? It’s lasted for almost a hundred years, and I’d like it to hold together for a few more.” Cas was already pouring a mug for Dean from a fresh pot of coffee.
“Sorry, will do.” He sat at the counter as Cas expertly slid the mug across to him, the coffee sloshing but not spilling a drop. The first gulp seared his throat on the way down.
“So…” Cas gathered the picked over plate of the scarved woman, who looked like she was prepared for gusts of arctic winds. Dean wondered why she didn’t move away from the door if she was so cold. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m that easy, huh?”
Cas simply raised a brow.
“Yeah, yeah– I’m in here all the time. Sam got into Chilton.”
“Oh, congratulations! It’s a good school, right?”
“The very best!” Dean grinned over his mug. “You see him with those books all the time, right? I knew the little poindexter could do it.”
“He should be proud.” Cas agreed. “But that sounds like good news.”
“Yeah, I should have known there’s always a catch.” He shook his head ruefully. “They needed payment on an invoice–you don’t even want to know how much–and they didn’t leave me enough time to go full D.B. Cooper.”
Cas set down the glass he was drying and leaned across the counter towards Dean. “Do you need help? I don’t have much, but there’s some old furniture out back that might go for a little–”
Dean raised a hand. “Thanks, but I’m all good. Charlie offered too–but I had to go to the old man for this one.”
“Are you sure?” Cas passed a salt shaker to a man further down the counter without taking his eyes off him.
“Yeah.” Dean sighed and set his half-empty still-steaming mug down. “And he was actually willing to be good for the money, believe it or not.”
“But…” Cas prompted.
“Dinners are mandatory every Friday night. And a weekly phone call.”
“Ah, he let you off easy then.” Cas resumed drying the dishes.
“Easy? Have you met my father?” Dean spluttered incredulously. “Herding cats would be easier.”
“My father?” Cas mocked in a stuck up posh accent. “He must be bad.”
“And that’s an understatement. Some rich uncle died when Sammy and I were barely conscious and he came into a lot of moolah. He’s been trying to act like he’s from one of those old money New England families ever since. But you know what they say…you can take the man out of the marines…” He could almost hear the drills he and Sammy were forced to do–but instead of military marches, it was on the correct use of each piece of silverware.
“He sounds like a character.” Cas said delicately.
“Pff, a character from a Barker flick.”
The scarf lady finally left. She threw a loose scarf over her shoulder as she walked out the door and the lower half of her face disappeared. Dean watched her jog down the street, scarves billowing out behind her like an autumnal train.
“So when’s the first dinner?”
“This Friday. Tomorrow.”
“Wow, even before Sam moves schools?” All of the counter customers had left, so Cas stopped pretending to look busy. “How many meals will it take for him to let you off the hook?”
“I think the spread at my funeral will be the last one.” Dean sighed melodramatically.
“At least the little sandwiches will be perfectly toasted.” Cas laughed. “I’ll bring the coffee.”
“You better be a lot more torn up than that if I died– I’m your best customer.” He leveled an accusatory finger at Cas, who leaned against the counter across from him.
“Dean, half the time you leave without paying and yell at me to put it on your nonexistent tab. We don’t do tabs here.” He gestured to the mug Dean was sipping from. “If I had to guess that right there would be approximately your two hundredth cup of free coffee this year.”
“I always tip extra! That has to count for something!” Dean pushed his mug into Cas’s hand. “Here, take it back. Guilty coffee doesn’t taste the same.”
Cas pushed it gently back towards him. “Don’t worry about it, go ahead and drink it so you don’t lose focus and get crushed by a car at work. It’s just coffee, right?”
“Right…thanks, Cas.” He took a small sip and shot a hesitant smile over the rim of the mug.
“Anytime.”
The door rang as an old man with a walker made his weary way into the shop, scuffed wingtips dragging along the floor. Cas rushed over to help him find a seat as Dean wondered when Cas’s entire business could be boiled down to “just coffee.”
John Winchester’s front porch only grew more foreboding as the sun sank slowly behind them. Sam pulled at his sleeves, which were already too short on him even though the shirt was new just a couple months ago. The lion door knocker leered at them. Dean had the odd feeling that he’d dressed up to be served as the beast’s dinner.
“So…do we go in or stand here reenacting “The Little Match Girl”?”
“Quit pulling at your shirt. We’re going in.” Dean dropped the knocker.
The door swung open– without a creak, although it would’ve fit the moment–to reveal John Winchester in one of his casual suits. Dean could tell, he’d spent a long semester in high school arguing that the weave and cut of a suit doesn’t matter. A suit was still a suit.
