The library was dark, only faintly illuminated by light streaming in from the hallway and the bluish glow of Dean's open laptop. He was reading the news. Both he and Sam were emailed any time something of interest popped up in news reports from all over the country. Sam had programmed in certain keywords to look for: exsanguination, locked room, missing (insert various human organs here), strange, unusual, and dare they even suggest it – supernatural.
It was a slow news day, Dean quickly dismissed most of the stories, but as it was only just past four in the morning, the day was also still young. Dean concluded his news scouring by checking the weather, and then got up to check the boiler. Being underground, the bunker stayed comfortable and cool in the warmer months, and wasn't terribly uncomfortable in the winter either, but when the forecast called for gusty winds and below zero temperatures, having a little extra warmth was a necessity. The MOL bunker was definitely lacking in soft furnishings. Its marble floors and stone walls could be damn cold when the old fashioned heating system misbehaved. The MOL had geothermal heating way before its time, but the pipes and machinery that forced steam through the bunker were still stuck in the fifties.
As he assured himself that the heating system was running smoothly, Dean reflected that it was just as well there were no potential cases in the news. Venturing out into a Midwestern blizzard wasn't high on his list of favorite activities. He often felt very thankful that monsters were just as inclined to stay indoors during the winter months as their hunters. Of course there were jobs that came up in the warmer states like California, Florida, or Texas, but there were also other Hunters.
Younger Hunters.
Did I just think that?
He sighed. Cold was a Hunter's bane. It seeped into bones made sensitive by virtue of having been broken and re-broken time and time again. Even resurrection and angelic healing mojo couldn't keep up with the everyday beatings Hunters got on the job, couldn't completely erase scars, strengthen tendons weakened from repeated tears, or straighten bones that knit just slightly crooked. Dean really hadn't needed the internet to tell him the weather forecast. His knees had been talking about the oncoming storm for days.
When he went to their giant economy sized bottle of ibuprofen for a little relief, he noted it was half as full as it had been only a couple of weeks before. It was this careful analysis of their medical supplies that tipped Dean off to the fact Sam was having trouble with his back again, because Sam would never mention it. Two years prior he'd been tossed through a window by a possessed hockey player – a second floor window. Unbeknownst to Dean, Sam had walked around for months with a broken back before the pain got so bad he was forced to admit something was seriously screwed up. He'd snuck off in the middle of the night to an Urgent Care for x-rays and came back the next morning sporting an elaborate back brace from head to hips. Dean had been floored, and pissed. Sam had left him in the dark again.
"What the hell, Sam?"
"I didn't want you to worry. I thought I could just walk it off."
"You're damn lucky you can walk at all!"
Sam's futile effort to shrug would have been funny if Dean hadn't been so bent out of shape, and more than a little worried. Gone were the days they could just "walk it off" or rely on divine intervention.
Castiel was spending more and more time upstairs trying to put Heaven back in order after the battle to wrestle Lucifer back into his cage, a battle in which he had finally regained the respect of his peers. He wasn't as accessible as he'd been before. If anything serious came up the Winchesters were often SOA – shit out of angel. Shortly after Sam broke his back, Dean very nearly lost an eye to a werewolf claw. He'd worn a patch over his right eye for two weeks and had to threaten to break Sam's back again if he didn't knock off the pirate jokes. By the time Cas popped in for a visit, both back and eye had healed on their own.
While he was fetching his ibuprofen, Dean started the coffee. A calendar hung over the counter. Mary was still in London making nice with the British Men of Letters. She'd negotiated a begrudging cease fire between the establishment there and her sons, who had been knocking heads for years, ever since that witch Toni tried to tweak information out of Sam via pain. Toni had found out very quickly that Sam didn't break easily, nor did Dean take kindly to having his little brother tortured. Even the best plastic surgeon a British aristocrat could afford hadn't been able to totally eradicate the ugly scar she bore across the left side of her face.
Dean sent her the knife the following Christmas with a note saying it had missed her.
"You're not helping matters," Mary told him when she found out, but Dean knew she hated Toni just as much as he did.
Dean poured himself a cup of coffee and made his way back to the library. The last couple of years had been surprisingly quiet, he reflected. Their cases had been pretty straight forward. The angels kept to themselves for the most part, and even Crowley had been minding his own business, only occasionally crossing paths with the Winchesters. He was, Dean knew, quite occupied with keeping Rowena in check. Sam and Dean had seen more of her than they'd liked, but in typical Rowena fashion, her meddling often backfired on her, leaving the Hunters nothing to do but clean up her mess after she'd gone.
What a pain in the ass it was to get that skinwalker spell straightened out. I'm still finding freakin' acorns all over the place. I think Sammy kinda misses the antlers though - that was awesome.
