Chapter 4.

Jimmy dug his house keys out of his pocked and fumbled for the right one. His hands felt stupid, and he nearly dropped the whole set. Finally, he found the right key and slammed it home.

Jimmy and the other man hauled Dean up and inside. Jimmy kicked the front door before it could swing closed and jerked his head to the living room. His muscles trembled beneath the dead weight.

"Couch," Jimmy wheezed.

They settled him on the love seat. Jimmy stood back to let the tall one arrange his brother's pillows.

"I don't know your name," he said after a moment when the tall man didn't look up. Jimmy had meant to sound stern, but the words came out weak. The front door still hung open, leaking a rush of cold air into the baking afternoon heat. In the following silence, he walked to the door and pushed. It swung closed on silent hinges with a gentle click.

When he returned the man sat at his brother's feet, his folded hands pressed between his legs. "I'm Sam. You've met my brother, Dean," Sam said. He smiled at Jimmy, his boyish face uncertain. "This is going to sound crazy, but you're the only person who can save my brother. I saw it in a dream."

Jimmy ran a hand through his hair. This was too surreal. A dream? People were dreaming about him now? His head swam. Why him? Why couldn't he be crazy? Why was it all so real, and what was he supposed to do about it? Jimmy's breath escaped in a puff.

"I think I need a beer," he said and fled to the kitchen.

His nightmare followed. Sam hurried after Jimmy as though afraid he might turn into vapor or vault his fence. It was a fair worry. Jimmy thought he might've tried to escape if he could get a head start.

Instead, he pulled two beers from the refrigerator and handed one to Sam. "Do you always include the crazy stuff in your introductions?" He twisted off the bottle top and slipped it into his pocket.

"Um, yeah." Sam popped his beer open and sipped it. He was still unable to get a good measure of the man. Jimmy Novak looked like a tax accountant, but he'd been expecting Sam – or something like him. "It comes with the job, you know?"

"No," Jimmy said in half a laugh that suggested he'd never done anything crazier than mix liquor and beer.

If he was a hunter, he hid it well, Sam thought.

They walked back to the living room. Sam took a seat at his brother's feet and elbowed Dean's leg. "Dude, beer."

Dean groaned and managed to raise a finger. "I hate you."

"I know." Sam leaned against Dean's legs and sipped his beer, glad his brother was coming around so quickly. He wondered if it had to do with Jimmy-the-Normal who was definitely not normal. He had strange, wide eyes that seemed to pierce right through Sam. It was possible that his presence alone was helping.

Jimmy stared at the brothers in wonder. He remembered the dream, how the injured one maintained a sense of angelic grace despite the darker aura. But this boy – named Sam, as Jimmy now knew – sat smiling. His eyes weren't black. Jimmy had always prided himself somewhat on an ability to detect motives, but he felt no malice. Sam was a good, if not Godly, person.

"I – I don't know what to think," Jimmy said at last. He shook his head. "My dream didn't show me this."

Sam straightened. His eyes flicked from Jimmy to Dean, whose eyes remained closed. "You had a dream, too? About us?" He leaned forward toward Jimmy, his voice lowered. "About my brother?"

"For a few weeks now," Jimmy said. "It's just a theory I've been following, but I think-" A car door slammed nearby. Jimmy jumped and looked at his wristwatch.

"That's my wife," he said. He set his beer on the coffee table and stood. "I've gotta – um, she may be mad. Just stay here and we'll talk later."

It took Jimmy fifteen minutes to calm Amelia when she walked in from the garage and saw their guests. They went into the kitchen, whispering in furious voices that Sam could only partly hear. Amelia wasn't angry that Jimmy had been acting strangely so much as that he wouldn't tell her why, and Sam thought Jimmy was arguing that she wouldn't believe him.

"You're up at all hours of the night, James," Amelia said. The weight of his full name hit Jimmy like a final blow. "You skip work, and now you've got strangers in our living room. They look dangerous."

"I'm trying to help them," Jimmy said. Amelia wouldn't believe if he told her everything. He saw that now.

"Exactly. You're helping strangers," Amelia whispered. "What were you thinking?"