“Well, you’re right on time.” John seemed surprised he had to look up at Sam.
“Yeah, no traffic at all.”
“Come in, dinner will be ready in a moment. I thought we could have drinks in the sitting room.” He eyed Dean’s cardboard coffee cup, as they stepped into the cavernous entrance hall. “Is that a collector’s cup or can I throw it away for you?”
“Oh, I can do it.”
He moved to drop it in an empty can near the door.
“In the kitchen, please.”
“Right, sorry.”
“Sam. It’s been a long time. You’ve grown.” John awkwardly clapped him on the shoulder.
“It’s good to see you too, Dad.” Sam rubbed the back of his neck. If every Friday dinner was going to be this painful, Dean thought he’d rather die from embarrassment at this one and get it over with.
“Go ahead and take your coats off, get comfortable.” John clasped his hands as they hung their coats on an absurdly heavy, gold, multi-pronged rack, that even Dean’s best black leather jacket looked childish on. “I want to hear all about Chilton, Sam.”
“Well, I haven’t actually started yet.”
John took Sam by the elbow and led him towards the sitting room. Dean waited until they were out of sight to drop his cup into the forbidden trash can before he followed.
“Have you joined any sports?” John had given Sam a coke, in a fancy glass, while he sipped on what looked to be a nasty IPA. At least it was something light.
“Um…” Sam looked at Dean for help.
“Sammy’s not really a sports guy.” Dean fixed his own drink at the cart. “Trust me, you don’t want him near a ball. Or anything that could break a window.”
“I think it’s good for a young man to exercise regularly. Team sports also build character. And at your height, it’d be a waste if you never got on a court.”
“I know, right? His height is freakish. We’re going to have him studied at M.I.T. I bet they could use a good pickup player too.” Sam made a face at him.
“You would’ve been good too. I know your high school football coach found you difficult to work with, but if you had cleaned up your attitude…”
Sam looked delighted with this new information. “Dean played football?”
“Let’s toast!” Dean interjected hurriedly. Those pictures of him in goofy practice pads could stay hidden at the bottom of the closet. “Come on, Dad. I know you have something laying around to celebrate Sammy’s new school.”
“As a matter of fact, I do.” John whipped a bottle of champagne out from behind his chair. “Dean, if you could bring glasses?”
He poured a generous amount for himself, a smaller portion for Sam and Dean. “To Sam entering Chilton. And an exciting new phase in his life.”
They all clinked glasses and took a sip. Sam tried to hide his wrinkling nose.
“This is an exciting time for you, Sam.” John said sagely. “An education is the most important thing in the world, after family.”
“And pie.”
Sam choked on his drink. John looked at him coldly.
“Joke.”
“Ah.”
A butler, different from the one he saw on his last visit, entered to announce that dinner was ready. John finished his champagne in a gulp and picked up his glass of beer again. He led the way to the dining room which was very Citizen Kane-ish. Silver platters with domed lids sat on a white linen tablecloth– too white to be a true cotton heirloom, but close enough in pattern that John could claim it had been restored. He launched into some rant about how expensive good silver cleaner was, but Dean could care less once the food was uncovered.
They chewed in blessed silence for a few minutes.
“Sam, how do you like the lamb?”
Sam must have made eye contact. Rookie mistake.
“It’s good.”
“Too dry?”
“No.”
Dean thought he was being polite.
“Joseph always leaves it in too long. I’ll have him make something else.”
“Please don’t. It’s fine.” Sam took an exaggerated bite. “Delicious.”
“Well, alright then.”
Another moment. John sawed at his meat.
“The potatoes are a little salty though.” Dean muttered into his napkin.
“Excuse me?”
“So, Dad, how’s the security biz?” Sam cut in.
“Ah, you know. People are stupid, we save them. People are reckless, we save them. People put blinding beacons that say ‘please rob me’ on their houses, we protect their stuff. Same old.” John patted at his face with a napkin tucked into his collar.
“Well, at least you have your new slogan.” Dean quipped. “Winchester Private Security– and all that other jazz in fine print under it.”
“Speaking of which, I have a new client. Young entrepreneur. Built something and got noticed– sometimes by the wrong people. That’s where I come in. But still.”
Dean could feel the pointed look beaming at him, even though he was doing his best to play a one man game of tic-tac-toe with the broccoli and carrots on his plate. John cleared his throat.
“Okay, I’ll bite. How was that speaking of which?”
“He’s doing well for himself. He has big ideas and knows how to implement them effectively.”