He had to admit he wasn't too disappointed it had been a slow for a while. After everything they'd been through it was nice to make their saves on a person to person basis, instead of having to prevent the entire world, if not the entire universe, from taking a nose dive into oblivion. They'd even handed off some cases to Chrissy and her crew. Both Sam and Dean referred to it as "sharing the wealth" and not "feeling our age" when the idea of tracking down a wendigo made Dean's knees sing the Hallelujah Chorus and led Sam to announce he'd recently become allergic to ferns and pine trees. He neglected to explain why said allergy only affected his back and had to be treated with Vicodin and bed rest.
Yesterday had been the kicker. They'd been sitting in the library sorting through another round of boxes and files in a continuing effort to catalogue and computerize the Men of Letters' collection of ephemera. As usual they accompanied the rather dull task (Dean in particular found it deathly boring) by drinking whiskey and exchanging bullshit. At one point Sam, as he often did, reached up and ran his hand through his hair, sweeping it back from his face. It was an old, habitual gesture to which Dean rarely paid any attention. Sam had worn his hair long for years. The act of shoving it out of his face had become second nature.
This time Dean paused in the act of taking a drink and stared at his brother in shock. The long hair had been hiding something he saw only briefly before it fell back into place.
"What the hell?"
Sam looked up. "What?" He glanced over his shoulder, and then back at Dean. "What is it?"
"Your hair!"
Immediately Sam scowled. "If you mention the clippers one more time…."
"No, it's…when….grey!" Dean spluttered. "At the…" He gestured at his temple.
"Yeah, and?"
"Aren't you…you know…upset?"
"Upset, about a few grey hairs?" Sam snorted. "Grey happens, Dean. It's a fact of life." He leaned back in his chair with a wry expression. "Or are you upset because my grey hair makes you feel old."
Dean glared daggers. "I don't have grey hair."
"Only because you pull it out."
"I do not."
"Yes you do. I've seen you."
"One," Dean protested. "It was just one!"
Sam chuckled. "You know, tomorrow…."
"Nope, don't say it. Do not go there."
"It is a milestone. Don't you want…"
"No. Uh, huh, I'm not listening." Dean stood abruptly. "In fact, I'm out of here." And he made his exit, taking the whiskey with him and leaving Sam to finish flipping through the old musty files on his own.
He slept fitfully, hence the early morning news perusal. He'd awoken several times during the night, and after the last, decided it was close enough to dawn to just give up and get up. It was unusual for Dean to be up before his brother, and he'd paused at Sam's door to peer inside. Sam had stayed up late reading something of interest he'd found in the files. Dean knew this because his door was open. When Sam went to bed late he usually just staggered into his room and collapsed across the bed without closing the door.
This morning had been no exception. Sam had been sprawled out on the bed, one arm flung over his face, and his feet hanging over the end of the just slightly too short mattress. Dean noted he had managed to get both his shoes off, and amusingly, only one sock. His blanket had fallen off onto the floor beside the bed. Dean took a moment to pick it up and throw it back over his slumbering sibling. Sam hadn't stirred. He was still snoring softly, and no doubt dreaming of whatever strange, forgotten lore had kept him up past his bedtime, when Dean quietly exited the room.
Back in the library Dean noticed a new message from Mary Winchester had popped up in his inbox. He didn't read it. He knew what it would say, and wasn't quite ready to acknowledge it. Instead he browsed Netflix until he found an old Western he hadn't seen before and sat back to watch for a while, his feet propped up in another chair and his coffee readily at hand. It wasn't long before he found himself dozing off and he didn't bother to fight it. The coffee had warmed him. He felt comfortably content as his chin slowly sunk down to his chest.
A loud growl woke him only a short time later. The movie had ended, his coffee had grown cold, and his stomach was demanding breakfast. It was now close to seven. There were several new emails in his in-box – Jodie, Donna, Garth, and even Claire. He ignored them, rising, stretching, before taking his coffee mug and heading back to the kitchen in search of sustenance. He hoped Sam had done the shopping before the weather got bad. It was his turn to replenish their supplies and whereas Sam was generally much more reliable than Dean, he also had a tendency to get distracted.
Dean refreshed his coffee before investigating the contents of the refrigerator. There were, he noted, things with which one could cook a meal, if one were so inclined, and to Dean's immediate relief, a generous supply of "Things Which Could Be Nuked." He chose a breakfast burrito, popped it into the microwave, and headed for the pantry in search of salsa.
The smell hit him first.
Cinnamon.
Apples.
He opened the cupboard door and found a pie, a pie which had not been there when he went to bed.
