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What is the likelihood that two hunters—with extensive histories of killing and being killed—would not only buy a house together, but also make friends with their civilian neighbors?
And maintain steady jobs?
And afford a comfortable living?
It just doesn’t happen. Ever.
Or at least, next to never.
It certainly isn’t a scenario taught to hunters to expect or prepare for. Retirement typically means biting the dust. Kicking the bucket. Ominous stuff.
Hunters don’t get to decide what furniture to purchase and where to place it in the house to maximize space. They don’t get the mundane little details in life.
So when it happens to a pair of hunters voted least likely to survive, it doesn’t make much sense at first.
Everything doesn’t magically fall into place. Not right away. And not even when they’re really fucking trying.
Dean fights against spaces in his current life where he doesn’t quite fit. Getting used to a routine feels like breaking in a new pair of boots. Uncomfortable and out of balance.
The first week of living like a civilian—buying a home, moving into said home—feels like someone else’s daydream.
The second week feels like they’re staying in an extended stay hotel.
The third week feels like someone should be knocking on their door trying to collect last month’s rent.
A full month in and Dean continues to check and recheck sigils, salt lines, and traps. Their block seems safe, but is it really? He thinks he understands the difference between cumbia, merengue, and bachata, but does he really?
He needs to stop second guessing everything.
Little steps.
But then, it’s not just adjusting to civilian life and its many moving pieces.
It’s also about confronting who he is day after day in the same place.
At home.
Dean spends most mornings fending off what Sam calls anxiety attacks. Of course, Dean prefers to call it the jitters—he spends all morning huddled up on the living room couch, taking deep breaths because he can. He makes a conscious decision to pass the time that way.
So this morning is no different.
He sits with his knees pulled up to his chest, on the larger of the two sofas in the living room. Before he settled in for his morning wrestle with depression, he cracked a window. If he listens close enough, he can experience the sound of an average street inhabited by average people.
It’s fine.
It’s cool.
No way are his emotions calling the shots.
And now, like someone completely unaffected by psychological crap, he attempts to make breakfast.
He likes to cook.
Actually, he enjoys it.
And just like at the bunker, he’s got a kitchen here. It’s not a shitty kitchenette in a dingy motel room and he’s not following the orders from John to feed Sammy a can of Chef Boyardee so they can clean and take inventory of weapons.
John loved to eat what was quick, convenient, and cheap.
How the three of them made it so long without getting scurvy is anyone’s guess.
Maybe the lettuce served on the burgers they ate at diners counted for something after all. Or, it could be that there are nutritional benefits to eating a dinner that consists of Funyuns and Dr. Pepper.
Theirs was a childhood made up of white Wonder Bread and cans of slimy, waxy pasta.
Some way or another, the children under John's supervision grew into six-foot-plus adults, one of whom walks into a room and instantly towers above everyone else, too tall to even talk to.
Freaking Sasquatch.
Stop. He needs to stop.
Dean pinches the bridge of his nose.
He has to stop thinking about little things. Because it’s not like he has one of these anxious, frantic episodes once a day; it’s more like he has several small ones, stuck in his head like shards of a broken bottle.
Who even knows what triggers him? It’s a maddening combination of everything and nothing.
Should he try burying it six feet under?
Eight feet under?
He can’t.
It keeps cropping back up.
That’s life.
He hauls himself off the couch and walks into the kitchen. It's time to move. Start the day.
Cracking eggs open into a bowl, Dean scrambles them up with a fork. He’s got to keep his hands busy. This is a good outlet for him, though he won’t admit it to Sam.
Dean makes most of their meals from scratch.
He adds the onions and tomatoes as the first to sizzle in the pan, over a small dollop of canola oil. A week ago, Sam gave a lecture about olive oil being better than canola, but Dean keeps a bottle of canola around because olive oil is shit to fry with.
He waits a few minutes for the onions to sweat, then adds the eggs. Gordon Ramsey would be proud. He turns the heat down and stirs the mixture continuously.
Sam can’t make scrambled eggs. He burns them, every single time, until they aren’t eggs anymore—they’re sad hunks of black-yellow crud.
