The rest of the afternoon passes slow.
The closet in the room they'd given Charlie is, like every other inch of space in the bunker, filled with boxes stacked as high as the ceiling. They drag them down, transferring everything down into the storage room downstairs, and eventually the rising dust that shifts with everything they move proves too much for Sam's lungs. He leaves, coughing and groaning, and Dean stares after him with a crease in his brow.
"He'll be okay," Charlie says, and Dean turns to see her watching him from the other side of the room.
He nods, lifting another box and waiting for Charlie to follow him.
"Yeah, I hope so."
Downstairs, both put down their boxes and shuffle things around to make space on the overcrowded shelves. As Charlie drags a carved wooden chest out of the way, saying something about the many real-world applications of her mad Tetris skills, Dean's phone buzzes. He digs it out of his pocket and grins at the message, tapping out a reply.
"You're like a pair of teenagers," Charlie says with a smirk, crouching down to look more closely at the chest. Curious, she opens it and pulls out a black cloth drawstring bag, it's contents rattling loud.
"Shut up," Dean tells her, still distracted by his cell phone.
"Where's the fun in—holy crap."
Dean looks up from his cell and sees Charlie staring into the bag with her mouth hanging open.
"What is it?"
"There's a freaking skeleton in here."
Dean steps forward to glance over her shoulder. The bones are old—ancient he thinks—and he wonders why they aren't stored properly. It can't be a good thing.
"Yep," he says, taking the bag and pulling it closed, "probably not a great idea to go opening this stuff without checking the label first, though."
Putting it back in the chest, he checks the markings on the lid, breathing out a sigh of relief when he confirms that it isn't a curse box.
"Noted," Charlie says, dusting off her hands on her jeans and looking over the rest of the boxes, "but I definitely want to be here when you do a full inventory."
"Deal."
"Awesome."
By the time they're done, Sam's ordered pizza, and they sit around the library to eat. Chuck rubs his red-rimmed eyes, pushing a stack of translations across the table to make space for the food.
"How's it going so far?" Sam asks him, wiping greasy fingers on a paper napkin before picking up his beer.
"It's all sounding pretty familiar."
"Familiar?" Sam frowns in confusion, while Dean asks through a mouthful, "How?"
"Uh... well, I mean," Chuck takes a bite of his pizza, chewing while he thinks about the question, "the language, you know? I've seen it in my head."
"Right," Sam nods, "anything good?"
"Nothing solid yet."
They eat in silence after that, and Dean reads over Chucks notes—or attempts to. Considering the guy's supposed to be a writer, Chuck could stand to learn how to use a pen.
"You ever consider a career in medicine?" Dean asks him when they're done, handing the papers back. Unsurprisingly, Chuck ignores the question. He gets back to work, smearing half-dried ink across the page and squinting at the picture of the tablet.
He's still working on it near midnight, when the others all shuffle off to bed.
In the morning, Dean wakes before his alarm and shuffles out into the kitchen. Chuck is nowhere to be seen, but Sam and Charlie are sitting at the counter. Sam pushes a mug of coffee toward him before he can ask.
"Mornin'," Dean says, taking a sip, and Charlie stretches, yawning, "you guys been up long?"
"'Bout half an hour," Sam says, echoing Charlies yawn, "Chuck woke both of us up looking for someplace to sleep. He's in my room, now."
Dean grunts in reply, pulling open the cupboard to find something to eat, but he's anxious to get moving and can't decide what he wants.
"You wanna grab breakfast on the road?" he asks over his shoulder.
"Sure. I already gave Charlie a run down of all the wards and stuff, so I'm ready when you are."
"Gimme five minutes."
"Meet you at the car."
They've been driving for close to an hour when Dean's cell chimes from his pocket and he digs it out, steering one-handed as he unlocks the screen.
"Watch the road," Sam says, snatching it out of his hand, and Dean glares at him.
"What's it say?"
Sam snorts with laughter and shakes his head.
"It's from Cas," he says, as if Dean thought it would be anyone else, "he says he accidentally stole a guy's popcorn when he flew out of New Delhi."
