Chapter Three
The door creaked open in its loud, obnoxious way, and a few moments later, a paper bag was sitting in front of his face. Dean looked up, eyes wide and hopeful to find his brother rolling his eyes. "Here's your pie, your majesty," Sam grumbled, pushing the bag towards him; Dean was already halfway through opening it.
"You're the best, man," he moaned around mouthfuls. "Actually, Gabriel is the best. You're just the messenger. But thanks anyway. What is this, apple?"
"It's rhubarb, you unsophisticated child, which you would know if you looked at your food before inhaling it," his brother teased, shrugging off his coat and heading over to the counter. "And that one is, unfortunately, not from the bakery. I knew it would be closed by the time I got back so I stopped at that café in Wichita you like on my way home."
"Should have known, it's missing the 'love' that Gabe puts in it… which I'm realizing better as hell not be a euphemism." Dean set his fork down, momentarily losing his appetite – key word being momentarily. "How's Eileen?" he asked cautiously, watching his little brother's face for anything he could find in it. Sam didn't meet his eyes, trained on where his fingers unbuttoned his sleeves, and rolled them up to his elbows.
"Same as last week," he replied, shrugging, but Dean could see the heaviness on those shoulders. He wished, again, that his brother would let some of that weight go, just for a minute. Sam began typing on the computer behind the front desk. "How busy was it today?"
He grimaced. "Not very. Looks like no one wants to go outside until this snow settles."
"I thought maybe the whole 'reading books in a dusty library while it snows outside' aesthetic might draw some people in," Sam retorted.
"Excuse you, my library is not dusty," Dean exclaimed defensively.
"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Sam said, clicking the computer shut and hauling his socked feet up onto the table. He sighed, bringing a hand down to rub at one and wincing when he hit a sore spot.
Dean quirked an eyebrow. "Your feet hurt from driving? Wichita is like three and a half hours away with the snow. I swear, it's like we're not even related."
"Some of us actually go on runs every morning," his brother shot back, glaring. "I'm just tired, is all. It's been a long day."
"Right." Dean left it at that, quickly finishing his pie while simultaneously trying to savour it. His stomach had, after all, been growling for the last two hours of Sam's trip, but pie deserved respect. Admiration. To be cherished.
"Seriously, though," Sam said, standing back up and stretching. "We need to drum up some business before we get into even more trouble."
The older brother leaned back in his seat. "It's fine, Sammy. Don't worry about it."
"Except it's my job to worry, Dean! If I don't worry…" He trailed off, a guilty expression taking over his features. Right, of course. As if Dean didn't worry his fair share. Sam bit his lip. "Look, I didn't mean anything by that, okay? It's just that you refuse to use our savings-"
"They're not our savings," he spat, nostrils flaring dangerously. "Those are dad's savings, and you know that."
"He left them to us!" Sam fought back. "I know you and dad had a… difficult relationship-"
"Difficult," Dean scoffed.
"But," his brother pressed, giving him a pointed look, "that money could save the library. Don't you think that's more important than whatever feud the two of you had going on before he died?"
Dean looked away, refusing to meet his brother's eyes. "Maybe the library doesn't need saving."
"What?"
"You heard me." He shrugged. "Maybe it's time to let this place go. Everyone gets their books online nowadays anyway."
Sam blinked. "Half of our collection is one of a kind – they're not going to be on any website."
"Which means no one even knows about them," he pointed out. "No one comes to a library looking for books that, as far as they know, don't even exist. Especially when that library is in a middle-of-nowhere town in Kansas."
"So we get some more popular books for the locals! We don't just give up."
The older Winchester shook his head. "We can't afford new books, and you know that. Besides, it's not giving up if something's run its course."
"Okay, I'm going to pretend like you didn't just say that the one place we've ever actually had to ourselves has 'run its course'," Sam replied, taking deep breaths through his nose.
Dean snorted. "This shit is starting to sound like a Hallmark Christmas movie."
Sam glared at him. "Yeah, well, that makes you the villain. Or the cynical, bitter one."
"Whatever," Dean dismissed, chucking the empty bag in the trash by the counter.
His brother closed his eyes. "I'm going upstairs. It's been a long fucking day and I'm ready for bed. You can sit here and think about what you just said to me."
"I thought we were pretending I didn't say it!" Dean called sarcastically as Sam retreated to the upstairs apartment. He stood, sighing as his knees crackled agedly. He muttered to himself as he paced the floor, "He just got back from Eileen, and you had to go and lay that on him. Idiot." Dean ran a hand through his hair frustratedly.
He spent an hour wandering around the library, shelving the few books on the carts and inspecting the shelves for misplaced books until his eyes were sore. He paused in the middle of the aisle just to admire the collection. There really were a few gems, the kind he was sure Sam would pay good money to read anywhere else.
Trailing his fingers along the spines, he pulled one out, a worn copy of The Wizard of Oz that he'd read dozens of times. This one had been the first of their collection when their mother had gifted it to Dean for his fourth birthday. Settling into an armchair in the corner, Dean cracked it open to the first page where a little note was written into the margins.
It was a simple message, no more than two sentences: Happy birthday, Dean! Love, mom and dad. Even now, he flipped past that page like it was the surface of a lit stove against his bare hands. Closing his eyes, he read through the first page in his mind instead, having memorized it years ago. Chapter One, The Cyclone…
A loud knock pulled him out of his reading. Hazarding a glance at the clock, he noticed it was well past closing – quarter to midnight, to be exact. Dean threw on a blanket and, clicking open a pen as though it would be of any use as an actual weapon, tiptoed carefully towards the front door. He unlocked the door and slid it open, barraged instantly by the freezing cold air of winter midnight.