"Well hello, sweetheart. Where did you come from?"
Grinning, he delivered her from the darkness of the cupboard and brought her into the light, forgetting both the burrito and the salsa. As he did this he noticed she was no ordinary pie. It had not come from a bakery, or been frozen inside a box. The golden brown crust bore the tell-tale signs of having been made from scratch, rolled out and crimped around the edges by a human hand. A brief investigation, as Dean sought a plate and fork, revealed apple peels in the trash can, and tucked up on a shelf, an index card bearing meticulous instructions written in a familiar scrawling script.
Dean paused and looked at the card for a moment before quietly replacing it on the shelf and cutting a slice of pie. The first bite melted in his mouth. He turned around to go sit down at the table but stopped abruptly.
Sam was leaning in the doorway, a wry grin on his face.
"You?" Dean pointed at the pie with his fork.
"Me."
Dean took another bite. "You've been holding out on me."
"Mom helped, via Skype."
"It's good."
"Glad you like it."
Another bite disappeared. Dean's stomach gurgled with contentment. He cast a sideways glance at his brother. "I know you're just dying to say it."
Sam yawned, pushed himself away from the wall and headed for the coffee. He was still only wearing one sock and his hair stuck out wildly in all directions. He had not, Dean realized, been up late reading old manuscripts. He'd been up late baking a freakin' pie. Sam poured himself a cup of coffee, and took several sips before replying.
"I am," he said.
Dean sighed again, this time with resignation. "Fine." He waved magnanimously with his fork before stabbing it in for another load of apples and cinnamon. "Go ahead."
Sam grinned. "Happy birthday."
Dean grunted.
"Should I sing?"
"No!"
Chuckling, Sam found his own plate and fork and set out to sample his handiwork. He took a bite, nodded approvingly, and the two of them sat down to eat.
"So," Sam said. "The big four-oh…."
"Okay, now you're just pushing your luck," Dean interrupted.
"It's just a number."
"Do you know how old that is in Hunter years, Sam? How many Hunters do you know over the age of fifty? My time is running out."
"Stop being a fatalist."
"I'm being a realist."
"You're only as old as you think you are," Sam said lightly.
Dean glared at him. "Sure Sammy, and how's your back this morning?"
Sam winced.
"I rest my case." Dean polished off the remainder of his pie. "I'm just saying, one day it's gonna catch up with us. We'll move a little too slow, miss some important cue - just one slip up and we're dead."
"The odds are against us both screwing up at the same time," Sam said quietly. "You know I've always got your back, right? And you've got mine."
"Yeah," Dean replied. "Do you have any doubt?"
Sam smiled ruefully. "Are you kidding? After all we've been through? "
"I'm not getting left behind though, Sammy. I promise you that."
They regarded each other solemnly. Sam didn't say it, but Dean knew he was thinking the same thing – when it was finally over, it would be over for both of them. No one would be left behind to struggle along bereft and alone. They'd each been down that road before, more than once, and both of them had vowed to never let it happen again. Dean stopped short of calling it a suicide pact, yet deny it as he may, that's what it was and they knew it.
And how completely screwed up is that?
Mary had noticed. She'd said something to Sam when she thought Dean wasn't listening, and for the first time Dean realized Sam was just as scared of being on his own as Dean had always been. He was just better at hiding it.
"It's not normal," Mary had said, not even attempting to sugar coat her scorn. "It defies definition, Sam. It's beyond co-dependence. The way you two are so attached to each other…."
"It's some kind of twisted symbiosis," Sam admitted, and Dean noted the bitterness in his tone. He didn't mince words either. "But we had no one else. You were dead, Dad was – obsessed to the point of being completely psychotic. I tried to get away on my own, to be normal, God knows I tried, but I failed, and I'm glad I failed. If it weren't for Dean, I wouldn't be…."
"Wouldn't be what?" Mary had prompted.
Sam looked her in the eye. "I wouldn't be human."
It wasn't long after this conversation that Mary took herself off to Europe. It was true that she wanted to make peace with the Men of Letters over there, but Dean suspected she was also being pursued by guilt. Sam hadn't shown any remorse for hurting her, and if truth be told, Dean didn't blame him. If their relationship was that warped out of what was considered normal, the absence of any sort of normal parenting was surely a contributing factor. Was it fair to blame her? No. But facts could be cruel, and heartless, and the fact was, she hadn't been there for them. Alone in the dark, with monsters nipping at their heels, and death lurking around every corner, they'd had nobody to cling to but each other.
Sam cleared his throat, and broke the dark mood. "Look, when it's our time I think we'll know it, and then we'll cross that bridge. But it's not now, and it's not anytime soon, so stop being emo-Dean and enjoy the hell out of your birthday."
