A/N: Guys, I feel the need to warn for douchebaggery of the Dean variety in this chapter.

The good thing about driving in Castle Rock is that Dean can actually cross the entire town in less than twenty minutes. The bad thing is that it seems a hell of a lot longer than that. Morning rush hour in a town the size of Castle Rock should be a joke, but damned if he's not getting a full-on case of road rage here. One week of this stupid commute has made him realize just what an assload of night driving he's done.

Monsters come out at night; apparently assholes prefer daylight.

Because—fuck, he swears, as another one cuts him off—how can a town this size be so overrun with people who should never, ever be allowed behind the wheel of anything bigger than a lawn mower? Some of them shouldn't even be trusted with that, seriously.

Dean's talking out loud now. "Shit, slam on the brakes a mile and a half from a red light, why don't ya, take fucking forever to start driving again…light's green already."

There's a redneck in a pickup, gun rack in the back window. "Call that hardware, bitch? I'll show you some fucking hardware."He flips him off. "Yeah, that's what I thought. Jesus, can't get anywhere, it's a fucking conspiracy, I swear. What if it was life or death?"

He finally pulls up in front of the store, heart racing and teeth aching from grinding them so hard. The place is dark, locked up tight. What the hell? Dean checks his watch, then sinks back against the seat with a groan, wipes his hand across his mouth.

He's fifteen minutes early.

By the time Joe shows up with the key, Dean's finished his coffee and the tension from the commute has mostly bled off. Day hasn't even started yet and he's already tired. Even with his now-habitual midnight run, he didn't get to sleep until somewhere around 3 a.m.

Dean doesn't bother getting out, just waits in the car for Joe to unlock the door, because he knows it's going to take a while. Joe is a sixty-ish guy who seems to know cars. Trouble is, he doesn't talk much about cars, mostly seems interested in rambling on about all the boring shit he's going to do when he retires, which he wants to do yesterday. Dean's ready to shoot himself if he has to hear another word about Joe's fishing cabin up by Leadville. He can't think of too many things that sound worse than sitting on his ass with a fishing pole in his hand every goddamned day, listening to the fucking wind in the pines or some shit. Or maybe it's just Joe's monotonous drone that makes Dean want to off himself; it's hard to tell.

Joe finally gets the door open and Dean drags himself inside. Not like there's anything urgently waiting for them to do, but at least there'll be coffee. He walks past the fuel additive aisle and stops, looking at the long counter lining the north wall of the main room. He'd been working here about an hour when he decided he really hates that counter. It's just wrong. It's turned sideways to the door, and there's a tall rack of maps that blocks the view of the storefront. He can't really see (what) who's coming through the door until they come around that rack. It makes him uneasy.

He can't keep standing here looking at it, though, so he trudges to the back and gets some of Joe's shitty coffee. There is a bell on the door so at least they can hear when it opens, and it rings just as he gets back to the front of the store. He doesn't bother trying to see anything from behind the stupid counter, just gets up and goes around. Anything's better than listening to Joe recite one more round of "Fifty Kinds of Fishbait and Their Uses" anyway.

Dean's glad he went the extra few yards when he sees her. She's an attractive redhead in a simple business suit. It's cut just low enough Dean has to make an effort to keep his eyes on her face, but he manages not to be too obvious, he's pretty sure. Dean smiles, asks, "Somethin' I can help you with?"

There's a little hitch when she sees him up close, and for a minute he wonders if she's mentally comparing his face with an FBI poster down at the post office or something. Then she says, "Hey, Dean."

It hits him then. A couple of nights ago—the Wild Coyote Bar and Grill. She had this really short skirt and the ass to do it justice. He knows she had Jack and Coke, and he's pretty sure she had a name, too, but damned if he can remember it. Mandy? Maria?

"Hey," he says, chuckles a little nervously. "I didn't recognize you without your, uh…boots."

"It was casual Friday," she says, winking at him.

