Three Days Later

Bobby's House


Dean always felt comfortable on Bobby's couch, ever since he was a teenager, but he was getting a bit stir crazy. The fact that his brother was ten feet below, possibly going insane, probably hurting himself, didn't help matters. But Dean did it - had to do it - out of love. His little brother needed him to take care of him, and that's what he was going to do. Whether Sam asked or not. It was what he'd always done.

For a while, he'd been nursing a beer, but Cas didn't have that comfort. The sad-eyed man just stared straight ahead.

Dean had already interrogated him as to what he knew about Sam's little problem, and came away satisfied. He'd only known since Sam visited and was going to tell him if he couldn't talk Sam into rehab. His mistake was trying to bargain. Sam didn't do bargains. The Winchesters were the sort to stick to their guns until they got exactly what they wanted.

But it was all making Dean worry. What was there to keep Sam on the right track after he was clean? Once an addict, always an addict. He needed Dean. But he couldn't just say, Oh, hey, Sammy, why don't you just stop going to your Ivy League school for a while and hang out with me because I'm afraid you'll do drugs again? That wasn't really a viable option.

When the idea hit him, he nudged Cas with his elbow. "How do you feel about California?"

"I haven't ever visited the state."

"You up for a new experience?" By the look Cas gave him, he got what he meant. He nodded after a moment, large eyes focused.

"I'm certainly amenable to the idea."

It would mean dropping their jobs, their apartments, their friends (though that mainly meant Bobby), and everything that they'd built since they got back. And Cas just said yes.

Dean was really starting to consider marrying him.


A Week Later

Somewhere Near the Utah-Nevada Border


Dean usually liked driving. He was always one for roadtrips. There was an instinctual nomadic appeal to the idea of the open road spreading out beneath the Impala's tires, leaving a fading stretch of asphalt in his wake.

He wasn't going to let Mr. Grumpy Pants in the back seat ruin that for him. No, he was going to sing along to "You Shook Me All Night Long" as loud as the hell as he wanted and revel in a truly American experience.

That lasted for about the first day.

See, his shotgun didn't fully grasp the idea of rocking out and yelling along to sweet, beautiful music. Actually, Cas was kind of a boring copilot. He seemed content to watch the scenery breeze by.

Dean would have Sam take a turn in the front seat, but he was in a fairly permanent sulk and had decided to take advantage of the extra space in back by letting his obnoxious giraffe legs span the entire width of the car. It was the good kind of sulk, though. The kind that hovered around for a little while when Sam realized he'd done something stupid and wrong and didn't quite know how to say sorry just yet. Yeah, Sam was pissed as hell that Dean had locked him in a panic room for ten days and had confiscated everything he owned, but he was at least a little bit thankful (maybe) that he was no longer on what turned out to be meth. Good thing Dean found out when he did, too. As a general rule, Winchesters were too damn handsome to have meth mouth.

So, not the best road trip in the history of road trips, what with the shitty motels and almost-as-terrible conversation, but still maybe the best he'd ever had.


The Next Week

Palo Alto


It was a stroke of luck that they even managed to find an apartment at all on such short notice, let alone a two-bedroom apartment. Okay, so maybe their landlord was a post-grad with an "herb garden" in the basement, but it was California and Dean had been young once, a long, long time ago, so it was fine. That, and the guy appreciated his car. Not many people saw her for the gem she was, and Dean could like anyone who did.

It was also a beautiful thing that Bobby, bless his cantankerous soul, was kind enough to drive their moving truck to them, since Cas was only licensed to maneuver a high-speed single-passenger plane or some sort of drone and there was no way Dean was letting Sam drive a vehicle by himself.

Cas and Dean unpacked their stuff in about a day, no problem, and the new apartment was habitable in no time. Bobby got the couch that night before departing with a few gruff words of annoyance. It actually all settled into place pretty quick.

Sort of.

Dean wouldn't let Sam leave their apartment until he did a four-hour-long search of Sam's dorm, interrogated his rather neurotic roommate (though that just seemed to be a combination of his personality and fondness for liquor, not any admission of guilt), and asked everyone he ran into about "that skyscraper, Sam Winchester". For the two days that this thorough investigation took place, he left his brother with Cas and the threat that the smaller man could cause an indescribable amount of pain without leaving a mark and overpower a man three times his size. The sad thing was, it was probably an understatement.

When Sam was finally released from house arrest, Dean begged/convinced Cas to tail him wherever he went. Well, they traded off when he realized that, contrary to popular belief, Cas did actually need some sleep. Not that he admitted to it, of course.

