Chapter Text
Dean grins and pushes open the door to the bar. Not far behind, Sam laughs. Castiel glances between them with a slightly confused look on his handsome face, but that’s to be expected. He wasn’t around all those years ago to remember their old “bitch, jerk” routine. He wouldn’t laugh at it now.
The bar is, in actuality, an establishment of hunters. Run by hunters for hunters, like the Roadhouse, only more of a cheap place to stay and less of a place to get plastered. There’s wifi, and beer, and clean sheets. Hunters who need a job or need help with a creature hell-bent on survival flock to the joint. Everybody in the job knows about Miller’s.
This is the first time the Winchesters have been inside.
Dean grins at the woman behind the bar and surveys the room. It’s dimly lit and cramped, but homey at the same time. The tables and chairs are wooden and vaguely crude, mismatched and scratched. The worn feel is probably purposeful, he suspects. People who haven’t had a real home in years tend to get freaked out when put in a room full of nice things. The older, the better with this lot.
There’s a table full of men—and one beautiful, terrifying woman—talking in the back corner, and Dean leads his brother and angel in their direction. The conversation stops when he pulls a chair up, but soon resumes. It’s a big table, with at least six chairs clustered around. Even when Sam and Cas join, there’s still a little extra room. Dean makes sure Cas is close to him. Wouldn’t want the others to freak if it comes to light that Cas isn’t exactly human.
“Hey boys,” one of the men says around a yawn. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days, and, knowing hunters, probably hasn’t. He’s wearing the unofficial uniform of the trade: flannel shirt, jeans, boots, and jacket. “What brings fine young gentlemen like you to such a dirty bar?”
“Looking for a job,” Sam replies casually, glancing over his shoulder as he holds up a hand to signal the bartender. She nods and grabs three clean glasses.
The hunters look skeptical, and Dean remembers that most hunters are older than he and his brother. Most folks only get into the job when their spouse or kid is killed by something of the supernatural persuasion. They must look like inexperienced children to these men. Three glasses of beer find their way to the table, and he grabs one.
“And you looked… here?” It’s a woman who speaks this time, eyes hard like steel and brow furrowed. She’s got four shot glasses sitting in front of her and the man on her right is ruddy-cheeked and swaying. It’s not hard to put together the pieces. Dean makes a mental note to never try and outdrink her.
“Well, this is Miller’s. Everybody knows about Miller’s,” Dean laughs, taking a drink from his beer. It’s lukewarm and he nearly swallows too much, but he manages to make it look macho. At least, Sam doesn’t laugh, so he can’t have looked too stupid. “I mean, ever since the Roadhouse burned down, this is the only place left.”
“So you’re hunters too,” the woman says. “Welcome to the club, boys. I’m Nancy, but most people call me Glory. This here is my husband Bill, and the guy who said hi first is Cliff.” Bill and Cliff raise a hand when their names are said. “We travel together.”
“Hold on,” Dean says in disbelief. “Glory and Bill Turner? And Cliff Jones?”
“Okay, so you know us,” Glory says with a smirk, lacing her fingers with Bill’s.
“Um, yeah we know you,” Sam practically gushes. He’s got that fervent look in his eyes that Dean has come to associate with new laptops and exotic salads. It’s the same look Cas gets when hamburgers are involved or when Sam is off doing something and they’re alone. “You guys took out all those vampire nests in Milwaukee! You’re like, some of the most famous hunters out there!”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Cliff mutters into his beer. “I mean, sitting right across from me is Tyler Silver. You know, the guy who figured out which devil’s traps work and which don’t.” Cliff gestures to an older man with silver hair and scars across his face that look like claw marks. He nods and smiles shyly. Sam looks like he’s having a nerdgasm.
“Oh man,” Dean breathes reverently. “I’d be dead without you, man.”
“This is Nat Smith,” Tyler says quickly. Dean understands the need to get the attention onto someone else. There’s a reason why he hasn’t introduced himself yet. Beside him, Cas stiffens. Dean shoots him a confused look, but Cas doesn’t respond.
“Yeah, I’m Nat Smith,” says a short man with dark skin. He grins, and Dean recognizes his type immediately; he likes being in the spotlight. “I figured out how to combine holy water with holy oil, so I can kill just about anything.” That explains Cas being uncomfortable, Dean thinks. He threads their fingers together under the table. Cas relaxes.
“Awesome,” Sam sighs. Dean laughs at his brother’s expression. He’s awed and slightly drooling. Dean and Cas share a glance that clearly says, Has he forgotten who we are? Dean certainly hopes they don’t come up in the conversation.