Dean grins. "Yeah? Got any job openings where you work? 'Cause I gotta say, it sounds like my kinda place."

She gives a little laugh. "Well, you would improve the scenery quite a bit yourself. But, um, I'm on my lunch break and I don't have much time, so…"

He finds her the wiper blades and he's thinking he's come out of this one pretty clean when she pays with a credit card. He reads the name. Robin? Huh. Could have sworn it started with an "M". She's on her way to the door when Dean says, "See you around, Robin."

She looks back at him over her shoulder, quirks a smile. "Robin's my mom."

**

The rest of the morning's kind of a blur. Dean stays busy, because his other coworker, Travis, is about as useless as Joe. Travis is a good-natured shit, but he's not exactly PhD material, couldn't find his ass with both hands if his life depended on it. He spends most of the day slumped on a stool, just sort of staring into space. Dean's pretty sure Travis has figured out a way to full-on sleep with his eyes open. At least he's quiet.

Actually, mornings are the easy part of the day. Dean's always tired, and sometimes hung over, and that really helps keep the irritation dialed down. He just doesn't have the energy. It's usually afternoon before he's itching to choke the living shit out of some idiot who desperately needs it. Like this one right here.

"I need to return this," the moron says.

"Again?" Dean's smiling, of course he is, but the guy's starting to look a little nervous anyway.

Moron laughs sheepishly. "Uh…yeah. It didn't work."

"Really?" Dean says, stretching the word sarcastically. "Wow. You brought a 'bad' battery back on Monday. Two days ago it was a solenoid, and now the starter. Man, that sucks."

The guy starts to look a little trapped now, scared even, as Dean holds his hand out for the part. He gives it to Dean and then snatches his hand away like it's hot. Dean rings up the return.

And Dean knows he's going to regret it, but he says it anyway.

"Get you anything else today?"

"Um, actually…" he stammers, and Dean grits his teeth, holds up his hand palm out to stop him from talking.

"Never mind." Dean says grimly. "You want a starter relay."

Dean walks to the back of the storage shelves rubbing his throbbing head. It's gonna be a long afternoon.

**

Sam's read the last page of his book by noon, and he tosses it onto the couch beside him, rubs his eyes. It's funny how when they're hunting he's always wishing they had time to slow down, rest, just hang out or read or whatever, but it never takes him long to get restless when the craziness does call a time out.

He'd like to sleep late in the mornings. It would kill some time, but Sam's always awake by the time Dean leaves for work. It's hard not to be. It's not that Dean's that noisy in the mornings—lots of moaning and groaning mostly—it's just ingrained in him now to get up when Dean does. Move when Dean does, come and go together, stay and sit, dog coming to heel. He's kenneled here like a dog, too, nothing to do but wait for Dean to come home.

Thinking of dogs reminds him of Kelly. He stumps to the window. Jax goes crazy barking every day at the same time, right before Kelly's old Civic comes up the street. Not that Sam knows Kelly's schedule or anything; that'd be a little stalkerish. It's just that she's the one thing that changes in his day. Kelly's not there and then she is. On the other hand, he might be getting a little stir crazy—or maybe just crazy—watching his neighbor's house from the window.

Maybe he's just been spending way too much time alone. Sam doesn't really mind being by himself, but too much solitude lets his mind wander down unpleasant paths. He starts thinking about things like destiny and demons and that's never good.

The thought's enough to send him out the door. He has to take the steps slow, easing down them one at a time. Stupid crutches. He sits down on the top step carefully and takes a deep breath of the clean-smelling air.

Castle Rock's not a bad town. This is a peaceful neighborhood and life flows around him, buffering him from the evil he's been swimming in for the last year and a half. Since they've been here Sam's felt like the game's been suspended, apocalypse canceled due to lack of interest. He knows so much better than to think the word "safe" even if it feels that way, but sometimes he likes to wallow in the illusion.

The sharp bark from Kelly's back yard startles him. Jax bays and bounces, getting exponentially more excited the closer Kelly gets.

