Artist: mandraco main art post is here
Characters: Sam, Dean, mentions of Kevin and Charlie
Rating: G (I guess)
Warnings/Spoilers (if applicable): post series, few mentions of happenings in season 8.
Wordcount: ~2,000 words
Notes: I'm sorry for being late. Hope you like it anyway.
My beta was greeneyes_fan and she's awesome, any other irregularities you find are my fault.
The path is rough and uneven, but Sam guides the Impala over mud and gravel with ease. He parks under the little garage he and Dean had started building a week ago.
It's not much, four wooden beams and a wooden roof, that still awaits a color and weather protection coating.
He gets out, then goes around to get the groceries from the back seat. He stops for a moment, one hand on the car door about to close it, and looks at the spring forest that surrounds the bunker.
Sam pushes the heavy door open with his shoulder and closes it the same way. Coming down the steps he throws a stack of mail and advertisements from their post office box onto the cardboard box littered war-table, then continues into the kitchen.
Almost two years in the "bat cave" and they were finally moving in, packing up and gathering John's and Bobby's stuff. Piles upon piles of books and artifacts and memories, scattered over the country for safekeeping would finally be under one roof, in a place they were starting to call home.
Coming back from the kitchen Sam huffed, letting one hand fall on a random box listlessly raising a puff of dust into the air - You are NOT putting that in my car like that Sammy! At least put a sheet on the seat. - then slides it down to leaf through the mail and the five leaflets announcing the big-awesome-must-not miss yearly fair two towns over.
It takes him about ten more minutes of procrastinating before he can make himself face the memories within the boxes.
He opens one, and the first thing he finds is an old high school history textbook. It's old and tattered with the front ripped off so he glides through the pages and sees that it's Dean's. Sam smiles as he sees that every problem has a carelessly scribbled answer right under it and that every inch besides that is filled with writing and doodles. He takes more stuff out of the boxes, some his some Dean's. One of the things he finds are his old baseball trophies, he turns them around in his hands. Thanks to the hell trials, he can clearly remember himself playing the game, taking part in tournaments, in part to have fun and in part to try to have a normal life. He twirls them around in his hands for a minute, debating weather he wants to put them up somewhere.
Another object in the box catches his eyes. The trophies are forgotten as Sam gingerly reaches in and takes out a plush toy. The color has faded and it's lost some of its form, but the little, gray—white husky still looks perfect as far as Sam's concerned.
”Dee? Can we go to the fair? Please?”
The trophies lie forgotten as Sam glides around the table and up to his room.
“Can we have cotton candy, Dean?”
“Can we go on that ride, please, please?”
His room is almost the same as Dean's, same floor plan, same colors, same desk, same bed — but there are no weapons filing the wall and no pictures on his desk, Sam never figured he'd have anything he would like to put in his room when he spends all his time in the main room. He puts the husky plushie on his bed, next to his pillow, and thinks of the many rooms they've found in the bunker, of how he's never in the same room day after day, but here he sleeps every night and “home” should be properly furnished.
”Can we try the shooting game, there? Maybe we can win something!”
A slight tremor shots through the floor, and Sam blinks. He turns and heads out of the room.
“Dean?” he yells down the hallway, heading in search of his brother when he gets no reply.
It takes him a while to find Dean. The bunker extends in so many directions, with so many hallways and doors that it's almost a maze. Sometimes he wonders if one day he'll just get lost: wandering the hallways and sleeping in strange, empty rooms until Dean comes to find him.
The wall crumbles as Dean swings down the big hammer, the crunch of metal against stone so loud that he doesn't notice Sam at first.
“Dean? What are you doing?”
Dean doesn't even turn to Sam, as he swings at the wall again.
“The blueprints don't add up, there should be something here."
Sam stares for a moment. he'd figured that they've seen every inch of the place, checked off every room on any floor plan they have found, all five levels of it. But if Dean thinks there is something here, then there most likely is. He takes a pair of safety glasses and a dust mask, dons his favorite pair of work gloves and sets to work helping Dean out.
The wall doesn't last long under their combined efforts. They open a hole in the concrete, them shine a flashlight through to se that the hallway indeed continues behind the wall.
They find more rooms, some empty, a few more artifacts and books and a cleaning closet.
Theres another shooting range at the end of the hallway, through a double door. Sam finds some old handguns and ammunition in a box and turns to Dean, who is inspecting a long-bow he found on the wall. Sam thinks of commenting that it looks like one of those Japanese traditional bows that had carvings on it that he's sure are African protective symbols — but Dean takes out a bunch of long, slick arrows out of a container and smirks at him.
The bet is on before Dean can even say “challenge,” so they spend the next hour taking turns shooting at a target, to see who will have to cook that night.
They find a spiral stair case that leads a level downwards. It's a big room, almost the size of all the rooms they've found today, but it's flooded, with almost a foot of water covering the floor. They notice a dry spot on the other side of the room and more doors.