"That it was the right thing to do?" Jimmy said, gesturing helplessly.

Amelia sighed. "Claire's going to be home soon. You keep an eye on – on them."

Jimmy took a breath and counted back from three. "Look, Ames, honey, I get we don't know them and all," Jimmy said in as reasonable a voice as he could manage. "They're hunters. They wear plaid. That doesn't make them serial killers, okay?"

Amelia's face hardened. "That is not funny."

And it wasn't, Jimmy knew. Amelia was still shaken about the string of murders in St. Louis not too long ago. She stopped watching the news coverage as it became increasingly histrionic, but the knowledge that every victim had invited their killer inside made her cautious.

She had a right to be angry about strangers in her home. She had even more right to want to protect their daughter from two men who looked like they pick a fight and win it. And Jimmy had ignored her calls all day. She'd probably been worried. He apologized.

He owed her that much, at least.

/A.H.O.F.\

Sam met the family but stayed by his brother while they ate dinner. He thought it would be good for Dean to have someone around when he woke, but thirty minutes turned into three hours and Dean's breathing patterns remained the same.

Finally, he stowed their guns at the bottom of his duffel bag and walked outside in the twilight. The air cooled quickly without the sun's warmth, but Sam thought it was better than the day's sweltering heat or the Impala's trademark leather-and-stale-air scent. He kicked his shoes off and walked through the grass. Blades of grass brushed his feet and tickled between his toes, and he smiled.

Jimmy joined him before too long. He walked barefoot into the yard and handed a beer to Sam. He cracked the other one open himself.

"I don't usually drink much, but today's been exceptional." He sighed lengthily and took a sip that was more of a gulp. "Dreams do come true, apparently."

Sam followed his lead. "Dean doesn't know you're supposed to heal him."

Jimmy shook his head. "I can't even heal a stubbed toe, Sam. I can't heal him. Only faith can."

Sam looked at the man in disbelief. His dreams never lied, never misled him. "Then why-"

"It seems God put me in your path for a reason." Jimmy looked at Sam, his face possessed at once by the openness of earnest faith and the harder lines of deep conviction. "Demons are real. Angels are real. Mystery surrounds us, and you can power it one way or another. Or you can power it by the light of your faith – by the Miraculous."

It made sense. Sam had seen some power come from a sigil or invocation, and he'd heard rumors of major mojo harnessing the power of the caster's soul. Just because he'd never seen an angel didn't mean the Heavenly Host didn't exist. Sam didn't know what to say to the man's speech, so he motioned for him to continue.

"It's similar to angelic power, really." Jimmy hesitated, thinking over the generalities Fr. David had given him. "Sam, there's a reason they're called miracles. Have you ever heard of John of God?"

The living room was cool and silent, but Dean heard distant voices. He opened his eyes, but he couldn't see much. The drapes were drawn across the windows, and the only light Dean could see trickled through a doorway and, probably, down a hall. The room smelled like Febreeze and pot roast.

Moving slowly, Dean reached behind his head for his gun. While he felt for it, he tried to remember where he was. They'd been on a hunt after one of Sam's damned visions again. Sam told him to wait in the car, but then he'd gone running after the man and left Dean alone. Dean had gone around to try the back door when the man appeared from nowhere – or at least that's what it had felt like at the time.

"Sammy?"

Silence.

Dean didn't want to move. More than anything he wanted to lie on this couch and sleep until his heart made up its mind. It was better than waking up chained in a dungeon, after all. But he couldn't find his gun, and Sammy wouldn't be stupid enough to leave him unprotected on purpose.

He struggled to his feet and found the hallway. The last thing he remembered, it had been daylight. It was dusk now, the shadows finding their way through the foyer windows and along the walls. Dean looked for a weapon and found nothing useful.

"Sammy!" He whispered louder this time, half afraid to run into Not Sammy in the weak light. He followed the light to the kitchen, a tidy room with a small corner table and a wide window opening onto the backyard.

His brother sat drinking beer with the stranger, his legs kicked up on the patio furniture. Was he completely insane? Dean stumbled across the kitchen and pried the sliding door open.

