A/N: Not sure about this chapter…gotta be said.

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Advent - December 3rd

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New Orleans is different than Dean expected.

Dean has had hunts in cities before. But mostly he and Sam have picked up supernatural hints in smaller places - towns and backwater villages that are usually just a few houses clustered around a bar or a church or some other place of worship.

It's not that Dean ignores the hunts that occur in the clustered hearts of metropolis, it's just that both he and Sam find it difficult to differentiate between the supernatural and general human sadism.

Besides, more people means a more rigorous and up-to-date police force, which means more chance that someone will recognise Dean's picture. Even if he is supposed to be dead.

Also, there's a certain type of self-gratification into rolling into town to save the day.

Dean likes to compare himself to a modern day cowboy.

In his head.

Because no way is he ever admitting that to Sam.

There's also a lot more freedom. When he's there, he doesn't have to be Dean Winchester; Hunter. He can be anyone or anything. There's nothing to prove that he isn't a funeral director, or a priest, or an FBI agent. And if there is then he's not going to be around long enough for the people he's helping to figure it out.

At every stop he can make himself anew. Turn himself into the person that's needed to get the job done.

There's also no one to remember after he leaves. The places he hunts and the people who he saves are all small town people. For the most part they don't leave their home. There's barely any worry that he'll ever meet up with them again. There's hardly any chance of someone arriving and calling him by a different name or asking about a different profession.

Sam feels it too, Dean is sure. Feels the ruthlessness involved in this life – the get in, get the job done, get out – motto that every hunter has.

Which is why living in a city and owning an apartment is really, really weird.

And, yeah, okay.

The apartment's huge, because apparently dark hunters can't survive in motel rooms or the like, and by huge he mean's it takes up the whole damn third floor of the building. Sam practically has his own apartment in the apartment.

It's all very spacious and open and Dean's unsure whether he hates it or just really dislikes it.

He's spent his entire life living in either in a room shared between two to three people, or the Impala, or Bobby's house with its clutter and towering stacks of books.

And while it was a little cramped he wouldn't have had it any other way. Except for when Sam hit puberty because one bathroom and only one tank of hot water was never going to be enough.

And even on hunts he's been down mineshafts and crawlspaces and underneath floorboards. Been trapped in cages, locked in cupboards and confined in bathrooms.

He's never, ever been comfortable in open plan. There's always the feeling that something is going to be able to sneak up behind him and shank him in the kidney. He needs the solid presence of a wall close to his back to feel remotely at ease.

This is why, when they finally finish exploring the apartment Ash brings them to, Dean shares a glance with Sam and both shift uncomfortably.

They don't even need to speak about it, but hours later and one of the bigger bedrooms now has two double beds in it and the floor is littered with their bags and whatever books Bobby thought they should bring with them on their 'new adventure'.

That was three weeks ago.

Things haven't changed much. Dean is still sharing a room with Sam because it's more comfortable.

That, and the one night they tried separating, both Dean and Sam had nightmares and ended up drinking together in the bare kitchen anyway.

Their room is looking a lot more lived in. Despite having the whole apartment, they both reverted back to using their bedroom as a hub for research and information gathering. Sam has piles of books littered across the floor, and not all of them are Bobby's anymore.

Apparently New Orleans is a hub for occult books and shops.

Who knew?

Dean goes to sleep one morning in a bare room and wakes up to find Sam buried under about three hundred books.

Dean would have been shocked, but this is so like Sam that he just rolls over and goes back to sleep for a few more hours.

Sam also stole Ash's number from Dean's phone and has been calling up Ash to fact-check with him on something or other to do with god knows what.

Dean isn't entirely sure what Sam's doing or talking about with Ash during these phone calls, as he prefers to ignore all Sam's hero worshiping for his own sanity. There's only so much man-crush he can take in one day and Sam uses that up within five minutes.

At least he has the Impala to tinker with and tune up.

It's during one of these calls that Sam learns about why they're not hunting right now.

