Dean rolls onto his back and sets his arm across his face, winces when his forearm makes contact with the cut over his eye. There's a high-pitched noise pulsing somewhere—sounds like somebody killing a rat. Dean wishes they'd hurry up and waste the little fucker, 'cause it feels like he's got an ice pick embedded in his left eye socket and it's throbbing in time with the noise. Then he realizes. It's his phone. Fucking alarm.

Dean shuts it off and stumbles to the bathroom, looks at the split eyebrow in the mirror. It's not too bad—annoying more than anything, because he'll be explaining it all damned day. He steps into the shower, lets the water gradually pull him to consciousness, trying to remember exactly what went on the night before.

He remembers the Wild Coyote, but he's pretty sure he didn't drink enough there to account for the hammering behind his eyes. Then it clicks. He figures it's about fifty-fifty: half from violent acquaintance of his face with the rearview of the pickup truck, and the other half from the pint of Jack he took on after he got back to the house.

Water won't fix either insult, so Dean gets out of the shower, dresses and plods to the kitchen. Sam's sitting at the table with the laptop open. Dean thinks it must be nice not to have anywhere to be. He pulls a can of Coke out of the fridge. Bought it last night, routine precaution to get a six-pack of Coke for every fifth of Jack. Good for hangover. He chugs the Coke, belches loudly. Sam makes a face. Dean notes the reaction, but foregoes comment.

"Should I even ask?" Sam says after a minute, nodding at the cut on Dean's face.

"No," Dean answers shortly. He knows it doesn't matter what he says. Sam's going to ask.

"Dean, you really think it's a good idea to be picking fights in this town? We're going to be here for a while…"

The words hit Dean like needles on his skin. He's pissed in a heartbeat, and he's suddenly really glad he has somewhere else to go.

"Gonna be late," Dean says, crushing the empty can and tossing it at the trash bin. He turns his back on Sam. He hears Sam get up, but he keeps walking.

Dean's got his hand on the Impala's door handle when Sam starts down the steps. Dean starts to leave; he's too tired for this bullshit. Then he sees Sam's face. He's registered the damage to the car. Dean leans an elbow against the doorframe and huffs out a breath between his lips, looks at the ground. Here we go.

"What happened, Dean?"

"Nothin' to worry about, Sam. I took care of it."

And there it is—Sam's patented pissy, judgmental, disappointed look. Dean always reacts to it one of two ways—fight or flight—and Sam can't fight back today. Door number two seems like the way to go.

"You took care of it." Sam nods. "And by that, you mean…?"

"Seriously, Sam. We can talk about this later," Dean says, meaning "never." Dean swings into the driver's seat and shuts his door just as Sam opens the opposite one.

Sam leans down awkwardly and says, "Dean…"

Dean puts the Impala into gear and shoots Sam a warning look. Sam clenches his jaw, but he gives it up. He shifts his weight back from the car until he's balanced on his crutches at the edge of the curb, shuts the car door.

Dean knows Sam's watching him go. He knows, too, that he's being an ass. He doesn't look back.

**

Sam watches the Impala until it turns at the end of the block. It's really not all that hard for him to decipher his brother—Sam's been capable of putting two and two together for quite a while now. Dent in the car door, plus a ding in Dean's face? Probably equals hospitalization for whoever pissed him off.

Sam sighs and hobbles back to the house. Nothing they can do about it now. Whatever happened, it doesn't look like the shit's going to land at their feet. If the esteemed authorities of Castle Rock were planning on paying them a visit, they'd be here by now.

And Sam knows he ought to be appreciating that, the quiet. They may be sitting in the eye of the hurricane, but they're going to get sucked back into the shit storm sooner or later. Still, at this point even trouble might be a welcome distraction. He's got nothing to do and no place to go, and even if he did have, he has no way to get there.

Sam goes inside and collapses in front of the television. Same old stupid daytime crap. They've got internet, but he doesn't use it that much. Dean picks on him about surfing porn, and sure, he's done some of that. He's bored and spending a lot of time alone, and he's a healthy, normal guy, so whatever. It does make him kind of uncomfortable when he thinks about how often he's had his hand on himself lately.