She parks and gets out smiling, walks toward Sam. It's kind of ridiculous how he can't stop smiling back so hard, but seriously, he'd be this glad to see anyone, the way he sits around by himself all day.

"Hey, Sam!" Kelly says. "Getting some sun?"

"Oh, you know…just killing time, waiting for my soap to start."

Kelly has the kind of sincere laugh that makes him feel good, like he's said something way funnier than he did.

"Oh, too bad," she says. "I was going to ask you to have lunch with me. But I wouldn't want to keep you from your show."

Sam shrugs. "Everything good happens on Friday anyway," he says, earning another one of those laughs.

"Well, come on then," Kelly says, holding out one hand to Sam like she's going to help him up, grabbing his crutches with the other. He's kind of staring at her, then he realizes she's waiting for him to say something and he jerks back to reality.

"Uh, oh, no don't…I mean, I wouldn't want you to go to any trouble."

"Oh, it's no trouble. I picked up a bunch of takeout from the Panda. In fact, you'd really be doing me a favor. I like a little bit of everything and I always wind up with too much. And Jax…" Kelly glances toward the back yard and lowers her voice conspiratorially. "…Chinese gives him gas."

Sam chuckles. "Sounds bad."

"Oh, God. Bad doesn't even begin to cover it. We're talking toxic—gas masks and hazmat suits, seriously."

"Wouldn't want that," Sam says.

"Okay then, good. Come on." Kelly hands Sam his crutches and he stands up, hopping awkwardly on his good leg. She waits until he's steady before she starts toward her front door.

Sam follows her home.

**

Kelly's kitchen is small and warm and smells faintly of burnt coffee. Sam feels too big, not sure what to do with his arms and legs. He doesn't fit here. He manages to settle awkwardly into a chair at the table, leaning his crutches in the corner next to him.

He starts to relax a little, watching Kelly poke and rummage through cabinets and drawers. She's so laid back that it takes Sam a minute to figure out why her manner strikes him as odd. It's been a long damned time since he's really been around a woman who's not under a threat of some kind, who's not a victim. She's…unguarded.

Jax keeps up a steady baritone bark in the background, but there's no real threat in it. Sam gets the feeling the dog doesn't expect to be heeded; it's just a show. Sure enough, Kelly completely ignores the noise, busies herself with setting food, plates and utensils on the table, and eventually Jax gives it up. She offers Sam a beer and he takes it, far enough past the heavy-duty painkillers that it's not an issue. Maybe that's why he's suddenly hungrier than he's been since he got hurt, because the food tastes really good. Kelly must think so, too, because it's quiet for a few minutes. The silence isn't awkward.

"So, Sam, what brought you to Castle Rock?" Kelly says finally.

"Oh, we're just passing through, really. What about you? Lived here long?" Sam finishes, turning the question back on her, nothing revealed.

She smiles and man, every time it hits him just as hard as the first. He tries to pay attention to her words.

"Yeah, actually. All my life."

"By yourself?" It sounds bizarre coming out of his mouth. He's not even sure himself what he's asking, but she answers like it makes sense to her.

"Now I do. Since my mom passed last summer."

"Oh, hey…I'm so sorry." Sam's said that hundreds of times; encounters with relatives of the dead are a daily obstacle when they're working. It's a knee-jerk reaction, and he doesn't remember ever feeling like such a dick about it before.

Kelly shakes her head. "It's okay. I mean, I miss her, of course. I took care of her for over two years after she got sick. She left a big hole behind."

Sam grimaces sympathetically, says, "I would think so."

"I just try to be glad I got to spend as much time with her as I did. Family's everything, you know?"