Hazily, he registered a man standing on their doorstep, something clutched under his coat and a wild look in his eye, and Dean's first instinct was to attack him with the pen – so he did, barrelling the pointed end towards the man's chest. The man's free hand came to grab Dean's, effectively stopping him from impaling him. He looked unafraid, surprising considering what just occurred, but he had an intense curiosity and a bit of humour in his opal eyes. As he let go of Dean's hand, it fell limp to his side.
Dean swallowed, running a hand over his mouth. "Who are you?"
"I didn't mean to frighten you," the man said apologetically. "I should have minded the time."
"That's not an answer, buddy."
He sighed, unamused. A hand pushed his coat off one shoulder, revealing the laptop concealed beneath it, likely in an attempt to spare it from the falling snow. "I'm a novelist. Gabriel sent me. He thought you may be able to help with my newest work, although I'm not certain why."
"Damn." Dean muttered, still trying to catch his breath. "This couldn't wait 'till morning?"
"Like I said, it slipped my mind. I can come back." The man's teeth were clenched, and Dean only then noticed that he was shivering as little flakes of snow came to rest on his dark hair and thinly covered shoulders.
"I wouldn't want to make you come all the way out here again," Dean insisted, opening the door wider to let him in.
"Right," he replied, smiling gratefully at Dean as he stepped into the warmth of the library. Dean stood by the door for a moment, staring after him as he registered what had just happened. Sure, he'd just let a random man into the building without asking more questions than 'who are you' – which he hadn't gotten a proper answer to, by the way – but what was the worst that could possibly happen?
Maybe this was why Sam called him the stupid brother.
"So, you said Gabriel sent you?" Dean asked, trying to rectify his mistake. He hurried over to the kiosk where they kept snacks and hot drinks, brewing up some coffee. Something told him it was going to be a long night.
"Yes," the man confirmed. "We met the other day when I stopped by the bakery. He has been tremendously hospitable ever since, so I felt it would be beneficial to listen to his suggestion."
Dean cursed in his head. The baker didn't even know him that well, huh? The hairs on his arms stood on end, but he willed them to calm down. He had his pen to protect him, after all. "Sounds just like Gabriel."
"Being considerate of strangers?"
"Offering suggestions when no one asked for them," Dean corrected, pouring the drink into two mugs and handing one to the man, who sniffed at it before taking a contented sip. He gestured for them both to sit, each taking one of the many antique chairs that made up the reading nook. Dean eyed the book he'd left face-down on the coffee table and sighed – the moment was gone, and he didn't know when he would get it back. He stood and carefully slid it back onto its rightful position on the shelf. B-a-u-m…
The man had observed him doing this with a watchful eye, apparently. "I didn't mean to interrupt your reading," he said, taking another sip. The wildness returned to his face that had startled Dean in the first place, which he was quickly realizing may just be over caffeination. He'd seen that look in Sam's eyes more often than not when the kid was going through law school.
"It's not a problem," Dean dismissed, not wanting to go into it with someone he barely knew, much less someone who made every muscle in his body tense with unease just being around him. There was something about this man that was odd, off-putting. It was like he was from another world.
"Nevertheless, I apologize," he said. Instead of responding, Dean allowed a moment of candid silence to fall over them, just to test how it would be – it was neither uncomfortable nor frightening, and he wouldn't even use the word tense to describe it, but maybe… animated. Like needles pricking at his skin. It wasn't entirely pleasant, the feeling like he was naked in a crowd full of people whose curious eyes were neither judging nor accepting.
He shifted, offering a hand. "Dean Winchester."
The man stared at him, the lines of his throat deepening. "Oh…" A moment passed before he collected himself enough to take Dean's hand and shake it. "Nice to meet you, Dean Winchester."
Dean waited expectedly, hands still connected. Was he not going to introduce himself back? "You too…" he prompted, searching for a name. He didn't like not knowing names. In fact, he knew the name of every woman he'd ever...
The man leaned forward to set his mug on the coffee table. "This library has a very nice disposition."
"Thanks, it was in Architectural Digest," he mocked. "Why won't you tell me your name, dude?"
"A… combination of circumstances," was the reply he received.
Dean clenched his jaw. "Well, I could just keep calling you 'dude,' then."
The man grimaced. "I would prefer it if you didn't."
"Okay, then." Dean folded his lips together. "Look, dude – uh, sorry, last time. Look, I get it. Sometimes you just wanna start over, or whatever. You don't have to give me your real name if you don't want to."
His brows furrowed. "My real name?"
Dean shrugged. "You're a writer. Come up with a pen name."
"A pen name," he repeated, as though the thought had never occurred to him. "Like what?"
Dean couldn't help but smile at the child-like excitement that dawned on the man's face. "Whatever you want. Unless you try to make me call you Dr. Sexy." Met with a blank face, Dean flushed and brushed it off. "Uh, you know… Just pick a name. Like when you were a kid and played pretend, or something." Almost imperceptibly, the man's eyes twitched in a wince. Dean filed that information away in his head for if he would ever need it, not that he thought he would. If he were lucky, he could help him with whatever he needed and never see him again. "Like you're naming one of your characters, maybe."
A few minutes passed in quiet contemplation before the man spoke again. "Jimmy," he finally said, nodding decidedly. "My name is Jimmy."
Biting back his instinctual sarcasm, Dean clapped him on the shoulder. "Jimmy it is."
The new smile that bloomed on his face was nothing short of alluring, and Dean took that moment to look at the man he'd been trying to avoid looking at. His nose came into a sharp point when he smiled that offset the lines that deepened around his eyes and mouth – not lines of age, but lines of man-made creation, like a few years of terrible happiness had engraved them into his skin like a time machine.
"So," Dean began, leaning towards the man in a newfound, dangerous instinct, "how can I help you, Jimmy?"