He's spending way too much time thinking about Kelly, too. She's not part of his life and never will be. There's no room for her in the future that's coming for him. He needs to take a step back from this, and he's going to. He is.

But first he needs to do laundry.

**

Crutches suck, Sam thinks, as he swings the full duffle over his shoulder by one ragged strap. It's not really made to be carried like this; or rather, it is, but it works a lot better if you have two good legs and at least one free arm. He shifts it and checks the balance, trying to get the heavy bag to settle between his shoulder blades instead of flopping against the back of his arm. Then he wobbles around on his working leg for a good minute, trying to get the crutches situated under him. He's a little out of breath already, out of shape from sitting around all the time. Probably why his balance is for shit, too.

He finally gets out the front door, listing to the left to compensate for the extra weight on the other side. Going down the steps isn't too bad, but by the time he gets to Kelly's front porch, he's winded and muttering under his breath. He stops at the end of her walk and slips the duffle off his shoulder, braces himself and gives it a heave up onto the porch. It hits the metal storm door's kick panel, just as the inner door opens.

"Fuck!" Kelly swears, Jax barking madly beside her.

"Oh God, I'm sorry…" Sam starts apologizing, but she's cute as hell, all shocked and cursing like that, and he's laughing as he stumps up the steps.

Kelly's out the door by the time he gets there, peering down at the duffle. She pulls the bag upright, then wrinkles her nose.

"So is it wash day, or is this…phew…first strike in some sort of biological warfare you've decided to wage against my house?"

"Hey, it's not that bad," Sam laughs.

"It's a scientific fact, Sam: boys stink," Kelly replies.

Sam leans over and snags the strap of the duffle, makes a face. "I guess you're right; it is pretty rank. Thought I might do something about it."

"Better get it in here, then. Or do you think it can walk in by itself?"

"Give it a day or two," Sam says. It's all both of them can do to deal with the door, restrain the dog, and drag the bag inside. Kelly wrestles Jax into the back yard, then leads Sam to a small utility area off the kitchen. There's not much room to move around in it, but he's just grateful it's not in a basement or something.

"Here you go," she says, waving a hand at the machines.

"Thanks, Kelly," Sam says, "I really appreciate this."

"No problem. We've all got to do our part to clean up the environment," she says, smiling.

Sam grins back and starts pulling clothes out of the bag. They do stink, but it's just the odor of old sweat and too much wear—no blood or ectoplasm or swamp ooze. There's nothing he has to worry about explaining. He loads the washer and starts it, and Kelly doesn't offer to help, just watches and waits for him to finish. Sam likes the way she can just be quiet, doesn't talk unless she has something to say. He hasn't shared a comfortable silence with a woman since…well, not for a while.

"So, did you always have such a low opinion of us males, or is it just my laundry that turned you off?" Sam asks wryly, turning back to Kelly and leaning against the machine.

Kelly chuckles. "No, I had a brother. Or rather, I still have a brother. I just don't see him much."

"You guys don't get along?"

Kelly shrugs. "We get along okay, I guess. I think he feels guilty for leaving me to take care of Mom."

"Guilt does funny things to people."

"Yeah. So what about you and your brother? You two must be pretty close, living together and all."

"We are, I guess. We're all that's left since…" Sam's throat tightens, and he has to stop to clear it. "…our dad passed away a few months ago."

"I'm so sorry," Kelly says, leaning forward and putting her hand on his arm.

Sam looks down at where she's touching him, feels her hand small and warm through the sleeve of his shirt. She leaves it there a little too long, then moves it slowly up to curve over his shoulder. He just met her, they're strangers, and it's so stupid, he knows it, but he knows he wants this. Wants her.

He raises his eyes to her face and she's right there, steady green gaze on him, deep enough to get lost in. He reaches for her, pulls her closer with a hand on her neck and kisses her, twining his fingers in her hair. It's so good, wet heat of her mouth opening under his, slide of tongue so sweet and soft. It's like a dive into warm, deep water; he can't hear, can't even breathe.