After about a month, Dean backed off. Well, sort of. He started paying off Sam's roommate, Chuck, with alcohol and, when the kid looked especially mopey, constructive feedback on his writing (most of which was pretty weird, and, eerily, about two brothers a lot like Sam and him, only they went around killing monsters and it was full of sort of weird, uncomfortable homoerotic undertones). In addition, he may have paid their landlord's girlfriend, Eva, to follow Sam around campus, but no one would be able to find proof of that.

Dean was looking at his and Cas' combined financial situation (which was looking fairly depressing, considering that neither of them had gotten a job yet and were spending a fair chunk of their combined time stalking Sam) when Eva called.

"Speak," he answered, trying to calculate how long their savings might last them at their current rate of expense. Not long, it was looking like.

"It's Sam. He just shook hands with a woman, then walked away. I think we have a situation. They had this little look, like they've known each other pretty damn long."

"Tail him. Don't let him alone. If you see him go off by himself before I get there, confront him, okay? You might be able to intimidate him. Alright?"

"Got it."


Roughly a Few Minutes Later

Stanford Campus


From the way his hand kept going back to his pocket, Eva knew that Sam had something he shouldn't have. Thing was, he was out in the open. There was no way he was going to try to snort or inject himself with anything right in the middle of the Oval, sitting on a park bench. His leg started to jerk, that frenzied bobble balanced on the ball of his foot, one of those unconscious gestures some people have. He was looking around. Damn, he looked sketchy. From her place crouched behind a couple of trees (maybe four feet behind him), she could feel a sort of mania about him.

Shit. Dean was going to kill her. Worse, she'd feel terrible; she actually liked Sam, even if he had some troubles.

And then a short-ish man sat down on the bench beside him. A stranger? Another dealer? Eva listened closely.

"How much are you looking to buy?" the smaller guy said. "Because I can tell you're jonesing for something you can't get over the counter. I've got the best crystal you've ever seen, and you better believe it." Eva mouthed a few choice swear words. Some other dealer ambushing him? This was too much for little (giant) Sam to handle.

"I'm fine, really."

"Bullshit. You look like all you've ever known is generic pseudophedrine cut with old cat piss. Believe me, once you try the good stuff, you never go back. And I'm what you might call a connoisseur."

Eva typed out a quick text to Dean. Some other dealer just came up to him. Short stack, brown hair, slicked back. What do I do? I don't want to spook them.

"Yeah? How much?" Sam asked, and Eva fought the urge to chuck her phone at his head. The damn fool.

"Forty a tab. But it's well worth the cost, don't you worry."

"Shit, man, fifteen's all I got on me. I can stop at an ATM."

"Phone, kiddo." The dealer extended his hand, and Sam gave him his phone. "Shoot me a text no later than tonight when you've got the cash. I'll tell you where to meet me. Pleasure doing business with you, Treebeard." The guy left and Eva swore again silently, possibly making up a few words.

Dealer just left. Heading towards Herrin Hall. I can't follow him without leaving Sam.

A couple seconds later, Got him.


Between the Herrin Labs and Herrin Hall


Dean closed his phone, eyes on his mark. Really, the guy was pretty small. He'd be easy to take down. But he had to go be an asshole, practically skipping with a fucking lollipop in his mouth. The bastard. Dean was going to put his drugs somewhere they wouldn't be able to get out without a scalpel. And he was really going to enjoy it.

His footsteps were quiet, borne of plenty of training, and Dean was careful to keep to the shadows. But when he grabbed for the guy's shoulder, hands shot out to grab his wrist, smoothly twisting his arm behind him at a painful angle. Where the fuck had this guy learned to do that? Dean grunted in discomfort as he was slammed, face-first into a wall.

"Who the fuck sent you?" the man hissed, jabbing his fingers into Dean's kidney. It caused enough pain to make him yelp.

"No one sent me!" Dean gasped. "I sent myself, you motherfucker. You messed with my brother, I'll-"

The pressure holding him against the wall eases just a little. "Unless your brother's name was Candi and he was a D-cup, I'm pretty sure I didn't 'mess' with him."

"I'm talking about the idiot you just sold meth to, asshole."

"Wait, you mean Sasquatch back there?" Dean was suddenly released as the guy started laughing uncontrollably. Moving quick, Dean threw out a closed fist before he could even turn around, but the guy grabbed it, flipping him around so his back collided with the brick with enough force to bruise. And he was still laughing. Dean aimed a knee to the groin, but the shorter man dodged it. His laugher died away. "Man, of all the coincidences, the Ten-Foot Wonder had a brother in the service," he said to himself, then looked at Dean. "You almost had me worried for a minute, there."

"Asswipe. I'll teach you to sell your shit to my brother." Dean feints with his right, goes for a left hook to the ribs, but the blow is deflected easily. Too easily. Fast jab to solar plexus, closed fist to collar bone, follow through with left elbow to jaw - it was the combination that floored his opponent in three blows last time he sparred with anyone, and this man just evaded them, redirected them like his fists were made of water.