“And I don’t, I guess? That’s what you’re getting at here?”
Sam looked at Dean nervously. Dean brutally crushed his broccoli with a fork.
“Didn’t Sammy get into Chilton? That’s a big achievement. It takes a lot of hard work.”
“Speaking of which, I’m going to get a coke…or a knife.”
He pushed back his chair so hard it wobbled on two legs for a moment, then stalked into the kitchen– well aware he was acting like a child.
Being in this house, with those old grotesque paintings on the walls, felt like being trapped in the Joker’s funhouse. The kitchen had an odd mixture of modern and antiquated appliances, contributing to the deranged, medieval-yard-sale aesthetic. A half-filled percolator occupied the front burner of the stove, while a smart screen displayed what groceries were in the fridge in glossy Helvetica.
A pile of dirty dishes sat in the sink, the ruins of the beautiful meal on the table. Dean began to wash them.
“Dean, come back to the table.”
He looked around for a towel to dry the big pan he just washed. There wasn’t one hanging on the oven handle, the normal spot for a hand towel.
“You’re being very dramatic.”
Dean gave up and dropped the pan back in the dirty sink. He braced himself against its porcelain edge. “I’m being dramatic? Is this what it’s going to be like every Friday night? I come over here and let you attack me for a couple hours? No take backs and no consequences?”
“I think you took what I said the wrong way.”
He turned to see John, beer still in hand, leaning casually against the kitchen door. “Were you at that table just now? How could I take that the wrong way? What was open to interpretation?”
“Keep your voice down.”
“No.” He wanted to grab something and throw it, but John had learned from his teenage years and nothing small, glass, and breakable was anywhere near arms length. “I can’t take it anymore. Tonight has been a nightmare.”
“You’re dripping all over the floor!”
“So? Worried I can’t pay for the damages with my shitty job at my shitty shop? Why do you pounce on every single thing I say?”
“That’s absurd. You’ve barely said a word all night.”
“That’s not true.”
“You said ‘pie’.”
“Oh, come on.”
“You did. All I heard you say was ‘pie’.”
Dean wiped his hands angrily on his slacks. “Why would you bring up that client? Was that really necessary? I don’t even know his name- you weren’t telling some dinner table work story. Oh, Henry– you know Henry, and the funny way he is– well he did this thing at the break cooler where he laughed weird and shot water out his nose– this wasn’t that.”
“I respect my clients. And their dignity and their privacy. You don’t need to know names. You’ve never asked for names before.” John set his empty glass on the marble island counter and sat in one of the tall, spindly, chairs lined up next to it. Chairs there to make the kitchen only the butler regularly saw, look like a cozy home.
“That’s besides the point, Dad.”
“There is no point to this conversation– other than to fulfill your petty need to feel like the victim.”
“Isn’t that interesting? Because, as I remember it, you were the one that brought up building something. Preferably carried interest from my career as a venture capitalist– so building a life from the ground up probably doesn’t sound like much to you.”
“Please. You ran off at sixteen and dragged your little brother with you– spent years holed up in the backroom of a garage, scraping pennies together and living off cup-of-noodles, like you were a member of some two-bit, martyred hippie band. Meanwhile, there was an estate waiting for you. Connections. Opportunity. All you had to do was put in the work. That’s not building a life. That’s cutting off your nose to spite your face. The two of you had such bright futures.”
“Yes. And by leaving you— and your drinking, and your control issues, and your ex-military psychotic end-of-the-world prep, we ended up mostly normal and not in a compound drinking koolaid somewhere in Montana.”
John stood up to his full height, and Dean realized that he had only sat down for effect. “When you have resources, you use them. To succeed you use all the leverage you got– and if you don’t make it, then it’s your own damn fault.”
“Says the man who inherited a fortune.”
“And I knew how to keep it. You would be living a lovely life right now if it weren’t for your blasted attitude.”
“I have a life!” Dean dug into his pocket and pulled out the shop’s business card. He flung it on the island counter. “This is a life! And I’m going to have my own shop soon. Sam’s going to a good school– he’s going to go to Harvard someday– and we have a nice house that’s paid off with money from my job. Sam always has someone to call when he needs it– which is more than you could ever say.”
“That’s right, you built a life. Far away from me.”
“Oh, here we go.”
“You took that boy and completely shut me out of your life. You moved, you wouldn’t accept my help, my money…” John took the card. “Was working in a greasy machine shop worth spitting in the face of family?”