What seems like a thousand years ago, a short order cook at a diner somewhere in Michigan taught Dean the secret to scrambled eggs. The trick is to keep moving the eggs, turn them over, and to lower the flame of the burner. Dean follows this advice so that everything has a chance to cook and absorb air.
Thirty seconds before completion, he tosses in chunks of Chihuahua cheese. It melts better than pepperjack.
With an elegant sweep—he’s god damn graceful at this—he slides the eggs onto two waiting plates. Toast, orange juice, and butter wait on the table. He grabs both plates and takes two strides before...
He trips over a book.
A god… damned… book.
“Sammy!” Dean snaps, his voice thunderous throughout the hall. “What the fuck do you not understand about leaving shit on the ground?”
Dean walks with more care, not wanting to smash his toes into yet another fucking tome. He all but throws the plates onto the table.
“You understood the concept when you were five.” He bends over and starts doing what he never thought he’d do again.
Pick up after Sam.
The moment hits him square in the jaw with a rush of nostalgia and grief. He stands, frozen, and time stretches. His mind flirts with gratitude, but his mouth remains twisted into a frown.
He flinches.
Sam rushes into the tiny dining room. He immediately occupies ninety percent of the space and grabs his plate without bothering to sit down. Long fingers sweep up two pieces of toast and a cup of orange juice.
“Mmphsorry,” Sam manages to blurt out right before shoveling a mass of eggs and toast into his mouth. In a rush of papers, Sam disappears again.
The sight makes Dean a little sick and less likely to dig into his plate with the gusto he’d had thirty seconds before.
Some more noise. A quick goodbye. The slam of the front door.
Dean stands in the middle of the dining room for an amount of time he can’t quite account for. Tracking and identifying his emotions might as well be a full-time job now that he’s gone civilian.
He wrings his hands and sits down.
Is this supposed to be the good life?
He pushes his plate away.
* * *
At four in the afternoon, Dean drives to the National Museum of Mexican Art.
Living near the Museum comes with the benefit of being able to walk there and skipping the hassle of parking.
Today, Dean opts out of walking in favor of Baby’s help hauling someone’s sorry ass home.
She cuts the smoothest sight cruising down 19th.
He revs her at a stop sign. The vibrations in the footwells travel up Dean’s legs and simmer in a dark, heated space inside him.
Once a week, Dean will climb into the front seat of Baby as she rests in the garage. The Bunker had a great set up, and it’ll be awhile before he can customize the garage to a standard fit to house her. He’ll lie down and breathe through the jitters in his most consistent corner of the universe.
Out for a stretch, he parks her smack dab in front of the Museum.
He hasn’t visited the Museum since a quick tour in the few days before closing. It wasn’t much of a selling point to him—none of the museums in Chicago were—but it left a big impression on Sam.
Dean prefers to stick around 18th Street, where it’s louder and less residential.
Sam though, he’s here all the fucking time.
So, seeing as Sam hasn’t answered his phone after ten tries and he should’ve been home by now, Dean knows exactly where to go to raise a little hell.
He exits Baby—shoulders back, chest out. A man on a mission.
The Museum isn’t exactly small, but its layout does offer quite a few spots hidden from view. Dean skips past the main exhibit, his boots heavy on the old hardwood floors. He pushes a heavy set of doors open and steps into the permanent exhibit.
It takes all of two seconds before his eyes land on an aggravating mop of brown, shaggy hair.
Sam stands with one hand on his hip, the other held at his chin. He speaks to a young, Latina woman.
Colleague? Superior? She exudes a sense of confidence, amplified by her tailored suit and tasteful necklace. Her eyes, very expressive, signal attraction towards Sam.
A myriad of impulses tug at Dean’s senses, communicating with specific parts of his body. His nervous system prepares to release the “fight” flag.
Curiosity asks a pointed question, like a bolt of lightning.
How do other people see Sam?
He hangs back, fists clenched.
From years of experience impersonating academics, Sam fits in just fine when it comes to the artsy fartsy stuff. He knows what people wanna hear and he can deliver it seamlessly. He references the mural with a plethora of technical terms. If that one Art History course some twenty odd years ago hasn’t paid off...