"Is this fun for you?" the guy asked, smirking in an incredibly patronizing way. "Because I could keep going as long as you want. Or you could let me tell you something that'll get your panties out of that serious bunch you got going on. But really. Try to hit me again if it makes you happy. I've got all day."

"What are you talking about?"

"How cute. It has a brain, too." Dean glared at him. "Fine, fine. Listen here, cowboy. Your baby tree's gonna be just fine. I snatched this-" he pulled a little baggie with an off-white powder in it from his coat pocket "-from him. And what I gave him isn't even enough to sweeten your coffee, if you catch my meaning. I'm not a drug dealer, idiot. That's so bourgeois."

"What are you, then?"

"First and foremost, a baker. But when I'm feeling a little more magnanimous, I peddle sugar pills to former addicts. It's all in good fun."

"Did he pay you?"

"Maybe. Consider it a service fee. I distract him from the things that might actually kill him while the placebo effect works its magic. Really, I underprice myself." Dean thought it over for a minute. It didn't sound like such a bad plan.

"How do I know you're telling the truth?"

"Do I look like a liar to you?" He took a look at Dean's expression and shrugged. "Okay, bad question. But why would I bother with real drugs? Do you know how much that stuff costs? Ridiculous, really. And dangerous. Not my thing at all. I just like to have a little good, clean fun with the trust fund bunch in my spare time."

"You're a bit of a bastard, you know that?"

"So they tell me, but wouldn't you rather have little old me looking out for your darling little boy giant that the bitch who got him hooked in the first place?"

Dean stilled, focused. "You know who the girl is?"

The guy looked offended. "Of course. It's not like I didn't scope him out first beforehand. She's his girlfriend. They've been seeing each other for a while, best I could tell. He knows you've been watching him, so it was difficult to catch when he was sending messages to her, but I managed to track her down. If it weren't for the whole junkie bitch thing, I'd be high-fiving your bro right now; that girl's a solid nine, at least. Her name's Ruby, they've been-"

"Yeah, I know who she is." Suddenly, Dean got that feeling again, the one he got when her first met her, that dark crawling thing in his gut. He knew from the first moment he met her, on a routine recon run gone awry under a hot desert sun, that she was Bad News, with the capitalization. She smiled like a sociopath, and now Dean wasn't at all surprised that she was behind this. What she was getting from Sam out of it was a mystery, but this had Ruby written all over it. Fucking bitch.

"Not BFFs, then, I take it."

"No. Not even close." Dean looked at the man, sizing him up. "If you keep him away from her, I'll pay you. In addition to what Sam's giving you. But I don't want her anywhere near him."

"You, new best friend, have a deal." He extended a hand. "You can call me Gabriel, by the way, Ken Doll."

Dean shook, saying, "Dean. Dean Winchester."

Ten minutes later, he was heading home (having sent a you can back off text to Eva and squared everything away with Sammy's brand new guardian angel), humming "Highway to Hell".


Half an Hour Later

Chocolate Hangover Bakery


Gabriel sighed, looking in his fridge. A little baking therapy was in order. Not that he needed therapy, but close calls always made him nervous.

So that Dean kid wasn't anyone to be afraid of. That didn't mean he hadn't been fooled for just a second there. It wasn't like they'd stopped looking for him. There was a good reason he was always on guard, but baking and, more importantly, eating said baked goods was as good a way to take the edge off as any.

It also meant that he'd mastered the art of baked goods. The desire to eat sweet things combined with that perfectionist streak he'd never been able to wash out of himself meant that he did well enough as a baker. But he had needs. Puckish needs.

That was the only reason he started hanging out around Stanford in the first place. Dumb trust fund geniuses could use a little mischief in their lives. He found he could turn a profit if he used the fact that half of them are on some sort of "study helper" or another. Easy pickings, and cheap, once he started making his own sugar pills.

He'd thought the giant would be the same way.

Gabriel had started scoping the kid out several months back. He'd thought he'd found another jerkass idiot, but then the kid was nice. Gabriel watched him pick up a freshman's books when she dropped them, get napkins for some kid who'd spilled his coffee all over himself. He was nice to people, which kind of put a damper on Gabriel's fun. And he was always with a snide, gorgeous brunette. Still, Gabriel sensed the dealer-junkie vibe beneath what was clearly an unfortunate romantic relationship. The girl was clearly no good for him and seemed like kind of a bitch, which was why Gabriel had decided to pounce. Of course, the giant kid had disappeared for a couple weeks, holidays, but when he'd come back, Gabriel was waiting.

Maybe the kid deserved something less-than-crappy. Gabriel was just doing a service to society. Either way, the bitch had to go.