There are large pieces of concrete scattered between them and the dry floor, so it's almost a makeshift bridge. They jump and hopp their way across, commenting how similar the experience is to the one late summer they spent in Mississippi, lazing in the fields and jumping on rocks that the locals put down in lieu of a bridge over streams.
They are exploring the second room when a box falls down from it's shelf, covering Dean in dust and tattered hex bags.
it takes a moment for Sam to stop freaking out and start guiding Dean back up to the main—room, while Dean is still coughing up dust and cursed ash.
“Lucky that it was an amateur witch that made those, so you'll only have flu like symptoms.”
“That luck you speak of? I'm not feeling it.”
“Would you rather it be our usual brand of luck?”
A fortnight later, Dean is still shaking off the affects of the curse. He's sitting on a bar—stool by the kitchen island, while Sam is opening and closing cupboard after cupboard. They're out of tomato soup.
“We're out of everything, actually.” Sam said, as he holds up a can of whipped cream—the only edible thing he could find.
“It would seem you'll have to go shopping, Alfred.” Dean said, making his cough—scratched voice go even deeper for effect. He bundles deeper into the blanket Charlie sent them as a shiver runs through him.
The Winchesters don't usually tend to keep in contact with normal people. It's almost pathetically simple to loose touch with people — don't call them and when they call you have an awkward talk about catching a coffee some day, which might as well mean — it's never gonna happen.
Kevin and Charlie seem to have some problems grasping that concept.
Sam randomly mentioned in a email to Kevin that Dean was sick, a few days later they had mail — a fluffy sky blue blanket from Charlie and a random trashy horror novel from Kevin.
“I don't know which one makes me want to puke my insides out faster.”
“Dude, you're always covered with the blanket and you've read that book at least twice now. So shut up.”
Sam rolls his eyes as he takes up the thermometer from the table and goes to put it in Deans ear.
“Dude!” Dean said, bating Sam and the thermometer away. “Would you stop that. My temperature is 99.9, same as it's been the whole week!”
“Jerk, stop being so difficult. It's a curse, not your garden variety cold.”
“Which is why I'm not running around outside, bitch. Now be useful and go buy me soup.”
Sam snorts,, shaking his head, then looks upwards as if in prayer when Dean adds: “Tomato—rice soup, none of that stupid chicken—”
“Anything else his kingship needs?” Sam says, sarcasm dripping from every word.
“Pie, since you're asking so nicely—”
“Haven forbid we forget the pie—”
“Sam.” Dean says, his tone going from joking to serious so quick that it stops Sam mid sentence.
“What?” Sam asks.
“Go here while you're outside,” says Dean and slids the leaflet for the fair from the week before.
Sam sighs, “Dean—”
“You should get some air, being cooped up here for so long isn't doing either of us any good.”
Which brings Sam to his current predicament.
The groceries are in the back seat of the Impala, no pie but over a dozen cans of tomato—rice soup and a jumbo package of peanut m&m's.
He's munching on a pack of popcorn, gliding by stall after stall of ticket sellers, merchants and food sellers. There's some small-town country music coming off the speakers and from the wooden stage on one side of the fair. There's a carrousel on the other side of the fair, and standing here between the two he's not sure which one is more obnoxious or more loud.
Sam's just about to slither his way between two stalls and make his getaway when something dark brown catches his eyes.
“—come and try your luck people! No tricks or hidden weights here, just pure skill required—” the man at the shoot—and—win—a—plushy stall keeps yelling out to the crowd as Sam steps closer to get a better look at what caught his eye.
“Dee, why is your teddy missing a paw?”
“Because he's the bravest bear that ever lived.”
“Uh—huh. When no one is looking, he runs into burning buildings and saves people.”
“Like we were saved from the fire, right?”
“...Yeah, Sammy, just like us."
He remembers Dean having one teddy bear just like the one hanging in the stall. Dark chocolate brown, dark buttons for eyes and a white belly.
Sam remembers Dean dragging that thing around motel rooms. Remembers going to sleep with his brothers arms around him and the teddy.
He also remembers begging and pleading to be allowed to take the teddy with him to kindergarden — since he wasn't allowed to have Dean with him, might as well be the next best thing — and it getting stolen by some other kid. Dean gave him the cold shoulder for almost a whole day after that.
Sam blinks looking at the new teddy, smiles for a second, then puts on his best I—don't—have—a—clue—what—I'm—doing face and steps forward.
“Good evening sir! Would you like to try your skill? You get three shots...”
Dean thinks he must have been pretty out of it. He remembers going to sleep the night before, expecting to wake up at a normal time next morning, and not 24 hours later.
He stares at the ceiling, trying to blink away the cobwebs in his brain, then notices there is someone in the room with him.
Dean looks to his left, and finds Sam, half sitting in a chair, half spread over his bed, asleep.
He's not sure how he hadn't woken up when Sam set up camp half over him. The thought is forgotten a moment later as he notices something brown on his pillow right by his head.
When Sam wakes up later Dean has got one hand around his new bear and the other hand around Sam's forearm.