It was dusk, the sun long gone behind the mountains but not yet taking the last remnants of daylight with it. If one happened to peer out the cabin window, one would see the large black car sitting at the end of the dirt lane, but beyond that, nothing. Nothing but shadows leading into the woods that soon led to the Cascade Mountains.
The one-story cabin was small but well-built, standing alone against the weather and elements and whatever wildlife called the surrounding forest home; wildlife that made it unsafe to risk a trip to the outhouse after dark. No other cabins were nearby, nope, not within ten miles. And at this time of year, others in that radius were unoccupied.
Sam sat in the rocker, rocking gently, staring out the window, the glass pane emitting cold he could feel without his cheek touching the glass. He'd already closed the shutters and drawn the heavy curtains against the cold on all the other windows, but until the last wink of daylight had winked out, the view from this window would remain.
The room was peacefully, blissfully quiet. The only sound the snapping fire burning cheerily in the open fireplace across the room; the fire that supplied the only light in the cabin. He really should get up and light a candle or one of the several lanterns but eh, why bother? He wasn't ready to read or cook dinner, he'd rather just sit and watch the blanket of darkness settle over the night outside until he could no longer see out the window. No other reason why then because he could, because he liked to, because he enjoyed sitting and doing nothing. So, he sat. And rocked. And stared out the window. Until he could no longer see anything. Not even the moon. Or any stars.
Finally, he sighed, pushing out of the hand-made wood chair that really, was not at all comfortable. He closed the shutters and pulled the curtains, then paced the living area of the cabin he'd retreated to; the cabin that was not the cabin where he usually went to hole up with his brother the way a dog retreated to his bed when he was done with being bothered. No, not that one; the one they thought of as Rufus's cabin, with the armchair Sam liked to sit in, its padding worn and all wrong for his form, but had been just right for Bobby's. That one was in Montana, too far to drive to. Now anyway.
This cabin was off the grid and had somehow been found by Cas when Sam had requested he find them a place of solitude and peace where they could stay while Dean recovered – mentally more than physically – from a haunting where they'd lost a nine year-old innocent kid. Oh yeah, Dean had taken the loss hard, really hard, and Sam had thought it best to leave hunting behind for a while; for Sam missed his, drank-too-much-slept-too-little-ran-around-all-the-time-ribald-joke-telling brother. Oh, Dean had had these moody spells before, more than once, but he always snapped out of it within a few days on his own or after a heartfelt confession to Sam, but not this time.
Despite the fact he was somewhere in Maine chasing down a book of obscure lore, Cas had come through when Sam had asked for his help obtaining what he wanted – a free lost-in-the-wilderness cabin. Their faithful angel had asked no questions and issued assurances that no one would bother them or question their right to stay at the cabin and Sam had accepted the offer without question and with much gratitude.
He had no idea who owned it nor did he care, for the cabin currently suited his mood. There was no electricity, just a gas-fed generator he ran an hour in the morning and an hour in the evening to recharge batteries, phones, tablets and laptops – oh, and Dean's portable DVD player. There was no indoor plumbing, just a camp shower, a fire-fed boiler that held 5 gallons of water and a compost toilet for times when it was too cold or simply not safe to venture outside to the outhouse. The nearby stream provided them with fresh water, though Sam, being Sam, insisted all water be boiled before using it to cook or wash with. And there would be NO drinking it at all.
In one corner of the room was the 'kitchen': a sink with a drain that didn't have running water, a propane fed camp stove and a convection oven that required power from the generator to operate. All Sam had to do was – not run out of propane or gasoline. And if he did, well, he could cook over an open flame, though he preferred not to. There was a small table with 3 chairs along one wall and a sofa and two chairs with a coffee table sat in the middle of the room, across from the kitchen, close to the fire. That was it.
He crossed the room and stopped in front of the fire, extending his hands to its welcoming warmth before running a hand over the mantle that was made out of a tree trunk, sanded and shaved to a shiny, smooth surface by hand. It had issues, this cabin did and yeah, someone probably could have improved on its numerous faults but someone had put their back and loving touch into making it comfortable and cozy. The handmade furniture and hand sewn quilts and crocheted afghans and braided throw rugs, the mismatched dishes and lack of modern amenities gave the cabin a 'homey' feeling the bunker would just never have. And they needed that.