It's been too long, the sensation's overwhelming and he groans low in his throat. Kelly lays her hands on his chest and Sam's sure she can feel his heart pounding under her fingers. She feels so damned good, pressing close and breath quickening, and he wraps one arm around her shoulders, reaches the other down to cup her ass, perfect round filling his palm. God, it feels so good, he wants this, he does, but there's something wrong…something's off, he can't quite put his finger on it.

Then it hits him like a kick in the gut—she's nothing like Jessica. She's not her. Sam jerks back.

She looks up at him, out of breath, eyes wide and dark. "What? You look…are you okay?"

Sam rubs a shaky hand across the back of his neck and takes a deep breath, lets it out. "Uh, yeah…sorry. Just got a little lightheaded there for a minute…"

Kelly frowns, then quirks a little smile. "I'd take that as a compliment if you didn't look so shitty. You need to sit down?"

"No, no, just…" He huffs a small laugh. "Sorry. God, you must think I'm…" he stops, shakes his head.

"What I think is that you've been standing there too long for somebody who's just had surgery," Kelly says sympathetically. "Come sit down. I promise the washer keeps working even if we don't stand here holding it up."

"No," Sam says, shaking his head. He can't keep doing this. She wouldn't want him to.

"No," he says again, more decisively. Kelly cocks her head, looks mildly confused. "I'd have to let you go to do that," Sam says low, and her eyes darken. He starts trailing kisses down her neck between words. "…and I…don't…want to," making her gasp and shudder.

It's good; it's exactly what he wants. He moves back to her mouth, and she just opens for him, soft and warm and welcoming. It feels like coming home, and oh fuck, he forgot…he'd forgotten this feeling, and the thought makes his eyes sting.

Sam pulls back just to take a breath then, hand on Kelly's face, thumb rubbing gently against her cheek. She slides her hands around his neck, inside the collar of his shirt. He shivers and Kelly smiles at him. She stretches up to him and he wants to…he just wants.

Suddenly there's a loud whump, whump, whump behind them and Sam jumps forward, landing on his bad foot. He stumbles just as Kelly jerks her head up, straight into his lower lip.

"Ow, shit!" Sam swears.

Kelly gasps and grabs her head. "Ow. Oh, damn, I'm sorry! Are you okay?" She reaches quickly behind him and shuts off the unbalanced washing machine.

Sam's got a hand braced against the opposite wall and his foot aches and his lip stings. He looks at her for a second, then cracks up, and Kelly starts giggling, too. It's really not that funny, but they laugh until they're out of breath. When the fit finally passes, Sam feels loose and relaxed, like he's slipped out of a too-tight shirt—at ease. Something else he'd forgotten how to feel.

Kelly puts a hand on his cheek and peers at his lip, trying to see, and Sam licks at the swelling bump, tastes blood.

"Are you bleeding? Geez, Sam, let me get you some ice."

It strikes him as odd. He's not used to being fussed over, especially for something so minor. "No, I'm good, really. It's nothing."

Kelly smiles wryly, regards him with her head cocked to one side. "Tough guy, huh?" She pauses. "Okay, well at least go sit down while I get this machine sorted out. It's old and temperamental."

He goes and sits at the kitchen table, but it's only about five yards away and he can see her working. She rearranges the jeans in the washer drum with a kind of delicate strength. She's obviously done this hundreds of times; it fairly screams "normal." Sam can't figure out why something so mundane is making his chest feel so tight.

Kelly sits down with him when she's done, and they talk while the laundry finishes. She asks Sam how he hurt his ankle and he tells her the truth, minus the wendigo. The sun creeps lower, rays slanting into the window, and their voices grow quiet and slow, winding down with the day. Sam asks her about her classes and she tells him a funny story about her history professor. The talk turns to books, and Sam laughs when he finds out her favorite author is Stephen King. Then she spends twenty minutes explaining why.

She almost has him convinced that ol' Steve is worth a read when he notices the fading daylight, realizes he hasn't heard the clothes dryer running for quite a while. He stretches, feels like he's waking up from a dream. It kind of hurts him to say it.