Sam's sitting cross-legged on his bed, a book open in his lap. He's been reading and making notes on a pad of paper beside him on whatever the book is about and has just finished making a call to Ash.

Dean thinks that Ash has the patience of a saint to put up with his brothers calls. Especially if Ash is a dark hunter too and Sam has been calling him during the day.

Sam has only ever once made the mistake of waking Dean up during the day.

Never again.

Sam hangs up and is silent. There isn't even the rustling of paper or the scratching of pen. Dean glances up from where he's cleaning his knives and sorting out the memories and information Ash shoved in his head.

And yeah, he's still not sure how he's supposed to feel about that. Because on one hand, it's kind of nice knowing about things. On the other hand it's not making a lot of sense before he works out what goes where.

There's also the whole ease that Ash messed with his mind that has his hunter side wanting to pick up the shotgun and blast something into tiny pieces.

Sam's staring off into the middle distance. Dean raises an eyebrow.

"What?"

Sam turns his attention to Dean and stares at him instead, frowning. "Ash mentioned that new dark hunters get training."

Dean shrugs, "So?"

With all the stuff that got shoved in his head, Dean can think why some people might want to learn it the long way.

"For a year, Dean."

Dean blinks. "We're not stopping hunts for a year." He says eventually, once he's worked through the disbelief and irritation. Because, yeah. He sold his soul and has to do this, and he's got a firm amount of respect for the scary lady who killed Lilith, but he's still Dean Winchester.

He can handle moving to a place and staying there to protect innocent people from getting hurt. But he's not going to put off helping people for training when he's been hunting things like these daimons his entire life.

Sam hums and taps his phone against his knee. "Ash did say that they were having trouble…"

Dean frowns as something niggles at him. He catches Sam's eye and asks, "If I'm meant to be in training for a year then why did he move us straight here?"

"I think it's because we're already hunters." Sam says slowly, like he's working out a hard problem and isn't sure that he can find the correct answer.

Dean stays quiet because, while Sam can work anywhere, he can get things done faster if there aren't any distractions.

"We've already gone up against things that have supernatural strength and powers. So we don't have to go through the learning process of what everything is? Maybe we're just expected to practise and get on with it?" Sam adds, and then grimaces because that sounded weak, even to him.

Dean scoffs and leans back against his pillows, abandoning his knives and picking up the remote. He'd kept the TV off when Sam was talking to Ash because it looked important, like it was going to be instructions on where and when they were going to be deployed.

Dean's getting only the slightest bit antsy about being in one place for too long.

"Ash also said that he's pretty sure that the daimons are mounting an attack sometime soon." Sam says, capturing Dean's attention again.

"Does he know when?" Dean asks, because this sounds more like what he expected three weeks ago. None of this sitting around and waiting stuff.

Sam shrugs "If he does then he didn't say. "

"So what does he expect us to do?" Dean asks, "If he's brought us down here to help but won't tell us anything about what we're fighting or their habits or what my powers are – which" he adds, "I don't think I have." Because he's never had anything weird or out of the ordinary happed around him because of him. That's more Sam's forte than his.

Sam shrugs, "What do we normally do on a hunt?"

Dean sighs, because this is so beyond a normal hunt that it's not even funny anymore. "Research and then stop the bad guys." He switches on the TV and starts to flick through the channels.

Sam rolls his eyes in annoyance and pulls out the dark hunter companion from under his pillow - and Dean is not thinking about how weird that is at all - and flicks through to the history of daimons again.

"Right, so I'll get on that, shall I?"

Dean smirks because, really, Sam's just walked into that one, "That's what squires are for."

There's an annoyed silence from the other bed. Dean purposefully doesn't turn around.

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

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The next evening Dean's still tired. It's harder than it seems switching sleep patterns.

Dean is used to getting up and going whether it was night or day. He's used to driving for long distances and having to stay awake then only getting a few hours' sleep.

He is not used to being able to sleep for twelve hours, just as he's not used to not being able to see the sun anymore.

He didn't realise that he'd miss sunlight so much. But when Sam had brought home a lamp that mimicked the sun, Dean's skin had actually caught on fire.