Sam speaks in crisp, bright tones, his hands fluttering all the while. His stance stays open, confident, and relaxed. No wonder witnesses opened up to him.
Dean leans against a wall. He listens closely, the smirk on his face refusing to fade.
Sam is Sam is Sam.
It is both a comforting fact and a vulnerable breaking point for Dean to know he knows Sam on a completely different level than the rest of the general population knows itself.
That isn’t to say others haven’t tried to usurp Dean’s position and perspective.
The woman takes a step towards Sam. Their conversation reaches an intense rhythm. They toss phrases in Latin to each other like it’s no big deal.
She must think Sam’s the perfect catch. He’s easy on the eyes, got good basic hygiene, dresses nice, and knows a lot of shit about shit that matters. He’s not boring, at least not to her. He’s open and honest with his observations.
Dean can practically see the wheels turning in the young woman’s head.
The second she reaches out to touch Sam’s arm, Dean takes action.
“Sam!” Dean snaps.
He relishes the immediate eye roll. Sam follows it up with a glance that very clearly warns: do not embarrass me.
Dean grins and pats Sam on the back, squeezing his shoulder hard, once. The young woman maintains a fantastic poker face. Only the brief twinge of her mouth gives her disappointment away.
Satisfied, Dean melds his voice into bronze. “There you are, sweetheart. Did you forget we had dinner plans?”
With a tight smile, Sam purses his lips—yeah, Dean knows that face.
“Marcela, this is my partner, Dean,” Sam says. He pats Dean on the back and squeezes his shoulder hard, once. “Please excuse his manners.”
To her credit, Marcela extends her hand. He takes it. She reminds him of someone.
“It’s a pleasure,” she says, her voice as smooth as Cool Whip. “How long have you been together?”
Within a week of moving in, Sam and Dean cobbled together a loose background of half-truths and convenient lies. The more general they can keep the story, the more room they’ll have to fill in the rest.
Sam rests his hand on Dean’s hip. He looks at Dean, his expression softer. “Pretty much our entire lives. We grew up together.”
Not a lie.
“That is so sweet,” Marcela coos. Her smile reaches her eyes.
If there’s something Dean didn’t expect from civilians, it’s their willingness to accept Sam and Dean’s relationship. He prepared himself for way more hostility, questioning, and judgment.
Hunters have a tendency to hold themselves above civvies. Civilians are innocent, oftentimes ignorant, and liabilities.
Living with them, as one of them—Dean still isn’t sure he can do it.
But Sam’s sure enough for the both of them.
“He’s very good to me.” Sam affectionately musses up Dean’s hair. “Just grumpy.”
Dean volleys back a tight smile and shrugs. “It’s dinnertime.”
This is a perfect time for everyone to say goodbye and go their separate ways.
Except… Sam shows no signs or intentions of moving.
Sam and Marcela continue their conversation.
Goddammit.
He huffs, folds his arms over his chest, and looks around the exhibit. Small groups of people and the occasional individual walk through. Dean thinks he recognizes a few of the faces, but can’t quite remember their names.
They had a long list of cities and towns as potential candidates to call home.
Dean wonders what might have happened if they had looked a little longer. Maybe they could have bought something with more square footage. Or something on the edge of a lake. Or a fucking mansion. Sam could have fixed the numbers.
He called Jody last week and gave her their coordinates—address.
She lost ten bucks to Kevin. They had a bet going.
Most people privy to the actual story of Sam and Dean Winchester expected them to remain in the bunker or buy a log cabin in the woods.
The bunker kept them too close to the life and Dean’s no lumberjack.
He likes his creature comforts, thank you very much.
But what if they’ve made the wrong decision?
What if they never fit in?
What if Dean never fits in?
Underneath his skin, anxiety pushes at the follicles of his hair. He flinches at the sound of someone dropping their phone. His right arm begins to burn, eager to test the boundaries of pain and pleasure in new environments.
What if he holds Sam back?
“Dean.”
“Huh?” Dean tilts his head towards the sound of Sam’s voice. It takes him a second to connect with Sam’s eyes.
Sam places a hand on the small of Dean’s back.
Nothing beats touch memory.