“You wanted to control my life! And not just monitor my grades, you had a training regimen all planned out, with ten mile suicide sprints and ice bath waterboarding after. You hung posters for military school in my bedroom when I was five. If you could’ve grown me in a test tube to be a marine, you would’ve.”
“You were still a child. It’s a boy’s duty to obey his father.”
“I stopped being a child the moment you handed me a sawed-off and told me to protect my brother, like we were on the frontlines of a war instead of suburban Connecticut. Your drunken paranoia would’ve killed us. I had to figure out how to build a life. I found a good job…” Dean turned to look out the window above the sink, but it was too dark to see anything other than his own reflection.
“As a mechanic. With all your brains and talents.” John threw his card back on the island in disgust.
“I worked my way up. I run the place now. I built a life on my own. With no help from anyone.” He faced John in defiance. He wasn’t sixteen anymore, he had a house and a steady job– and Sam was still out in the dining room, not cowering under his bed like when he was little.
“And think of where you would’ve been if you had accepted a little help? And where would Sam have been?” John sneered. “If it weren’t for your ridiculous pride your life could’ve been better. But no. You were too proud to take anything from anyone. You were always too proud to accept anything from anyone.”
“I wasn’t too proud to come here begging for money for Sam’s school, was I?” Dean clenched a fist. God he wanted to throw something.
“No, but you’re too proud to let him know where you got it from, aren’t you? Well, fine. You have your precious pride. And I have my weekly dinners. Isn’t that nice? We both win.” John didn’t wait for Dean to retort before retreating to the dining room. A few moments later, he heard Sam cheerfully chattering away about his book. Dean slumped against the sink, exhausted. His life insurance policy probably would’ve covered that invoice.
The cars on the interstate hissed through a light rain, their headlights refracting into halos in the puddles alongside the road. Dean drove in silence.
“So…you want to get a cup of coffee?” Sam offered.
“Desperately.”
Angel’s Brew was still open at night. Cas said that burgers, his specialty, sold better at night and that he’d rather keep anybody who wanted coffee at that time off the streets. A warm glow spilled from the windows onto the fall leaves skittering across the sidewalk. Dean felt his shoulders relax at the sound of the bell when Sam opened the door ahead of him. Dammit, he’d been Pavlov’d.
“So, nice dinner at dad’s house.” Sam said as he sat at their usual table.
“Yup. His dishes have never been cleaner.” Dean waved Cas over. He finished scratching something in a notepad before ambling over to them, bearing a fresh pot of coffee and two empty mugs.
“Long night?” Cas asked as he poured their drinks. Dean pounced on his mug as soon as it was full– tonight was a night perfectly accompanied by the bitter taste of a smooth black.
“We had dinner at our Dad’s.” Sam explained as he took his time pouring sugar into his drink and stirring.
“Oh, yes. I had forgotten that was tonight. Are you and Dean alright?” Cas seemed genuinely concerned.
“Nothing a cup of your coffee won’t solve, Cas. Thanks for asking.” Dean set his mug down after emptying half of it in one burning gulp and smiled up at him. “I’ll tell you about it later.”
“I’ll hold you to it. Enjoy your coffee, it’s on the house.” A woman signaled for the check, summoning Cas back to the counter.
“Thanks, Cas!” Dean called after him.
“So…” Sam said, fiddling with a napkin on the table. “You and Dad seemed to have a nice talk.”
“How much did you hear?”
“Oh, not much. You know, snippets.”
“Snippets.” Dean said flatly.
“Little snippets.” Sam was avoiding eye contact.
“So you heard everything.”
“Basically. Yes.”
Dean sighed. “Well, the best laid plans.”
“I think it was very brave of you to ask him for money.”
“I so do not want to talk about it.” He slowly sipped his coffee. It seared his remaining taste buds off.
“We’re going to be there every Friday night, huh.” Sam tore his napkin and moved on to messing with his stirring spoon.
“Until hell freezes over.” Dean agreed. “You can make it up to me by having a good time at Chilton.”
“I will. Do you think there’ll be gargoyles?”
“I bet there will be. Just make sure one doesn’t carry you off.”
Sam kept talking about the new school supplies he would need– a legal pad, not in a funky color, because he was at a serious school and needed serious paper– and the classes he was excited to take. Dean let him talk, enjoying the last drops of his coffee and the buzz of the evening crowd around them. Tomorrow he didn’t have to wake up early because Bobby let him come in later on the weekends. He sat further back in his vinyl-covered chair, hoping that Friday night Angel’s Brew runs would become a tradition– the one highlight of this terrible obligation.