It had hurt like a bitch too. Even if it had healed up in a few hours.

So, no more sunlight for Dean.

And he really likes his tan too.

If he has to spend the rest of eternity looking like a pasty reject from the Twilight films then he's going to take a shotgun to someone's ass. Because no way is he standing for that. And he can't believe he just used Twilight as a reference.

That's it. Sam's getting eggs in his shampoo tomorrow. This is obviously all his fault.

Sam's doing a bit better. He's sleeping the morning, and then spending his afternoons out exploring the city.

Dean is only a little jealous at Sam's ability to do this.

Then they spend the nights working together, trying to figure out what daimons are from the companion guide and Dean's slowly revealing memories.

After the first week, Sam had also started to bring back newspapers to trawl through to see if they can pick up any hints of the supernatural. It doesn't have to be daimons, just anything else that may be hiding in the city and picking off innocents.

So far they haven't spotted anything, which is a bit weird but not overly concerning.

God, Dean hates this exhaustion.

He's getting too old for this shit.

Sam is looking perky sitting at the kitchen table, sipping some sort of weird fruity drink as he flicks through todays paper. A red pen is lying beside his elbow, the cap still on.

Obviously nothing has been happening in New Orleans lately. Not even what they know of daimons.

It makes Dean on edge. Ash is right. This is definitely the calm before the storm.

Dean plops himself down in the chair next to Sam.

Fuck it. He can't think like this without coffee.

He mentally tries to tell Sam to get to his squire-ly duties and get him a real drink. If Sam heard him or not is debateable but he does hum a little and turn the page.

Dean groans.

Sam ignores him.

Dean tries to look pitiful.

Apparently it doesn't work if the other person isn't paying attention.

There's a liturgy of coffee-coffee-coffee going through Dean's mind when something hot taps him on the side of the head. He turns to see a mug floating in mid-air, the delicious smell of coffee wafting to him from it.

Dean lets out a yell – it is totally not a girly scream at all, thank you very much – and jumps away from it, falling heavily on the floor. He startles Sam who flinches just as he was about to take a drink and ends up spilling smoothie all down himself and the newspaper.

"Damn it, Dean!"

Dean ignores his protests and scrambles up and to the other side of the table where Sam is now standing and brushing ineffectually at himself. His white shirt now has a huge pink stain on it. It looks like a My Little Pony threw up on him.

Dean hates that he knows what My Little Ponies are.

Damn six year old Sam.

"Sam!" He yells, glad that his voice seems to be hitting the right register now.

Sam turns to him with bitch-face number two.

"What, Dean? What?"

Dean points to the other side of the table where the coffee mug is still floating serenely.

It smells really good.

If Dean wasn't unsure about it being possessed by ghosts then he would be happily drinking that right now.

Sam's gaze follows to where Dean is pointing and he stops trying to wipe himself off.

"Huh." He says, head tilting to one side quizzically.

Dean wants to smack the backside of his head. Instead he just goes with "Huh? Is that it? I thought you weren't going to be doing any more of that freaky mind shit around me!"

Dean regrets saying it immediately when Sam shoots him a hurt look and seems to curl in on himself.

"Without warning me first, I mean." Dean tries to correct his mistake, "You know if other hunters found out about this they might not think twice about-"

"Yeah, yeah," Sam cuts him off, and Dean can still hear the hurt in his voice. Damn it! This is why he needs coffee in the morning! It severely limits the amount of times he puts his foot in his mouth. Sam would argue, he knows, but it's true.

"Crap, Sam." Dean says, gripping Sam's arm when Sam goes to turn away. "You know that's not how I meant it."

Sam shoots him a small smile, but Dean can still see the hurt.

Okay, Dean's not going to put eggs in Sam's shampoo then. And he'll buy him an old book or something.

Sam twists out of Dean's grip and goes over to study the floating mug. Dean protests but he's ignored.

"Hmmm…" Sam hums and then waves his hands around the mug, covering all sides, above and below.