And yeah, okay, so it was winter. And in winter, there was always the danger of being snowed in. They didn't have snowmobiles and not even the Impala could navigate the amounts of snow the closest 'community' in these Cascade Mountains, Government Camp, was known to get. But, had they the desire, snowmobiles were easily, if not always legally, obtained. And there were always the snow shoes and skis in the shed outback so, if they had to, they could walk out. There was even a sled, so if one of them was injured and couldn't walk, the other could pull them out.
Sam set the fire screen aside and poked the logs with the solid iron poker, idly wondering if the cabin in his mother's family still stood. They should go look sometime. No, really, they should. Whose cabin was it now? Who paid the taxes? Anyone?
He straightened arching his back, muscles sore and shoulders tight from chopping wood all day. He didn't mind repeatedly raising an axe over his head and whacking wood in two. It was good exercise. Good for his mental health, his heart, his stamina, his strength, but he wasn't in his 20's anymore. And he'd forgotten how much work and effort lugging water and chopping trees and stacking wood and doing just about everything by hand was. Time for some menthol rub, handful of ibuprofen and maybe some hot towels.
He added two logs to the fire and set the screen back in place. He liked being here, loved being away from everyone and everything, his life, his responsibilities, his problems, the world… he could sprawl in the old armchair next to the fire and read a book….a western or a spy thriller and the only thing required of him was adding another log to the fire. Here is where he got needed comfort and security and the feeling one had as a child when a simple word from Dad would make everything all better.
As for Dean? Well hell, he didn't know if Dean ever found contentment or comfort anywhere. Not like Sam did anyway. Maybe he did at Rufus's cabin, where he went both on his own and with Sam, but Sam didn't really know. They never took anyone else there and there was never any sign that anyone else had been there between their visits. Nope. It was their retreat and theirs alone….but they weren't there this time.
Sam had wanted off the grid, where no one knew them or could guess where they had gone or how to find them. So here, thanks to Cas, they were. But…living off the grid meant no credit or electronic transactions. They didn't have a bank account, not that writing checks was at all a good idea when a person was trying to get and remain lost. So that meant cash. And to obtain cash, one had to work for it. And to work for it, without receiving a paycheck, on which your social security number was required for taxes, one had to work under the table.
And for Sam, working under the table was courtesy of another assist from Cas. Well, Sam thought so anyway. He'd mentioned a need for cash and an opportunity for just such a job had fallen right in 'his lap'. Sam had no idea how Cas managed to arrange vacant cabins and temporary jobs out of thin air, he didn't ask, Cas never said and again, he simply did not care. Even on the other side of the country, Cas came through and that was enough to satisfy Sam.
His under-the-table-temporary-cash-paying job was at a bar near a ski resort some 20 miles away. A bar whose 'bouncer' had 'accidentally' dropped a keg of beer on his foot, breaking it, on the same night Sam happened to be at the bar and available to offer his services 'just' for the weeks their bar-back would be laid up. Good ole divine intervention, thanks Cas.
So, he worked Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights, 7:00 p.m. until closing, arriving back at the cabin by 3:00 a.m. It also provided him with the opportunity to bring home food from the bars kitchen and the stream, once Sam broke through the thin layer of ice, provided the services of a fridge and freezer. Time alone, space and well, just time had a healing touch and Sam was content to remain until all the haunted looks, self-doubt and second guessing plaguing Dean had been conquered. Mmmmm...all had gone well for three weeks.
Three. Whole. Weeks.
Sam hadn't minded leaving Dean alone at the cabin. Solitude and time alone was good for the soul and it worked. And Dean hadn't minded being left alone. But Dean…..well, he was Dean. And soon, he was restless and bored, so they'd gone to the city two nights ago, and wouldn't you know, Dean being Dean, had not interacted well with the 'local-yokels' as he referred to them, and in his frame of mind – probably seeking punishment for something he was not responsible for – he had picked a fight with four of the local-yokels, whom Sam mentally labelled 'mountain-grown blokes' since they were bigger than Sam and all brawn, with Sam nowhere in sight.
Well, okay, let's be fair. Dean had not set out to pick a fight with anyone. The Paul-Bunyan-sized-four had been harassing the bartender, making fun of other patrons at the bar and made the mistake of asking Dean what his problem was. Yeah, that had not gone well.
And where had Sam been? Oh, he'd been at the laundromat, the library, the café, the mini-mart, the liquor store searching fruitlessly for Dean's favorite beer, wasting time and enjoying some alone time. Oh, and attempting to ignore the tingly sensation attacking his spine that something somewhere was wrong.
Yeah, you know, a normal evening for him.