"Accidentally? How is that even possible?"
"No idea."
"Ask him."
Sam shakes his head and types out Dean's question. A few seconds later a reply comes through, and he laughs again. Dean glances across.
"The guy dropped something under his seat and asked Cas to hold his popcorn while he looked for it," Sam says, grinning, "he flew before he realized it was still in his hands."
The phone chimes again and Sam bursts out with another laugh.
"He says he likes popcorn."
Dean grins across at him.
"Tell him he clearly has good taste," he says with a wink, and Sam pulls a face at him, shoving the cell into the center console.
"I'm not flirting with Cas for you."
"Spoilsport."
"Reply to him next time we stop."
Sam puts the phone in the glove compartment and turns up the volume on the radio, tapping his fingers to the beat of the Bon Jovi cassette they've been listening to since they left Lebanon. The atmosphere is good, and for a while Dean can almost pretend that Sam is fine, that they are just out on the road like old times, heading toward the next hunt. Then Sam starts coughing again, and the illusion shatters. Dean pulls into a gas station off the highway.
It isn't until they're only a few miles out of Lawrence that Dean starts to worry about what Missouri is going to say about the seven years without contact.
"You think she's gonna be pissed?" he asks, glancing over at Sam, who's been dozing with his head against the window.
"Hmm?"
"Missouri. You know she's gonna know we've both been dead since she saw us last," Dean says, grip tightening on the wheel, "she's gonna be pissed."
Sam shrugs, yawning, and scratches at his jaw.
"Not much we can do about it if she is."
"We should bring her something."
"Like what? I don't think Hallmark makes sorry we didn't tell you we died cards."
Dean snorts, shaking his head.
"Flowers?" he suggests, though it seems like a stupid idea the second he says it aloud.
"She'll just hit us over the head with them."
"Good point," Dean says, thinking again for a moment, "Pie?"
"Are you sure this isn't just about you wanting pie?"
"No."
His stomach, traitor that it is, rumbles loudly as if on cue, and Sam raises his brow.
"Shut up," Dean says, "everyone likes pie."
There's a mall not far from Missouri's house, and while Sam waits in the parking lot, Dean heads inside, seeking out a bakery. He's on his way back to the car, thinking that he needs to introduce Castiel to the joys of pecan pie, when his cell rings. When he sees the name on the caller ID his stomach swoops low.
"Hey Cas, what's up?"
"Dean, where are you?"
"Mall in Lawrence... why? Where are you? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. I... it's possible that this cinema is in the same mall."
Dean's eyes go wide, and he looks around for a sign. As soon as he sees it he's running, feet slapping loud against the tile. His voice is distorted by his breath when he speaks again.
"I'm coming now. Which movie is it?"
"How would I know that?"
"Well, what's on the screen?"
"A bearded man with a glowing circle on his chest."
"Don't go anywhere."
He hangs up.
Barely five minutes later, he runs into the theatre and pauses at the bottom of the stairs, scanning the crowd. He catches Castiel's eye and waves for him to come down. Castiel does.
They stand in the dark exit hall, illuminated by a green and white sign over the door, and Dean takes a moment to catch his breath.
"What are you doing here?" Castiel asks him.
Dean holds up a plastic bag with a white cardboard box inside.
"Pie run," he grins, "What are the odds we'd be in the same mall?"
"Around one in two hundred thousand six hundred and seventy four, though I expect it's actually a great deal less likely, considering that this happened to be one of the times I've been able to stay more than a few seconds, which usually only happens every eight or ninth—" Castiel sees the slightly dazed expression on Dean's face and stops, shaking his head, "that was a rhetorical question, wasn't it?"
"Yeah, but don't let that stop you," Dean laughs, leaning back against the wall, "man it's good to see you."
"And you—" Castiel glances down at the floor with a furrowed brow and sighs, "The tablet is starting to burn again."
Dean's heart sinks.
"Shit."
"We still have maybe three or four minutes."
"Have to make 'em count, then."
Looking back up, there's the barest hint of a smile on Castiel's lips.
"We will."