"What the hell?" he demanded. Dean wanted to storm down and knock the beer out of his brother's hands. He wanted to throttle Sam for his naivety and smack him so hard he forgot he'd ever left Stanford.

But the combination heat and cold made his body swoon, and he had to pause in the doorway to catch his breath. It didn't work. He dropped to his ass on the steps, feeling like a graceless intruder.

A look passed between Sam and Soccer Dad at Dean's entrance. He didn't miss it. Even with one foot in the grave and his ass on the ground, Dean could see they'd been sharing secrets. He forced a grin as his brother shot to his feet.

"Heyya, Sammy. What'd I miss?"

/A.H.O.F.\

Sam had been eager to find John of God the night before, but Jimmy disagreed with the method. As much as Sam tried to convince him, he refused to let anything involving salt circles and incantations into his property. Eventually, it was a long day and several beers that convinced Sam to wait until Friday.

They left Dean on the couch the next morning. Sam rode into town with Jimmy and picked up a shift at the diner to cover for their short order cook – a real bottle-knocker according to the manager. The other kitchen workers gave him shit at first, but he quickly proved himself at the griddle.

He stayed until the lunch rush ended, collected his cash from the manager and headed to the grocery store to buy supplies.

Jimmy spent most of his day looking up monsters. The possibility that there was so much out there filled him with humility – and a healthy dose of fear. He'd taken angels and demons for granted, but knowing that wendigos and poltergeists could decide Pontiac looked like a good place to visit made his stomach clench in that gut-grinding sort of nerves that nothing good ever comes from. Where did monsters belong? Whose call did they answer?

He drove to Fr. David's parish at lunch. The priest usually said a noon mass in the chapel, which was set into the side of the stone church. He left through the rear exit, passing through a small courtyard to the adjacent rectory.

Jimmy parked in the church lot and waited on one of the courtyard's many benches. The stone warmed him, and the distant birdsong gave him an illusion of distance. The air seemed thick, lazy with sunlight. People came here for meditation and solitude. He could see why.

A door opened off the chapel, and Jimmy stood. Fr. David emerged. If he was surprised to see Jimmy, he didn't show it. "James, are you hungry?"

Jimmy's stomach growled. He'd forgotten to bring or buy lunch, but food seemed trivial. He shook his head. "I need your help."

The priest chuckled, a single laugh of reserved amusement. He ushered Jimmy inside. "Are we beyond curious interest?"

Jimmy sighed. "My dream showed up on my doorstep."

While the priest pulled bread and cheese from the refrigerator and began a pair of grilled sandwiches, Jimmy explained what happened the day before. He told Fr. David what he'd learned during his discussion with the Winchester brothers, and it was all backward. His dream warned him away from the younger brother's corruption, but wakefulness showed him only good will. The dream gave him a sense of holy importance but left him confused by the older boy's irreverence.

He struggled for a word to describe the feeling, which was really just an insistent nudge toward the boys that defied logic. It mattered to him that Dean Winchester lived because Dean Winchester mattered. It was as if, by knowing the problem, he had become linked to them.

Fate sucked.

"You've been chosen for this purpose," the priest said. He frowned and flipped both sandwiches with expert ease.

Jimmy had been afraid of that. "I don't know what my purpose is."

"The future is always uncertain, but faith sees us through." Fr. David slid their sandwiches onto glass plates and brought them to the table. He blessed their food and their conversation. Then, almost as an afterthought, he raised a hand and invoked the angels to keep Jimmy safe.

"Thank you."

"Sometimes those of us with the least to offer have the most to give." The priest smiled. "I have a book for you – something my mentor gave me when I left seminary. He said I would know what to do with it one day."

They ate, and grilled cheese had never tasted so good.

Jimmy returned to the office with an old prayer book weighing one coat pocket. He hadn't opened it in front of Fr. David, who had treated it reverently and told him it was a book meant for holy warriors. Now his pocket felt hot and he wanted to take out the book and read it cover to cover, to learn what a holy warrior did and if they were what Jimmy hoped they weren't. But the man had also instructed Jimmy to protect the book from demons and wandering eyes, so he forced himself to wait.