"Wow, it's getting late," Sam says, with a smile. "Didn't mean to take up your whole afternoon. You probably have things to do."

"Nothing that can't wait," she smiles back.

They get up from the table and Kelly helps Sam shove the clean clothes into his duffle. He doesn't bother to be neat about it, knowing they'll be messed up when he gets back to the house again anyway.

Kelly walks him to the door. Sam hoists the bag over his shoulder and Kelly steps close. He thinks it's a good thing he's got to keep both hands on his crutches. If he starts touching her again, it's going to be way too hard to leave. It's bad enough when she wraps her fingers in the lapels of his shirt, stretches up and kisses him softly. Her hand lingers on his chest when she moves back, and the spot feels cold when she takes it away.

Sam wrestles his burden back to the house. As he goes, he thinks that there won't—can't—be a next time for this, for anything like this afternoon, but a smile keeps trying to creep onto his face anyway. A line from some old movie keeps running through his mind. It's cheesy, and he doesn't think it's even true, but he can't shake it.

Today—today is my best day.

**

Sam's sitting in the old sprung armchair, barely having caught his breath from the slog across the yard, when Dean gets in from work. He looks like hell, pale enough the stubble stands out dark on his jaw. Sam says, "Hey," and gets a grunt in return. Dean collapses onto the couch, which protests the rough treatment with an irritable creak. Dean takes about sixty seconds to start snoring.

Sam picks up Kelly's copy of The Stand—the original version, not the unabridged, she's careful to explain, though Sam's not entirely sure why that's important. It's not really his thing; he just took it to make Kelly happy. Sam read Salem's Lot when he was a kid, back when he still thought vampires were imaginary, and it didn't impress him much. He flips pages, skimming through the first few chapters, and words start to jump out at him…"'65 Chevy"…"Jess"…"dark man." A chill runs down his spine and he drops the book like it's hot. He's got enough nightmares of his own. No way he's reading that shit.

Sam heaves himself to his feet and lets himself out the front door as quietly as he can. He doesn't want to wake Dean just yet; he wants to check something. Sam lowers himself off the curb carefully and makes a circuit of the Impala, looking for damage other than the dent he's already seen. He doesn't see anything out of the ordinary. Something glints from the floor inside, and he opens the door to look. He bats a couple of fast food wrappers out of the way, sees a nearly empty whiskey bottle poking out from under the seat. He knows Dean keeps an emergency supply. Looks like it's going to need replenishing soon. Sam shoves it back out of sight. The last thing they need right now is Dean getting picked up for an open container.

Sam heads back to the house no wiser for the trip. Whatever the mishap was, it doesn't seem like they're looking at any blowback. He figures Dean will tell him what happened when he's ready.

The door slips out of Sam's hand as he comes inside, banging loud enough that Dean rouses. Dean rubs his eyes one-handed, wipes the hand down across his face.

"Morning, sunshine," Sam says, flopping down on the couch.

"Yeah, well some of us have to work for a living."

It's not the work that's making Dean look so hard-used, Sam thinks, but he doesn't say it aloud. He figures his face must put the idea across well enough, the way Dean avoids looking at him.

The quiet's starting to hang a little heavy, so Sam says, "You hungry? I think there's some ham left…"

Dean shakes his head. He sits forward, then perks up a little. "Screw that. I got paid today."

"Yeah?"

Dean smiles wryly. "Yeah. And for the bullshit I put up with to get that money? Dude, I deserve a steak." Dean stands up and his grin widens. "If you're real nice, I might buy you one, too. Let me clean up a little and…damn." Dean frowns.

"What?"

"This was my last clean shirt," Dean says, shrugging his right shoulder up to sniff at his armpit, wrinkling his nose. "Sort of," he adds.

Sam huffs a laugh, shakes his head. "Check the bag," he says, nodding at the duffle on the floor next to the couch.

Dean cautiously pulls the top of the bag open with one hand, like he's expecting something to jump out. Apparently deciding it's safe, he sticks a hand in and pulls out a wrinkled T-shirt.