Sam promises to email Marcela about an upcoming fundraiser for the Museum. He excuses and extracts them from conversing with practiced yet natural ease.
For an introvert, Sam excels in interpersonal communication.
He can’t cook for shit, but he can whisk Dean away to a quiet, secluded place in the Museum.
Sam looks at him funny. Well, not funny—that’s just Sam’s face—but pointedly.
“You worry me,” Sam murmurs and shakes his head. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Dean grumbles and hides his pout. Men in their late-forties do not pout. Especially not Winchester men. “Can we go?”
He hopes that didn’t sound as whiny as he thinks it did.
Sam finally smiles. “Yes, but first, can I show you something?”
“Can you show me something at home? In my bed? Underneath me?”
Cue another eye roll.
Dean ends up following Sam into the main exhibit, where they happen to be the only two people there.
They stop in front of a mural, large and incredibly off-putting. Dean can’t look at it straight. There’s so much going on, it makes him dizzy.
“Yeah, most people have that reaction,” Sam chuckles. “You’re trying to take it in too fast. Stop, step back.”
One giant paw lands on Dean’s chest and nudges him backwards two steps.
Dean still can’t focus. He fails to find one element of the mural to focus on, but fails. His eyes float over the wall. Blue stands out as the most dominant color throughout the mural, but he can’t even start there. A variety of colors thread together—hardly any single figure or theme stand out.
Sam leans close and murmurs, “There’s a hundred different opinions out there about this mural.”
Dean would rather lose himself in the sound of Sam’s voice.
Maybe it doesn’t really matter where they live, so long as he can stay close to Sam.
Sam continues speaking.
“What happens when art disorients us? Is it still art?” He rubs circles, counterclockwise, into Dean’s shoulders. “Do the overlapping layers signify the intricacy of life? Or maybe it’s our inability to distinguish where we begin and nature ends? What’s the very first layer of paint? Does that matter to its meaning?”
They never grew up in any one part of the country, but if things had been different, they’d have been true-blue Kansas Boys. They typically speak in flat accents and sharp inflections.
Sam presses a small kiss against the soft spot behind Dean’s ear.
“You know what I find really interesting about this piece, Dean?”
At a complete loss for words and unable to form a sentence, Dean utters, “Hmm?”
“He mixed his own blood, sweat, and semen into the paint.”
Dean’s cringes, his jaw tightens. What the fuck.
But.
Hang on a minute.
It sort of makes sense why an artist would do that.
He takes another look at the mural, more determined to piece together further understanding. Is it a sense of ownership? A way to remain connected to the piece? An attempt at mashing together dreams with reality?
Of course, Sam takes pleasure in Dean’s reactions.
“Huh, thought you’d be calling me gross by now.” He stands back, giving Dean a little bit of room.
“Hey,” Dean grumbles, eyes still on the mural. “I can… talk about this stuff…”
“Tell me what you see at the center?”
“Well. It’s. Obviously.” Dean squints and leans forward. He holds one hand up. “It’s everything, all at once.”
The silence makes Dean think maybe he got the answer wrong. Like, way, way wrong. Dean never went to college; he didn’t take Art History, because he needed an elective and it sounded interesting.
It’s not like anyone needs a degree to find the beauty and elegance in a piece of art.
Right?
Right.
However, it is in these moments when Dean wonders: what is a guy like Sam doing with a guy like him—brothers and apocalypse and fighting heaven and hell aside?
“You’re not wrong,” Sam finally says. He telegraphs his movements, playfully nudges Dean’s jaw with his fist. “Guess you are capable of intellectual thought.”
“I taught you how to tie your shoes,” Dean growls out and glares at the floor. “Show some respect. Ingrate. I wiped your ass and changed your diapers.”
Sam smiles, smug. “Mmm, and now what do you do to my ass?”
“Nothing I can talk about here.”
“Since when does public decency stop you?”
“Well, in that case…”
“No. Save it for home.” His brother starts to walk away. “You know, I was having a tough day and I’m really glad you showed up.”
Dean follows on Sam’s heels.
Within two minutes they step outside, at long last.
Fifteen feet away from the building, Sam lights up a cigarette as easy as breathing. One long drag and Dean can tell now—stressful day, indeed.