When he left work he found Sam waiting in the shade with two reusable bags filled with salt and assorted fresh herbs. He didn't question the contents. When Sam mentioned something called scrying the night before, Jimmy decided he didn't want to know what it anything that could be called "just a little ritual" entailed.

They left it at that.

Jimmy went inside and started dinner as Sam drove away to dabble in whoknowswhat. The brother hadn't moved from the couch, but now he ventured into the kitchen and sat at the table. He said nothing but sat, watching, as Jimmy mixed pizza dough.

The silence unnerved Jimmy. He glanced at his guest, who sat with his elbows propped on the table. Dean stared, his tired eyes wearing on Jimmy like sandstone. Jimmy had an irrational fear that Dean was waiting for him to spill a secret. He thought of the book in his coat pocket but quickly pushed it to the back of his mind.

"Friday is pizza night," Jimmy found himself saying. He kneaded the dough quickly, adding a dash of flour when necessary. "Not to brag, but I make the best pizza outside Chicago."

"I always thought New York had the best."

Jimmy looked up to be sure he'd heard right. Dean lifted one side of his mouth into a smile, the only indication he'd been joking. Jimmy chuckled and continued. "The secret is the crust." He pressed the dough flat and tossed it into the air, caught it. He seasoned the dough and pressed it into the pan before beginning another.

"Since we have guests," he explained. He moved fluidly within the space, at home in the domestic setting. When his wife and daughter came in, he pecked them on the cheek and shooed them out of the room until dinner.

Dean watched him work and thought he could never be half the family man that Jimmy Novak was. He didn't know why Sam would drag them here to disrupt this guy's life. He wasn't dangerous; Sam would have killed him otherwise. Jimmy Novak was the definition of Normal Guy - unless Sam had discovered secret powers beyond pizza-making.

"So what are you?" Dean said.

"Pardon?"

"Where's your name listed in the supernatural phone book?"

Jimmy thought about it while he popped open a jar of pizza sauce. The sauce wasn't the important part. "Under H for Human, I hope."

He was either funny or hiding something. "No. See, you're interesting. Most of the stuff we deal with is boring, ya know. Poltergeists, shape shifters, gods-"

"There's only one God, son," Jimmy interrupted, pointing a sauce spoon at Dean.

Dean blinked. He sat back. "Well, that's a response I've honestly never heard before."

Jimmy paused. He set down his spoon and gave the man a pointed look. "You chase supernatural monsters for a living and it never occurred to you to have a little faith?"

Dean raised an eyebrow.

"Just saying." Jimmy shrugged. He picked up a ball of mozzarella - quality cheese is important in a pizza - and began shredding. "Give it a try sometime."

Dean didn't have a good comeback, so he crossed his arms and said nothing for a long while. He watched as his host finished assembling the pizzas in peace and slid them into the oven. The man literally whistled while he worked, and Dean soon gave up trying to figure out why he was so damn happy. The weather sucked, his job sucked, he had two freeloaders living in the living room and that had to suck. Dean tried not to be annoyed. It proved difficult.

Jimmy checked his watch three times, comparing the time on his wrist to that on the wall, before opening the refrigerator with a sigh and removing two cans. Dean perked up at this, but when Jimmy slid the can across the table he saw that it contained only soda. He opened it begrudgingly and forced a smile.

"Your brother-"

"Sam?" Dean said, although he only had the one brother.

Jimmy nodded and continued, his voice low. "It's almost dinner time. Does this, uh, witchy spell stuff usually take so long?"

Dean straightened so fast his head swam. The edges of his vision faded and he held tight to consciousness. His brother could be in real shit. "Who said anything about spells? Did he mention witches?"

Jimmy looked horrified. "Witches?" he managed. "He said it-"

Dean held up a hand to silence him. The other hand pressed a cell phone to his ear, muttering curse words under his breath as he waited. His brother answered, out of breath, on the last ring.

"You better tell me now where you are with my car," he growled into the receiver.

"Dude, chill-"

"Don't tell me to chill like I 'need to chill out' when you're out doing hoodoo at some crossroads or something!"