"You did laundry?" Dean asks. "Haven't seen any public transportation around here. How'd you get downtown?"

"I didn't. I went next door."

Dean gives Sam a look like he's speaking a foreign language, then his look turns appraising. "Next door? I gotta say, Sammy, that's impressive."

Sam tilts his head in confusion. "Well, the crutches are kind of a pain, but it wasn't that big of a deal…"

"No, I mean, you've known this girl a week and you've already got her doing your laundry?"

Sam's look is incredulous. "She didn't do it; I did."

Dean smirks.

"I just used her machine, Dean."

"Oh, is that what the kids are calling it nowadays?" Dean says, as he grabs a pair of jeans out of the duffle.

Sam rolls his eyes, but Dean already halfway to the shower with his clean clothes.

**

They wind up at a place called the Wild Coyote Bar and Grill. It's not particularly wild as far as Sam can see, but the food is a lot better than good. Dean's busy working over a rare ribeye, making orgasmic noises as he chews. Sam would probably be mildly embarrassed if he weren't too occupied with decimating his own porterhouse to care. It's the best thing he's eaten since he got hurt and he is enjoying it, but he tries not to watch Dean eat steak regardless. It's disgusting, all that bloody juice running all over the plate. Sam's likes his steak cooked, medium at least. He sees enough carnage on the job; he'd rather avoid it at the dinner table.

When they're done, they drink a couple of beers. It's not that late, but Sam's so relaxed he's bordering on drowsy. Apparently Dean's nap gave him a second wind, though, because he's fidgeting, tapping his beer bottle with his ring, jiggling his knee under the table. It's a peculiar shuddering kind of tension, like an engine revved to the point of overload. It makes Sam a little uneasy.

After a while Dean says, "So, girl next door, huh?"

"Dean, come on. It's not a big deal. She let me use the washer and dryer. End of story," Sam says irritably, but he's not looking at Dean. He knows his brother's a lot more perceptive than he wants people to think and Sam doesn't have the energy for the third degree. He's not even sure he has the answers for it.

"Doesn't have to be," Dean says.

"What?" Sam asks, confused.

"The end of the story. Come on, keep up," Dean says, taking another swallow of beer. "I'd totally hit that."

"Nice, Dean."

"I'm just sayin'. She's a good-looking girl and she obviously likes you, or she wouldn't have let you in her…house," Dean says, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

Sam sighs. "Dean, we've had this conversation. Several times. Just stay out of my sex life."

Dean's looking at him oddly and Sam can't figure out what his expression is supposed to mean. It seems a little too intense for the conversation Sam thought they were having, and he feels like there's something he's not getting.

"Are you pissed at me?" Sam asks finally.

Dean gives a guilty little start then. It's subtle, but Sam sees. "No. Why would I be?" Dean shifts in his chair. He nods his head at the pool tables in the back. "Come on gimp. Don't wanna get rusty."

One of the tables is in use, but there are four altogether. The place must do a pretty good business on the weekends. They play for a while, falling into an easy rhythm that goes back further than Sam can remember. Even when Dean was a sullen teenager—or when Sam followed in his footsteps a few years later—green felt was neutral territory. Quiet concentration, balls clacking together, then dropping and rumbling down the return chute—it's familiar and soothing. Sam's glad they came.

A couple of games later they call a break. Dean's drinking two beers for every one Sam does and Dean's still up three games to one, but Sam figures he can blame a lot on his one-legged stance. Dean gets up to get more beer and Sam heads to the restroom. He's in there a little while. He's mostly mastered the whole pissing-with-crutches thing, but washing up still takes longer than normal.

When Sam gets back, something's changed. There's tension in the atmosphere that wasn't there when he left and he scans the bar, looking for the threat. Dean's back at the table; evidently he started without Sam for some reason. Dean's lining up a complicated bank shot and for a minute Sam thinks Dean is just serious about not getting rusty, wants to practice his game. Then he sees her.

