REST AND RELAXATION
Chapter 2
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ONE MONTH AGO
Dean smiled as he perused the loaded shelves at the delightfully ramshackle Rockwood Food Store, established 1896. He guessed that the sweet little old lady behind the counter probably dated from that particular era too.
He was so glad Sam wasn't here with him as he stood perusing the store's colourful racks of herbs and spices, most of which he'd never heard of before, some he wouldn't even know how to pronounce. He'd never hear the last of it if Sam found out how excited he was at the prospect of expanding his collection of seasonings; and, well, if Sam had been aware that he'd just spent five minutes standing in the middle of the store pondering the benefits of wholemeal flour over ordinary flour, his life wouldn't be worth living.
He smiled as he tossed a small jar of paprika in his cart to go with the pack of bay leaves that were already in there.
It seemed that having the bunker's awesome kitchen had unleashed a monster. The inner Chef that Dean didn't even know was there had burst forth, like an alien out of John Hurt's chest, only without all the screaming and entrails and stuff, and was mercilessly plying the brothers with massive plates full of delicious nourishing food until they were both fit to bust. Only this morning Sam had been moaning about his jeans suddenly feeling tighter although, Dean noted, it didn't stop him wolfing down the giant bacon omelette Dean had put in front of him only seconds before, and then licking the plate clean.
But the fact was that Dean enjoyed it. No scratch that, he loved it. Every moment he spent in his kitchen, beating eggs or searing steaks or pounding dough was a moment of joy that satisfied his deep-seated need to care for and nurture his family; even if his 'family' only consisted of one person.
And even really, really pissed off wild horses would NEVER drag that admission out of him.
But it also gave him an honest-to-goodness hobby; something he'd never had before, and he was overwhelmed by the sense of pride it gave him. Here was something he could honestly say he was good at that didn't involve death or tragedy and, even more awesome still, it was the key to an unlimited supply of pies.
Did life actually get to be any better?
Sam, for his part, was enjoying Dean's new-found hobby as much as Dean was. Apart from the seriously cool fact that he hadn't had to assault his digestive system with crappy microwave gas-station pseudo-food for weeks, (a fact that Dean had found refreshingly satisfying too), he loved how Dean seemed to be growing, spiritually if not literally, with every meal that he cooked and put in front of his salivating sibling. Dean's fragile self-esteem was expanding as much as Sam's waistline, and that was totally fine by Sam.
And so Dean's trips to downtown Lebanon (such as it was) and the huddle of other small towns and hamlets surrounding them, to find more goodies with which to stock the bunker's already burgeoning larder became an almost daily adventure, which Sam was more than happy to allow Dean to enjoy unhindered. It gave Sam a couple of hours quiet time in the bunker's seemingly endless acres of library to spend some time feeding his mind instead of his stomach for a change.
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Dean's spirits were as high as the blistering sun that was bleeding its vermillion arc across the cobalt sky on this particular afternoon. He had decided to explore his latest discovery; the small and unremarkable town of Rockwood, to see what hidden treasures he could find apart from the town's awesomely old-fashioned grocery store. A butchers, perhaps, or a greengrocers? Maybe he could find some of those funny Japanese mushrooms with the rude name that he cooked last week and that Sam had loved so much.
Locking his food store purchases inside the Impala, he lovingly patted her fender; "be back soon Baby," he murmured; "jus' gonna stretch my legs." He would have been prepared to swear that she glanced around and murmured 'mind how you go' as he walked away.
He walked for a few moments without finding anything of note to catch his interest, but he didn't care. The sun's comforting warmth was soothing his soul, the air was filled with birdsong and Sammy wasn't going to starve to death within the next two hours so he found himself in no rush to head back to the bunker.
He realised that his explorations had taken him to the very edge of town, and apart from the line of scattered buildings behind him, he was surrounded by open land; nothing but a quietly humming trail of overhead power cables and a distant grain silo to break the horizon.
Sitting himself down on a low wooden fence that surrounded a small field, he relaxed and was quickly joined by the field's occupant, a sturdy bay horse with kind eyes and a desire for attention which Dean was happy to satisfy. He laughed as he ripped up handfuls of grass and dandelions to stuff into the eager grey muzzle that nudged at him, searching his jacket for treats, and relished the simple pleasure of the moment.
Eventually wresting his sleeve from between the horse's giant teeth, he decided it was time to make his way back before Sam thought he'd absconded. "You be good, big guy, I'll come back and see you again soon," he reassured as he patted the conker-brown lines of his new friend's long arched neck; "an' I'll bring apples," he promised with a wink.
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As he began to make his way back to the Impala, he attempted a shortcut through Rockwood's unremarkable backroads, eventually finding himself in a narrow, unfamiliar road. A study in neglect, the huddle of soulless, dusty-grey wooden buildings that looked down on him through shattered-window-pane eyes as he passed by seemed to be either abandoned or empty.
He shuddered, and picked up his pace.
As he strode along the cracked paving that had clearly once been a sidewalk, he chanced a glance up at the aging frontage of a building which appeared fractionally less forsaken than the rest of the street on the basis that it did at least look like it had received a lick of paint sometime in the last thirty years. He became intrigued as he began to hear sounds of life from within; hushed voices and something that sounded like a bassline; the whisper of music played too quietly for the melody to be heard.
His curious eyes travelled upwards over the building's blacked-out windows to a sun-bleached awning which hung over the door, its tattered valance fluttering dismally in the soft breeze that funnelled down the narrow road, and he squinted in an attempt to read the fading lettering that adorned the awning.
After much deliberation, Dean managed to ascertain that the lettering spelled out 'M ssage Parlo r'.
His face stretched into a grin as he scanned the words back and forth.
His new horsey friend was in luck; it looked like Dean would definitely be coming back to Rockwood again.
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tbc
A/N Don't go looking for Rockwood on a map - it's my own invention!