But, he was Sam. Sam Winchester. And Sam Winchester had a brother named Dean. And Dean could find trouble anywhere he went. And unable to shake the feeling of unease, he had finally given in to his inner voice and nagging conscious and returned to the bar where he'd dropped Dean off earlier – and walked in on a scene straight out of the movie Roadhouse.
Well, of course Sam had had no choice but to charge right in and join the fray. Why, he hadn't minded one bit. Fisticuffs were a good outlet for pent-up anger and resentment and frustration and a good ole rounding bar fight was always good therapy.
But, all good things must come to an end and the fight had wound down and he and Dean had taken their leave. They'd patched themselves up in the car, returned to the laundromat to retrieve their clothes Sam had left in the dryer, run through the drive-thru of a local burger restaurant and had been looking for a liquor store when Dean had been hit with his first round of nausea.
The greasy burger, Dean had said.
Second round.
Bad fries, Dean had said.
Third round.
Cheap Tequila, Dean had said.
And Sam had believed him all three times as he'd watched his brother stagger away to puke in the bushes or in a ditch or behind some trashcan. They'd been leaving the liquor store when Dean had hit the pavement. Just dropped like a stone right to the ground. Plop. One second he was right next to Sam, the next Sam had been walking alone. Sam had dropped to his knees beside his brother who was conscious and shook him, snapping his neck, chin to chest so hard his eyes rolled wildly. He'd asked him repeatedly how hard he'd smacked his head, with what, how many times, where… but no matter how hard Sam shook him or held and steadied him or prayed to Cas – and now that he thought about it, what good had he thought holding his brother by the shoulders and shaking him until his teeth rattled would do? – Sam had not been able to deny Dean had suffered another concussion. Again.
So, off to the ER they had gone.
The result? Head injury. Concussion. Again. No, you dumb ass doctor. Not a sports related head injury leading to or resulting in a concussion. Did it matter? Did. It. Matter? Did it matter how Dean had come about obtaining this concussion? Had the doctor not treated other participants of the same bar fight that night? What was it with small towns in the mountains and their bred and born residents that irritated Sam so? Oh, okay, Sam hadn't been able to prevent the trip to the ER or from having tests done, but he had agreed with Dean's refusal to stay and had absconded with him the moment they'd been left alone.
Sam's immediate thought of action was to flee the area. Flee to the comfort of Rufus's cabin, but no, not with Dean seeing triple, falling over when he stood up and puking if the lights were too bright; nope, they hadn't been able to travel that far by car. And really, did they need to go anywhere? Where better to recover than right here, in wonderful isolation where being anonymous was welcome? The hospital was hours in the opposite direction of the ski resort so it was entirely unlikely they would come across the bar inhabitants they'd kicked the shit – ehrm – interacted with.
They'd fled the hospital but the fact was Dean needed healing and Cas wasn't there to heal him. And what the hell was up with Cas anyway? Even after…..how many years had it been anyway...6, 9?...years on earth, the angel still had issues with an ordinary cell phone a three-year old could operate. Oh, he'd heard Sam praying, had responded and was on his way, but he had no id, no driver's license and limited powers, so mind controlling an airline employee to turn a blind eye and allow him to board a flight to bum-buck town somewhere in Oregon wasn't a viable option.
Sam snorted, nope, that wasn't an option, but finding them a cabin and a job was. Would he ever understand? Probably not.
Nope, Cas had to drive and could there be a further distance then the miles between the east and west coasts and still remain on the great 48? Probably not, for their wayward guardian angel was, again, in fucking Maine. Well, no. If Sam were able to think coherently and rationally, total distance apart would undoubtedly be Florida to the state of Washington. Right? Because Alaska didn't count. It wasn't one of the great 48, because you had to drive through Canada and…*sigh*…what the hell was he thinking?
So, here they were. Bruised but not broken. Hurt, but not critically. Least, Sam didn't think so. Okay, yeah Dean was…well…..it wasn't anything Cas couldn't heal. Hell, a doctor could fix it, time would fix it. The dumb quack at the ER had said so while verbally berating Sam for simply slapping a Band-Aid on a cut that quite clearly, to anyone with medical training, required stitching. Dean had been seen, diagnosed, treated and they had fled. Had the head injury been serious – well, it was….but not surgery-was-needed-serious – Dean would have stayed in the hospital until Cas could arrive. Though it was another concussion, it wasn't bleeding-on-a-swollen-brain-applying-pressure-to-the-skull kind of concussion, so here they were.