"Hmmm…" Sam says again.

"What?" Dean asks. And if he sounds nervous it's only because he doesn't have his shotgun.

"It's not me." Sam says.

"What?"

Okay. This time Dean's incredulous.

"But you're the only one with the fre-" Sam flinches a little and Dean bites his tongue, "er…mind powers…" he finishes lamely, mentally slapping himself.

Sam seems to appreciate it though as he straightens.

"It's not me," He repeats.

"Then who is it?"

Sam looks at Dean and it takes Dean a few moments to catch on.

"Me?" He squeaks out, "You think that-" he gestures at the mug, "is me?"

Sam shrugs and smirks. "What were you thinking about before you screamed like a girl?"

Dean scowls. For a guy who is now wearing a pink shirt, Sam has no stones to cast judgement with. "I was thinking about wanting coffee."

The mug twitches slightly. Both Sam and Dean's eyes are drawn to it.

"Do that again." Sam orders.

"Coffee." Dean says and the mug moves towards him another inch.

"Hmmm…try thinking the word." Sam says. Like this is the most fascinating thing that's ever happened to him.

Coffee, Dean thinks, coooooffeeeeee.

And holy shit the mug is floating towards him. Dean backs away and the mug follows.

Shit, what the hell? Except now he can't stop thinking about the damn coffee mug and it's still coming towards him.

Dean backs further away, unwilling to take his eyes off the mug, but it doesn't seem to help. He tries changing direction to bamboozle it.

Apparently the coffee mug is smarter than he thought as it just floats serenely after him.

"Sam!"

Okay, so sue him. It came out panicked but his brain has turned into a magnet for coffee mugs. Dean thinks this is a perfect time to panic.

He glances at Sam, hoping to see Sam with some sort of sledgehammer or bat ready to help him out. Instead he sees Sam, grinning madly, with his phone out recording Dean getting chased around the room by kitchenware.

That's it. Sam's going down. The prank war starts tomorrow.

"Sam!" Dean hisses and then yelps as he backs into the chair he vacated at the beginning of this whole thing. He sits down with a thump and an "oouf" and can only watch in trepidation as the mug floats closer to his head with every passing second.

He closes his eyes.

When he isn't scalded by hot coffee he opens them again. The mug is still floating in mid-air, but it looks like it's waiting for something.

"Aww," Sam says, "I think it likes you."

Dean scowls, "Shut up, Sammy."

"Maybe it wants you to take it home?"

"Shut up, Sammy!" Dean licks his lips, "What do I do?" He asks.

Sam shrugs, "I don't know? Take it? Drink the coffee? You did ask for it."

Dean hesitates, but its good advice. Plus he can't go the rest of his life being followed around by the mug – that would just be weird. He reaches up and takes the mug.

Nothing happens.

Glancing cautiously at Sam – who just shrugs at him – he carefully takes a sip, and promptly groans.

It is really, really, good coffee.

He finishes off the mug and by the times he's come out of his caffeine induced coma, Sam is sitting on the other side of the table with the companion guide in front of him.

"What?" Dean asks, because seriously, when did Sam go to the bedroom and get that without him noticing.

"I can't decide," Sam says, ignoring Dean's confusion like normal, "whether that was telekinesis, or gravitakinesis."

"Gravy who what now?"

Sam sighs and rolls his eyes. "Gravitakinesis," he says again, motioning to the book. It's the ability to manipulate the force of gravity.

Dean scowls and reaches across the table for his companion guide. "Give me that," he says.

When he gets it he does a double take. Sam's been scribbling notes through the book. Dean does a quick flick through. Yeah, they go all the way through.

It looks like a bastardised version of dad's journal.

Except Sam's used pink, green and orange highlighters to mark different parts and there's an overabundance of exclamation points.

Seriously, it's giving Dean a headache just looking at it. So, instead, he stares blankly at Sam who shifts uncomfortably.

"It's to help me memorise the stuff."

Dean continues to stare; only now he narrows his eyes.

Sam swallows.

"Um…sorry?"