Charlie hasn't replied. Thirty-five minutes have passed, and for the third time, Dean picks up his cell to check that the message actually sent. It did. He already knows it did.

He throws the phone back down on his bed and sits down, tapping his foot restlessly. After a few seconds, he stands up and walks through the bunker in search of more coffee. The kettle whistles.

It's only seven in the morning, he reasons, tipping more sugar than necessary into his mug, she's probably asleep.

Another half hour passes by time his phone chimes and he darts back into his room to pick it up, opening the message.

That depends on
what you mean.

He growls out loud and drains the last of the lukewarm coffee from his mug before he fires back a snappy reply, too tired and stressed out to bother with civility.

You know exactly
what I mean.
Don't be cute.

A few minutes pass, and as he walks back into the kitchen for his third cup, his cell chimes again, echoing off the tile.

I can't just switch
it off, Dean ;)
How far did you
read?

Leaning against the counter, he rubs his hand over his face.

Up to the one
about 2014.

She messages back almost instantly.

Read My Bloody
Valentine, then we'll
talk. Lunch? I can
come over today.

There's a shuffling coming from down the hall as Sam pushes open his bedroom door and heads into the bathroom, and Dean goes back to his room, coffee in hand, to type a reply. No way in hell does he want to talk to Charlie about any of this while Sam's around; not yet, anyway.

Come to think of it, he's not entirely sure how he came to be talking to Charlie about it, even in the round-about, non-specific way he is. Frankly the more he thinks about it, the more it scares him. He is in no way ready for this conversation. But then, maybe he never will be.

To hell with it, he thinks, and starts writing a reply.

The fact that Charlie hasn't told him he's nuts already is almost definitely a good sign, and though he isn't one to get optimistic, he can't help the little seed of hopefulness that has sprung up.

I'll meet you at
the place we had
lunch in town.
Noon?

The message he gets back makes little to no sense, and he is still squinting at the most confusing exclamation he's ever seen—

Donkey Kong!

—when a second message comes through.

As in, you're on.
Like Donkey Kong
is on... also.
Noon is good.

Dean doesn't bother replying again; just gets dressed and walks into the library.

Sam, of course, is already sitting at the table, checking his email, and Dean frowns at the occupied laptop.

I really need to get one of those for myself, he thinks, not for the first time, and leans against the desk.

"Why are you up so early?"

Sam glances up, his hair still fluffed out on the sides, and yawns.

"Couldn't get back to sleep. You're not as quiet as you think you are."

"Oh... my bad."

"It's cool. What were you doing up all night, anyway?"

Dean moves away to run a finger over the edge of the scimitar on display by the bookshelf. He shrugs, non-committal.

"Nothing."

Sam doesn't look convinced, but when Dean makes no other comment, turns back to the laptop, stifling another yawn.

"I could use a coffee, if there's any left," he says, pointedly.

Dean's ready to tell him to go get it himself, but it gives him an excuse to leave the room, so he just nods and walks back into the kitchen. Depositing the mug onto the table in front of Sam, he clears his throat.

"Hey... I'm gonna head out for a while."

"What's going on?"

"I, uh... there's some stuff I gotta take care of. No big."

"What stuff?"

"We need... food and stuff."

Sam narrows his eyes.

"You know you're a terrible liar."

Dean ignores him; just grabs his keys and wallet from the table and climbs the stairs. Sam pushes his chair back, standing and taking a few steps after him.

"Dean!"

"See you later, Sammy."

The front door swings open, and Dean slips out.

"Dean!"

The door slams behind him, and Sam is left in the bunker. He stares at the door for a moment, then heads back to the computer.

As he closes out of his email, he notices that the trash he's sure he emptied yesterday is suddenly full, and he opens it. Reading the file names, his brow raises high under his mop of unkempt hair.

"Huh," he says.

Clicking restore all, Sam moves with the laptop to a comfortable chair in the corner of the library to read.