Again. Eh, was he repeating himself? Maybe. He thought so. Didn't know for sure.
Oh, how the doctor had droned on and on and on: too many concussions suffered in too short a time period; extended length of recovery; effect every day activities; poor coordination; slow reflexes; headaches; sensitivity to light and sound and smell…..hell Sam already knew all that! He'd been through this before. More than once! The doctor could make all the promises and assurances and diagnosis's he wanted, but Sam wouldn't be content that Dean was in fact, truly ok, until Cas arrived, made him so and told Sam everything was fine.
'Cause, see, the thing was, Dean couldn't die. Not that he was in any immediate danger of doing so, but still, why take unnecessary chances? Neither of them could die before they fixed the 'void' or 'black hole' or the 'forever nothingness'. Whatever the hell it was or what it was called, it was something else they had broken or caused and had added to their 'bucket list' to fix.
Well….Sam pushed his hair back, holding his hands together atop his head as he warmed his backside by the comfort of the fire. That was his fault. This was his fault. Everything was his fault. Always his fault. Course, he was the only who thought that, but still….
"Hey." Dean yawned, stumbling into the living area from one of the two bedrooms. They were on opposite ends of the living space that was living room/kitchen/dining area all in one. Say, ah Sam? Yeah buddy, you're rethinking the same things again.
"You're up." Sam said surprised. He glanced at his watch. Huh. "Thought you'd sleep awhile."
"Mmmm." Dean rubbed his temple over his right eye. "Tired of sleeping." he supported his weight with one palm against the wall and raised the opposite arm over his head to stretch. That done, he switched arms and stretched again then rubbed at his forehead, wincing when his fingers made contact with his 'boo-boo'. "Seems it's all I do." his words, while slurred, were pronounced individually.
"Don't do that." Sam scolded automatically. Seeing Dean touch the neat row of stitches under the butterfly Band-Aid made him cringe, the set-down from the crabby ER doctor still ringing in his ears. The little white adhesive strip did not hide the red, swollen skin all puffy and severely discolored. The puffiness made his head lopsided, the opposite eye being black not a balance.
"Still snowing?" he kicked at the pile of wet clothes Sam had dumped by the door. "Hang it up, it'll dry better."
"Huh? Oh, yeah. You hungry? Can heat some soup." he swallowed hard. Of all things Dean could wear, he had to pick a hoodie? Really? Did he not know what seeing him in one did to Sam? The visions a hoodie caused? Dean's colorless face? The shadowed eyes after electrocution? Another fucking hospital bed? Faith healers and reapers? Yeah, those sights! Damn hoodie. He shuddered, shaking off the images. "Or chicken pot pie sound better?"
Dean shook his head, wincing when he tilted it back too much and the room spun, knocking him off balance and making him sway, steadying only when Sam reached and took hold of his elbow. Sam hesitated when Dean tensed, but Dean didn't shake him off and allowed the hold and support to guide him over to the sofa.
"You chop more wood?" Dean gazed around the room, eyes moving slowly. None of it - slurred speech, shaky balance, slow eye movement - made Sam happy.
"Fires take a lot of wood." he didn't add it was winter and their only source of heat. Dean was well aware of that. Well, he should be anyway. Not only did the cabin have the open fireplace in the living area, there was also a small woodstove in each bedroom. Not that it really mattered because Sam had no intention of lighting and keeping lit, a fire in either stove. Nope, he was a firm believer that sleeping in an unheated or under heated bedroom was healthier. But, he was blessed with Dean for a brother, so yeah. Yeah, best to have an ample supply of woodstove sized logs just in case that brother took a chill and the room needed additional heat other than what trickled in from the living room if the door was left open. Or it grew too cold outside for the open fireplace - it was a well-known fact woodstoves provided more and better heat - to maintain a comfortable temperature within the cabin.
He used a towel to grab the handle of a pot hanging from the hook inside the fireplace and carried it over to the kitchen where he sat it on a cast iron pot holder. He needed something to do, busy, mindless work. So….
"Yeah." Dean agreed with another yawn. "Told you I'd help."
Sam paled, hands shaking as he filled a mug with hot water and added a tea bag. Last week, they'd swung axes in tandem but now...now the thought of Dean outside, in the cold, standing on snow-covered ice, repeatedly raising an axe over his head and swinging it downwards raised goosebumps on every inch of his skin and he knew from experience, it would be hours before he'd be able to shake off the chill, quell the pit in his stomach and feel warm again.