Kelly sets her fork down and just looks at him. She's smiling a little. It's kind of sad, nothing like the big and bright one he's come to think of as her norm, but it settles somewhere warm in his middle anyway. They're sitting side by side at the table, knees almost touching. Her face is tipped up just a little so she can look him in the eye and he's looking back. They're staring now and it should be weird, but he really doesn't want it to stop. He can't help it—he reaches up and touches her, his thumb sitting softly against the point of her chin. Her lips open slightly. He slides his thumb up her jaw and her eyes darken, staring into his, and he's not an idiot. There's something here.

Sam wants to do something, needs to say something, but he can't get any words past the hot ache that settles in his chest. He drops his hand and clears his throat.

"So, um…what do you do…you know, here?" Yeah. That was articulate.

"Go to school, mostly."

"Yeah? What are you studying?"

"It kind of depends on the day, I guess." She laughs and he grins back. "No, seriously, I got a late start, with taking time out for my mom and everything. I guess I just never really looked too far ahead. Figured why plan for the future, when you never really know what's going to come along."

The look she's giving him is weighted. He thinks it's past time for him to go. He reaches for his crutches, says, "Hey, thanks for lunch. I really enjoyed it."

She grins. "Don't thank me—you saved me from the Toxic Cloud of Doom."

"Glad I could help," Sam hauls himself to his feet.

"Oh hey—do you want a damp towel for that?"

Sam frowns. "What?"

"You have something there…" She's already reaching for washcloth, points at a spot on his jeans.

Sam chuckles, a little embarrassed. "Oh. Um…I think that's been there a while. Haven't made it downtown to do the laundry in a few days."

Kelly snorts. "You've been going all the way to that dump downtown? You don't need to do that, Sam. I've got a washer and dryer right here; you might as well use it."

"Oh, I couldn't…"

"Sure you could." Kelly says. "I'm not washing it for you, you understand, but you're more than welcome to use the facilities."

His first instinct is to say no again, but then something changes his mind. "Well, okay. I might take you up on that."

He knows she's watching him from her front door as he crosses the yard, and he feels awkward as hell. There's just no way to look anything but clumsy on a set of crutches, so he focuses on making the trip as quickly and efficiently as he can. Even though it makes him self-conscious, he likes that she's still standing there watching when he gets to his door. He holds up a hand. She waves back.

Sam finally fumbles and hops his way inside, leans against the closed door and closes his eyes. He pounds his head back against the door.

I am so screwed.

**

"…it's just…sloppy, is what it is," Dean sputters. "That idiot didn't have the first fucking clue what the problem was, he's lucky to figure out which hole to shove the gas nozzle in, I swear."

Sam's giving him a bemused look as he takes another bite of pizza.

"And then…" Dean pauses to swallow and wash it down with a slug of his beer. "I go back to the shelves and hunt for ten fucking minutes for the starter relay, which I could have told him was the problem in the first place if he'd ever fucking asked me, and when I come back out, the little chickenshit's gone!"

"He just left?" Sam asks mildly.

"Yeah. Travis said he was out the door, soon as I turned my back. Practically ran."

Sam laughs.

"Yeah, glad my pain is so entertaining for you," Dean says, disgusted. "I'm working this shitty job to feed your 10,000-calorie-a-day habit, but go ahead, laugh it up."

Sam chuckles, shakes his head. "No, it's…I can just see it, is all. You got pissed—went all self-righteous, I'm-a-car-guy-and-you're-not—I've seen the look plenty of times. Poor guy probably thought fire was gonna shoot from your eyes any second, incinerate him on the spot for his sacrilege."

Dean frowns. "Oh, so it's my fault?"

"I didn't say that, Dean."

Dean grunts and looks down at the table, rubs his forehead. He's got another damned headache. "Whatever." He pushes his chair back and gets up, pulls on his jacket.

"I'm goin' out for a while," Dean says, already on his way to the door.

Sam checks the time. "Dean it's 10 pm. Don't you have to work tomorrow?"

"Yeah. So?"

Sam shrugs. "Nothing. Do what you want."

"Thanks, I'll do that," Dean says.

Sam shrugs, turns back to the TV.

"Probably be an early night anyway," Dean says.