"I'd enjoy it more if we weren't snowed in." Dean said with a pout, but after a pause he grinned. "Remember Madeline?"
"Was she the blonde waitress from Lincoln?"
"No, that's Candy. Madeline is the red-head from Vegas."
"Ah, yeah. I remember. She's the one with the tattoos."
"It's warm in the desert," Dean suggested. "We should dig out after the storm and make a trip out West."
Sam eyed him warily. "So you can gamble away all our money and bang Madeline the Tattooed Lady?"
"Hey, you're the one who said I needed to enjoy my birthday!"
"You should enjoy your birthday. Why do I have to go?"
"When's the last time you got laid?" Dean asked slyly. "I'm guessing it's been a while because you have been way too uptight lately."
"I've been busy," Sam retorted. "And my sex life is none of your business."
"Busy? Doing what, kneading your dough?" Dean chuckled. "Is that what they're calling it these days? I wouldn't worry about going blind, Sammy, but carpel tunnel can be a bitch."
Sam glared at him. "See if I ever make you another pie." After a long pause he conceded. "Okay, fine, since it's your birthday, as soon as the storm breaks we'll head for Vegas."
Dean started to reply when he heard a "ping" coming from the pocket of his robe. He dug out his phone and found he had a text message. With weary resignation, knowing it was probably yet another birthday wish, he thumbed it open.
The low, melancholy tones of Chopin's Funeral March issued from the speaker as an animated skeleton tipped its hat. The words, "Happy Birthday Squirrel" scrolled across the top of the screen.
Dean put his head down on the table with "thunk" and a muffled sob that was not entirely feigned. "Never mind Vegas," he mumbled. "Just pack me up and send me to a nursing home."
"More pie?" Sam asked hastily.
Dean held up his plate. He raised his head as Sam took it. "Where is your other sock?"
Sam glanced at his foot. "I dunno."
"What are you, three?"
"Hey, I was tired. I had to peel a butt-load of apples, and do you know how hard it is to make a decent pie crust from scratch?"
Grinning, Dean took the second piece of pie and the burrito Sam had rescued from the microwave. "No, and even if I live until I'm ninety, I will never find out. If this wasn't my birthday present - and I'm touched, Sam, really – I would mock you mercilessly for the next twenty years."
"You're going to mock me anyway, Dean, you always do."
"You do have a point there Betty Crocker."
Sam reached over and took his brother's phone. His thumbs moved rapidly across the keypad. There was a beep, and he handed it back. Dean took a bite of burrito and read what he'd written. He raised an eyebrow. Sam had basically told the King of Hell the next time they met he'd drive the Impala up his ass, only much more eloquently and with a great deal of vitriol. There was no love lost between Crowley and Sam. Dean found it amusing – to a point. He had no doubt that when the time came, Sam would be the one behind the demon king's demise, and Dean still wasn't quite sure how he felt about that.
"He's going to know this wasn't me," Dean said, and sure enough there was a beep, followed by a reply.
"Bugger off, Moose."
Nonplussed, Sam got up to make himself a burrito. He also located the salsa. They spent the remainder of their breakfasting in companionable silence until Dean's phone beeped again, this time with a different tone. He'd gotten another email. He read its contents in silence and then got up from the table.
"Three bodies," he said. "Indiana. All were drained of blood." He regarded his brother solemnly. "None of them were over the age of thirteen."
Sam cursed under his breath. "Vamp?"
"And a baby killer."
"Like the one Dad went after in '99."
"Even monsters have their sickos," Dean growled.
"Did you put chains on the car?"
"Yesterday."
They exited the kitchen together. Both of them were dressed within five minutes and on their way down to the garage. Like a well-oiled machine they went through their unofficial pre-Hunt checklist. Weapons were locked and loaded. Sam had the coordinates for their destination programmed into his GPS. He closed the garage door behind the sleek black car as Dean piloted her unerringly out into the cold, blustery morning, and then hastened to find refuge in the shotgun seat. He blew on his fingers. The Impala's heater was slow to warm.
Dean glanced over at him, noting again the silver strands in his brother's hair as Sam hunched over an iPad, searching for more information on their case. Three kids in Indiana would never again celebrate their birthdays. If Dean Winchester had any say in it, and he did by virtue of the machete stashed under his seat, no one else would suffer the same fate.
He sighed softly, but with an air of contentment. Aches and pains, and grey hair be damned. They still had work to do.
Oh well, a touch of grey
Kind of suits you anyway
That's all I had to say
It's all right
We will get by, we will get by
We will get by, we will survive
-A Touch of Grey, The Grateful Dead