Out here, a slip of an axe could result in the loss of toes, foot, mobility or life, should the blade of an axe with the force of a grown man's swing behind it manage to nick the femoral artery…well, Dean probably wouldn't bleed out on him. After all, Sam knew a thing or two about first aid, well, not according to the hick-from-the-sticks who'd treated Dean after the bar fight, but still….
"Hey, Samsonite, where you at?" Dean snapped his fingers, rubbing at the Band-Aid with his opposite hand. "Sam?"
Sam blinked then occupied his thoughts by making a cup of tea. He dipped the tea bag several times before squeezing honey from a plastic bear-shaped bottle. Dean insisted if he was expected to eat or drink honey, it had to come from the fun bottle marketed towards children. 'Cause, duh, yeah…..it did too taste better! Sam rolled his eyes as he cut a lemon and squeezed one halve to add its juice to the mug before adding a pinch of nutmeg. Dip, dip, dip.
"Rum?" he hefted a bottle. "Or scotch?" he used the bottle in his hand to point to another sitting on the counter. When the bar was busy, Sam would tend bar as well. He couldn't fix or mix the new, fancy, latest drinks, but he could and did, open bottles, and fill mugs with draft beer. He could even do jack and coke or a screwdriver; anything simple from yesteryear. And hell, he didn't mind working the back bar; tipsy women, bangs in his eyes and a seductive grin made him great tips.
And if a half-empty bottle of hard liquor found its way into his backpack, well…it was a temporary job.
"Mmmm….." Dean continued to rub his forehead. "Rum."
"Still have a headache?"
"Yeah." he laid his head back against the sofa and let his eyes close.
So, translation: still in pain.
And nothing eased it. Not aspirin, not acetaminophen, not ibuprofen. Not Excedrin Migraine, not caffeine pills, not naproxen – which Sam was always reluctant to let Dean have because it normally made him sleep heavily and if he took too many – which was always a given because, hello, he was Dean – it raised his blood pressure. And Sam, being Sam, immediately jumped to the unlikely conclusion that his brother would suffer a heart attack or stroke or, you know, fatal intestinal bleeding.
He really should stop reading so many medical books in his spare time. Not with Dean for a brother.
Sam added a generous amount of rum to the mug, paused, then prepared a second mug for himself. Why couldn't Dean wait and suffer a concussion when Cas was present? Nooooo…not Dean. Maybe he should have ignored Dean's protests and arguments and left him in the hospital until Cas arrived, but nooooooo, he'd caved to Dean's whining and pleading, just like he always did.
"You good?" he walked over and resumed his seat in the comfy armchair he'd vacated earlier in favor of the un-comfy one by the window where he'd watched the sun set. "Hey." he set his mug on the coffee table and nudged Dean's knee. "Hot toddy."
Dean could be a one-armed blind man with two fingers on his remaining hand and he'd still have the ability to accept the offer of an alcoholic beverage with the first reach of his hand. Yup, that was a talent he would always possess. He reached for, accepted, held, raised the mug and drank without: raising his head, spilling a drop or wincing over the heat.
"Still….seeing double?" Sam asked cautiously. Dean was sleepy, groggy, dopey….whatever, and usually in that state, he was emotionally pliable.
"Uh." was the grunted reply.
So, yes.
"Light still hurt you?"
"Hum." he licked his lips, taking another sip. "This's good." the very fact that he ignored the question gave Sam his answer anyway.
Yup, light still bothered him.
Sam slumped in the chair, taking comfort from the warmth radiating from the mug cupped in his hands. If only he'd insisted on seeing the only movie – some epic love story Dean had turned his lip up over – the theatre was showing. If only he hadn't agreed to let Dean go off to a bar on his own. If only he'd argued more over Dean's lame, stupid desire for a senseless game of pool. If only he hadn't listened to Dean. If only he hadn't opted to go to the library instead of joining him for that game of senseless pool. If only he'd listened to his own tingly sensations and gone after his brother as soon as his spine started to twinge. If only he had made the decision to follow despite the order not to – Dean's unspoken plea for some alone time. If only he hadn't been relieved Dean had asked for that time. If only he'd argued they find a safer looking bar. If only he hadn't harbored a desire to visit a café/coffee shop offering his favored frothy cappuccinos. If only he hadn't been delighted with the opportunity after visiting the library to indulge where he wouldn't be ridiculed for his choice of drink. If only he hadn't stopped for beer. If only….if only…if only.