"Uh huh," Sam says.

Dean ignores the sarcastic tone and walks out the door.

The Impala rumbles down the deserted street and Dean thinks he really wasn't kidding about being in early. He's seen what passes for nightlife here and knows it's not likely to amount to much, especially on a weeknight. Besides, he's not all that crazy about leaving Sam by himself for too long at night. Sam can probably handle most supernatural stuff on his own, even with the bad leg, but still. Things have been quiet on the freaky vision front since they've been here, but there's no telling how long that'll last.

Sam's spending too much time alone, not that he seems to mind. Dean decides he'll make him get out of the house tomorrow whether he likes it or not. Hell, he might be going into some sad emo decline or something, for all Dean knows. How would he tell the difference?

Dean pulls into the parking lot and he can pretty much take his pick of spaces. The Wild Coyote is pretty far from wild tonight. That's fine with Dean. He's not here to make a big night of it, just needs to smooth out the rough spots a little. Dean slides onto a stool and orders a beer. He keeps his eyes on whatever ball game is on the TV over the bar, but he's not really following it, doesn't really follow pro sports at all. The game's just not that interesting when you don't care who wins. It's trivial. Life or death—that's the only outcome that matters.

Dean's killed an hour and made it through three beers when he decides this is nothing he couldn't be doing back at the house. He thinks about taking a bottle back with him, for next time. Seems likely there'll be a next time, if the last couple of weeks are anything to go by. Besides, considering the amount he has to drink to get any sleep, it's probably better if he doesn't do a lot of driving.

Dean makes a stop at an all-night grocery on the way back to the house. He knows there's not much food there and it's not like Sam can go out and get himself some during the day. Dean grabs what he thinks will be easiest for Sam to deal with—bread, cereal, cold cuts, peanut butter. They're out of milk again, too. Stuff's supposed to be good for your bones; Dean's got a definite interest in keeping that stocked. The quicker Sam heals up, the quicker they're out of here.

Dean pays, walks through the automatic door and a movement catches his eye, next to his car. It's just a guy getting out of his pickup, except…no, no, no…he's swinging the door open too hard…shit, the fuckin' door panel…and Dean breaks into a trot.

He's almost to the front of the car when he hears it: dull thunk of metal on metal. It stops him dead in his tracks and for a second he doesn't move; then he sets the grocery bag gently on the curb. Dean can see the ding in the Impala's door, shining in the parking lot floodlights. It's just a dimple really, nothing he can't fix, and that fact might help him get past this later on. But right now? It doesn't count for shit.

Pickup Guy steps out, glances at the mark and slams his door shut. He's looking at the ground as he starts toward the building and he nearly runs into Dean, who's blocking the passage between the two vehicles with his body.

"You hit my car," Dean growls.

The guy flinches back. "Oh, hey, man, I'm sorry it's…look I've got insurance…" he stammers, reaching for his back pocket.

Dean doesn't even form conscious thought to do it, just jabs with his right, makes solid contact with the guy's nose. His head snaps back and he staggers against the truck.

Dean steps forward, swings his elbow up and across the guy's chest. He means to pin him there, set him straight and let him off with a warning, but the guy gets a wild look in his eyes, shifts his weight and throws Dean to the side. Dean staggers and smacks his head on the pickup's side mirror; the impact opens a cut above his eye.

The pain pisses him off. Blood's dripping into his eye. Dean straightens up and jams the point of his elbow behind him and into the guy's solar plexus. He doubles over. Dean yanks him back up by the collar of his jacket and punches him again. His head rocks back, thunks against the truck window.

Dean's knee to the gut brings him to the ground, down for the count. Dean stands there panting for a second, then pushes the guy over onto his back with the toe of his boot. He's breathing and conscious, more or less.

Dean squats next to him, grates out, "Don't. Touch. My car."

Dean stands up. He can see the cashier inside the store. She's talking on a cell phone, visibly agitated.

Time to call it a night.