“So I’m sitting here with some of the most influential hunters,” Dean says, turning to Cas and trying quietly convey his levels of excitement. Sam is the one who goes nuts over this stuff; Dean is capable of keeping his fangirling to a minimum. Cas is grinning too, despite not knowing who most of these people are.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Glory laughs. She sobers up and her voice is serious when she asks, in a slightly conspiratorial whisper, “Ever heard of the Winchesters?”
Dean can barely contain himself, but somehow he manages it. It might have something to do with Sam’s gigantic elbow in his ribcage. Either way, he splutters and chokes on his beer. When he can speak again, he says, “Some.”
“They’re the best hunters out there,” Cliff says. “They once took out a whole horde of demons by using a PA system to exorcise them all. No one even died.”
“I heard that they killed Satan,” Bill offers in a slightly slurred voice. Dean frowns. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the despair on Sam’s face and the nervous movement of his long fingers. On the other side, Cas is biting his bottom lip. “And a whole lot of angels.”
“They jump-started the Apocalypse,” Glory explains. “The younger one, he’s part demon. He was supposed to be Lucifer’s vessel. The older one was supposed to be Michael’s. But apparently they said a big fuck-you to the most powerful supernatural beings out there, and won.” She looks oddly reverent, like she’s almost scared. Dean doesn’t blame her.
“They’ve died more times than I can count,” Tyler offers. “Bobby Singer, that’s their adoptive dad, he told me that a Trickster trapped Sam in a time loop and killed Dean every day. The way Bobby reckoned, Dean’s died about a hundred times and Sam’s done about six. Give or take.”
“Dean went to hell,” Cliff adds. “Sam died so he sold his soul. Angels brought him back. Lucky bastard.”
Dean forces a laugh. He drains his beer and then drains the remains of Cas’. If Sam hadn’t drunk all of his, he’d have taken that too. He needs to be a lot more intoxicated for this. “So they sound cool,” he says weakly.
“Oh man, they are!” Nat crows. He’s got a heavy Texan accent. “The older one is fucking the angel who pulled him out of hell, too. How’s that for a happy ending?”
Cas coughs, his eyes bugging slightly. Sam’s face has gone red as a tomato, and Dean feels like disappearing and running, and maybe hiding for a few years at least. It’s not enough that these people know their names; they know their personal lives too! Dean wonders if this is how celebrities feel, and makes a note to never star in a show. Not that he ever would anyway; being stuck in that parallel world where he really was a TV show taught him one thing: he can’t act.
“And, they closed the Gates of Hell forever,” Glory finishes. Dean laughs shakily and is about to say something to the effect of, we need to leave now, but is saved by the bell. Literally.
The door bangs open suddenly, and the whole table turns to glare at whoever just entered. Dean groans when he sees who it is. Garth grins and waves. “Hey guys!”
“You know that guy?” Glory hisses, and Sam nods slowly as Garth trips over a chair. “Oh man, I hope you never had to hunt with him.”
“I did,” Dean mutters, shooting Sam a dirty look. Sam looks down, but can’t keep it up for long. He’s too busy watching the train wreck that is Garth Fitzgerald IV. Garth rights the chair and stumbles over to the table, grinning wide enough that it must hurt.
“Sam! Dean! Cas!” he half-shouts. Dean wants to die.
Not that that’s anything new.
“Hey Garth,” Sam says quietly. “Um, guys, this is Garth. Garth, these are Glory, Bill, Cliff, Nat, and Tyler. They’re sort of famous in the hunting world.”
Garth’s eyes shine and he stares openly at Glory, who smirks. Cas, who hasn’t said a word all day—sore throat; he’s more susceptible to getting sick since the Fall—sighs. “Hello, Garth,” he rasps, wincing. Garth looks torn between laughing and hugging someone.
“Hi! Oh, guys, I haven’t seen you since… It was May, wasn’t it? About a week after we closed the Gates, right?” Garth says, eyes rolling slightly upward as he tries to remember. Dean glances around the table, feeling every eye boring holes into him. He blushes.
“Yeah, and then we got blind drunk and dropped Kevin back home and headed off to lie low for a few months until all the hype died down,” Dean recalls with a melancholy sigh. Those were simpler days. Back when all that mattered was that they did it, they won, and no one would ever be possessed or exorcised or dragged to hell by their ankles ever again. Sadly, closing the Gates left all the other monsters on Earth. It was back to hunting after that night. Back to life on the road, with his brother and Fallen angel by his sides.
“Um, what?” Bill slurs.
Silence. Sam looks at Dean, who looks at Cas, who shrugs. All three Winchesters—and that’s what Cas is now, just look at the thin band on his finger—are beet red and can’t look the other hunters in the eyes. Cliff clears his throat.
“Um, my name is Dean, and this is my brother Sam, and my friend Cas. Winchesters,” Dean clarifies.
Silence.
And then noise.