“I have all this paperwork in here,” Sam sighs on an exhale. He holds up his briefcase. “Grant writing and program proposals and legal permits for some of the larger events. And y’know what? Every time I sit at my desk, I think about us in bits and pieces. We took out a nest a month ago. A shape shifter two months back.”
Sam paces by the Impala, replacing one cigarette with another, his strides long and elegant despite the anxiety in his voice.
“Sometimes the phone rings and I think Bobby might be on the other line, calling back with the right spell. How… no. No. You know what’s important? It’s that I get to stand in a nice place looking at a mural with you. And you get it.”
Dean tries his best to sort out everything Sam rapidly lobs at him. He scrambles to come up with a proper response in return.
Sam lined up a job and volunteer opportunities for the both of them the day before they closed on the house. A job application from a nearby garage sits on the dining room table, just waiting for Dean to fill it out.
It’s hard to believe that John worked at a garage in the time before days passed in a flurry of blood and fire.
More often than Dean cares to confront, he senses John’s eyes on him, homed in on every decision Dean makes. John follows after him in the shadows of memories, watching, waiting for the perfect moment to ask questions Dean can’t answer.
What the hell are you doing to Sammy? How is fucking him taking care of him?
“Dean?”
“Sam?”
“Did I… catch on to the whole tying-my-shoes-thing pretty fast?”
Dean laughs.
What a ridiculous thing to ask.
What a Sam thing to ask.
“Yeah, Sammy, you did. Didn’t take more than a few lessons. Same with reading. Same with everything you’ve ever managed to do because of that gigantic brain of yours.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
“Okay.”
Instinct tells Dean to pursue his ghosts—track them, lay down bait, and finish the job. Habit, however, wins this round.
The ghosts can stay… for now.
Until he gets settled in.
Sam bumps their shoulders together.
“You know, the worst part of this new life? Fighting with you about which taco place to go to.”
Dean takes the out, grateful for it.
The biggest step—the longest work in progress—is taking each other for who they are and running with it. Unconditionally.
Sam leaves clothes and books all over the place at home. He can’t cook worth a damn because he never had to learn. He stays up late and wakes up early without any problem. He jogs ten miles every single day and stinks after he’s done. He does laundry like some uncivilized barbarian—tosses everything in one load. He still doesn’t know shit about cars; Lord help him with anything more complicated than changing a tire. He listens to whiny music by musicians with too much money and daddy issues. He snores and he’s an octopus no matter which bed they sleep in for the night. His hair clogs up the bathroom drains.
He still has this unwavering belief that most people are inherently good—Dean included.
Dean opens the car door for Sam.
“That’s where you’re wrong, Sammy. We aren’t gonna fight because we both know Los Comales is where we’re going.”
“The salsa there gives you heartburn.”
“Then I guess you’ll just have to put up with me after.”
Before he climbs into Baby, Sam gives Dean a megawatt grin; the one that instantly crumbles him like queso fresco.
Back behind the wheel to the world, Dean pulls onto 18th Street. They drive past pushcart vendors for paletas and elotes, in the midst of a neighborhood they’re slowly getting to know.
He circles the block in search of the best parking spot. Sam finds it, pats his knee with one hand, and points to the vacant space with the other. Years of experience allow Dean to parallel park without a problem. Nothing worth having comes easy.
No one is born knowing how to cope with stress or trauma. People like them don’t turn them into Mr. and Mrs. America overnight.
He won’t ever forget his past and John Winchester will always be with him, for better or for worse.
There’s still time to learn, to understand, and to forgive.
Inside the taco shop, they stand side by side. An older lady behind the counter takes their orders—two beers, two steak taco dinners. Dean muscles his way in front of Sam and pays, ignoring Sam’s objections.
There’s not much point to arguing about who pays, because they opened a joint checking account earlier this month.
But the words feel good saying out loud anyway.
“I said I’d pay, let me pay.”
They take a seat at a table in the corner and wait.
Then Sam says something that makes Dean breathe a little easier.
“Jerk.”
The tight coil of anxiety in Dean’s chest unwinds.
This is everything, all at once.