On the other end, Sam snorted. "I'll be right back. I just needed to scry for something."

"Oh." Dean eyed Jimmy, still sitting mute in his own home. His blue eyes wide, the man looked like an IRS stiff. "Why didn't you just do it here?"

His brother's response didn't surprise Dean. "Well next time leave a note safety-pinned to my shirt. I almost had a heart attack."

"Not funny."

"Do I sound like I'm joking?" Dean hung up and turned on Jimmy.

/A.H.O.F.\

Dinner was awkward. Jimmy had never felt uncomfortable at his own table before, but the brothers were a dark premonition that set his teeth on edge. He felt cowed by Dean's anger and perplexed by his brother's sweetness. He felt confused, at odds with what he'd gotten himself into just by having a dream.

He forced a smile and passed the pitcher of iced tea to Sam. Condensation dripped onto his plate as the boy looked around the table with a sense of confusion. Panic, even, Jimmy thought.

His brother cleared his throat. After a breath he leaned over and slapped Sam's shoulder. "Dude, fill me up."

Sam blinked, and his face returned to its usual self. The brothers exchanged a silent look before Sam laughed. He poured Dean a glass and set the pitcher on the table.

"So, where are you boys from?" Amelia asked.

Sam's jaw clenched, but Dean smiled and said, "Kansas, ma'am, but we travel a lot. Sam's taking a break from school to go on a road trip with me."

Sam forced a smile. "It's been a while since I did family dinner. My fi- my girlfriend's family used to invite me over. But that was a while ago."

It was the first time Sam had talked about his time at Stanford beyond mentioning vengeance. His hands clenched tight on the napkin in his lap, but his smile never wavered. His only tell was the hesitation before he spoke, but the Novaks wouldn't know they'd touched an open wound. Dean, who wasn't practiced at holding in his opinions, thought Sam did a scary-good job of lying.

And then Jimmy, who had the perception of a hawk but the intelligence of a jumbo shrimp, said, "Rough breakup, huh?"

Sam looked startled but nodded. "Hurt like Hell."

Sam excused himself from table a minute later. Dean listened as he rinsed his dishes in the sink and slid the back door closed behind him. Jimmy frowned and followed, pausing at the refrigerator to pick up what Dean guessed were two cold beers.

Dean sat alone with Jimmy Novak's family and worked his best grin. "Good pizza."

"Dad makes it every Friday," Claire said.

Amelia said nothing, her face as unchangeable and impassable as a rock wall.

Well this is going to be fun, Dean thought and knocked back his entire glass of tea.

/A.H.O.F.\

Jimmy fell asleep three pages into the prayer book and woke Saturday before night relinquished its grip. Nerves kept him from dozing, so he rose and packed his overnight bag. He took the prayer book from his nightstand and stuffed it at the bottom of the duffel. Intuition told him it was the safest place for the book, and he still didn't know what any of the passages in the book actually meant.

The boys were still asleep when he crept downstairs. He left his bag in the foyer and snuck to the kitchen. There, he risked a little light so he could keep his morning routine. The world might be falling apart, evil might be hunting them, but Jimmy would be damned if he couldn't keep one small tradition alive in the midst of chaos.

He drank his coffee black. When he'd finished, he made another cup and waited. It only took ten minutes for a cell phone alarm to go off in the living room. A light went on. Sam stumbled for the hallway bathroom with a bundle in hand. He emerged dressed, his wet hair tamed down onto his scalp. It only took another couple minutes before he joined Jimmy in the kitchen with a notebook.

"Where are we headed?" Jimmy asked.

Sam rubbed his eyes. Yesterday's scrying had been surprisingly inconclusive, but he'd narrowed it down before Dean's call interrupted his concentration. Luck wasn't on their side. "St. Louis," he said.

"Coffee?"

He shook his head. "Tastes like ash."

"I'll get you some cream and sugar." Jimmy tempered a cup of instant coffee with French vanilla creamer and slid it across the table to Sam.

Sam sipped the hot beverage and was only mildly impressed. He drank it in four gulps despite the heat and pushed the mug aside. He opened his notebook and flipped the page around so Jimmy could see it.