There's a woman sitting in the corner of the room, on the other side of the other occupied table. She's ostensibly watching the two guys play, but mostly she's eyeing Dean. Dean's obviously picked up on it—that's what brought on the showboating. Sam checks the two men, and sure enough, the bigger one is shooting irritated glances at Dean, flush beginning to creep up his beefy neck. Sam swallows past a hard lump of anger that rises in his throat. This isn't the kind of place where they mop up the blood at closing every night, where fights are part of the entertainment. It's the kind of place where they call the cops at the first sign of trouble. Damn it, Dean, what are you thinking?

Sam moves a little closer, trying to see if there's anything he can do to defuse the situation, when he hears the guy mutter something. Sam can't make it out, but the set of Dean's body changes and an ugly, humorless smirk crosses his face. Sam doesn't like the way Dean's looking, not at all.

Dean leans over the table again, executes a tricky two-rail reverse shot, and the woman lets out an incredulous little laugh. The guy's standing between their table and his, back to back with Dean about three feet away. He says something—the word "fag" is all Sam catches—but it's more than enough. Sam sees it coming, but there's nothing he can do to stop it. Dean turns and slams a roundhouse right into the guy's jaw, all his weight swinging around with it, and the guy lands heavily on the pool table with a loud grunt. He draws his legs up and rolls off the other side of the table, pretty quick for such a big guy.

Sam checks the guy's friend. He doesn't look particularly threatening, probably younger than Sam and not nearly as big, but he's moving closer. Sam gives him a warning look as he eases his right crutch out from under his shoulder, grips it so he can use it as a weapon if he needs to, but the guy stands down. Sam turns his attention back to Dean.

Before Sam can do anything, the bigger guy jabs at Dean and Dean dodges, taking a slight clip on the chin, not solid enough to faze him. Dean retaliates with a right fake and left to the face and the guy's head snaps back and he staggers against the table.

"Dean!" Sam says sharply.

The woman stands up at the same time, says tentatively, "Jack, don't…"

"Shut up, bitch," Jack snaps, and Sam frowns at him, then turns his attention back to Dean, who still hasn't looked at Sam, all his attention on the man in front of him.

"Dean, come on, you've made your point," Sam says more quietly, and moves close enough to put his hand on Dean's shoulder. Dean turns then and the look in his eyes shocks Sam. It's savagely cold, and for a split second Sam thinks Dean's going to hit him. Then the jerk speaks and the moment's gone.

"Better listen to your faggot buddy, Dean," Jack says, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

Sam turns a hard look on Jack, says, "You want to shut up now, or I'll let him finish the job."

They all stare threateningly for a few seconds, then Sam catches movement out of the corner of his eye. The bartender is on the phone.

"Time to go," Sam says, giving Dean's shirt a tug in the direction of the door. Apparently Jack isn't any more anxious to wait for the cops to show up than they are, because he backs up. It's enough that Sam feels Dean relax a little next to him. Sam starts for the door. He doesn't look back, but he can feel Dean following him.

When they get to the Impala, Sam doesn't go around to his side. He blocks Dean's door with his body instead.

"You want to tell me what the hell that was about, Dean?"

"Get in the car, Sam."

"No."

Dean clenches his jaw. "Do you really want to do this in the fucking parking lot? 'Cause I'm pretty sure the cops are on their way."

Sam stands there a little longer, then clomps angrily to the passenger door. It takes him a minute or two to stow the crutches and get inside. Sam waits for Dean to pull onto the street before he speaks again.

"Man, I don't get you."

Dean doesn't look at him, but Sam can see his knuckles grip the wheel a little harder in the glow from the dash lights. He tries again.

"We need to keep our heads down. Don't you get that? God, Dean, it's the fucking FBI!"

Dean gives him a sidelong glance, takes in a breath and lets it out.

"If you weren't hurt already, I'd kick your ass," Dean says, through gritted teeth. "Stop. Talking."

Sam's already said everything he had to say anyway. He folds his arms and does what he's told.

A/N: I'll try to keep posting at least once a week until this is done, guys, but all evidence to the contrary, beta and I do have real lives and families, with all the holiday obligations they entail. Don't worry--I'm still committed to finishing before hiatus is over. Thanks for reading, ya'll.