"I think we're looking for this church," he said, pointing to the sketch he'd drawn from memory. He hadn't captured the filtering sunlight well, but every detail in the stained glass stood out. It was just a graphite sketch, but he could almost see the color bleeding through the paper.

Jimmy recognized the sketch, a detailed likeness of the Basilica, immediately. "Beautiful. But it's not in the best neighborhood."

"You know it?"

"I don't have directions, per say, but yeah." He nodded. "I've been there a few times. It's the largest reliquary west of the Mississippi River."

The caffeine hadn't hit Sam's system yet. "Reli-what?"

"Reliquary, Sam" said Dean from the doorway. His eyes were red and his hair mussed. He shuffled to the table, slapped his brother up the back of the head and dropped into the seat beside him. "You know, where they store relics."

Sam rubbed his head. "Jerk."

Dean grunted but disregarded the taunt. He ran a hand over his stubbly jaw and frowned. He hadn't shaved in days, and stubble was just one more thing on the list of Things That Grated on His Nerves just above Caffeine Withdrawal and just below Sam's Lies.

He couldn't think of a single good reason someone would be searching for saints' relics – or why Sam wouldn't admit they were hunting witches. Right now he didn't care. "Sam, coffee."

"We've talked about this," Sam said.

"You talked about it. I listened. And now I want a fucking cup of coffee."

Sam shook his head. "No."

Jimmy almost hesitated to ask. "Do you want tea?"

Dean gave him a look of disgust. "Yeah, and I'll learn to play cricket while I'm at it." Pain wrenched through his chest. Dean groaned but shook his brother off when Sam moved to help. "Just… when do we hit the road?"

As it turned out, it took twenty minutes. Sam loaded their bags into the car while Jimmy kissed his family goodbye. They brought Dean to the car last, before the sun was up. He was not amused to see Jimmy waiting. It was bad enough that his brother was hunting witches, but now he had Jimmy Dry Toast as a sidekick.

"It's been nice staying with you, H&R Block, but listen: I've seen you in action, and you'll get us killed," Dean said. "You had information - and that's great, man, real great - but you're not up against witches. It's time to step aside and let the professionals do their jobs."

Jimmy opened his mouth to defend himself but lost his voice. Something about the younger man evoked hostility so primal it made him question his decision to help. He shut his mouth and glared instead.

Dean turned to his brother for backup, but Sam shook his head. Dean almost laughed, but his smile faded when he saw his brother's expression. "What, seriously?"

"I need him, Dean." Sam shrugged. "You're the one who's always telling me to be practical."

"Yeah, but-"

"You're kinda useless in St. Louis," Sam reminded him with a pointed expression.

They'd been hunting a shifter in St. Louis when the thing got the drop on them. It abducted Dean and impersonated him while doing some pretty messed up stuff, including murder. The police put out an APB on "Dean Winchester" before the brothers were finally able to kill the shifter. His brother was on the nation's Most Wanted list.

Dean rolled his eyes and opened the passenger's side door. Someone had moved his stuff to the back seat. He and slammed the door and turned on Jimmy with a murderous look . "Are you fucking serious?"

Jimmy's eyes widened. He took an involuntary step back and shook his head vehemently. "I don't mind sitting backseat." He left the obvious - that he wouldn't want to sit anywhere that left his back left exposed to Dean Winchester - unsaid.

Dean pulled the door open and slid inside. "Didn't think so."

Sam and Jimmy exchanged an unpleasant look before Sam slammed the trunk with a sigh. He turned, leaned against the back of the car and shook his head. It was barely dawn but he felt like he'd been away for 20 hours.

"My brother… He gets, um, cranky if he doesn't get coffee and pie at least once every three days," Sam said.

Jimmy snorted. The lie felt wrong, even though Sam had assured him it was the only way to keep his brother from jumping ship. "So we just need to placate him with sweets and not tell him anything?"

Sam nodded, though he was sure Dean was already working on his own version of events. He tossed the keys into the air and caught them in one smooth motion. "Pretty much."

"Well, this should be fun," Jimmy said and climbed into the Impala.