Sam's waiting for the inevitable explosion. He feels like he's been doing that more than usual lately. It's been three days since Cas woke up. Three days of slowly making their way up the East Coast on a tip from Chuck, and Sam has never seen his brother drive so slowly, stop so often. Three days of trying to get the fallen angel to eat and checking on his injuries, of Dean being unbelievably attentive and protective, of Cas being freakishly quiet except for when he wakes up screaming at night. Dean is good at taking care of other people, way better than he is at taking care of himself. Sam should know. His brother was basically his mother and father the whole time that they were growing up (not that he would ever phrase it that way to Dean for fear of getting punched). Even so, the level of care that he's giving to the newly fallen angel is pretty damn impressive. Dean though, well, he is tense as hell, and trying to hide it, drown it out: worry, anxiety, whatever.
Sam is walking on eggshells, trying to support Dean and Cas…but, see, ostensibly Cas' consciousness came with the general announcement that hunting is…well, basically finished. Angels are stuck in heaven, demons in hell, monsters have been sent packing to Purgatory (at least the blood-thirsty ones). Turns out Bobby's prediction of 'world peace' wasn't exactly that far off the mark (at least, not as far as the supernatural is concerned, humans are a whole different story).
Bobby had actually been surprisingly nonchalant about the whole thing when they'd called him with an update. After fifteen minutes of cussing and interrogation, he's settled on 'well, if the man upstairs says it's time for me to buy a condo and move to Miami, I ain't gonna argue with him.' Dean had looked like someone had smacked him the face with a frying pan at that pronouncement; whether from the image of Bobby in a speedo or Mr. "Paranoid Bastard's" sudden willingness to go with the flow, Sam is still not sure. He had laughed and tried to cover it quickly, but not quickly enough to avoid Dean's glare of doom. Sam is cautiously optimistic about the whole thing (after all, it's everything he's ever wanted), but simultaneously waiting to get sucked into some kind of hell dimension when they get wherever it is they're going.
Cas is stoic and silent. He seems to still be in a lot of pain even though his injuries are healing well. He keeps staring: into the distance, out the window, at his hands, at Dean…he looks at Dean a lot, though never when Dean is looking at him. How they keep avoiding eye contact while simultaneously staring at each other all the damn time is one of the great mystery of the universe (and, given the sheer volume of recent universal mysteries, that's saying something considerable).
Sam tries to get Cas to talk (it's Sam's MO), and the angel responds, but he doesn't seem to be particularly engaged by anything Sam has to say. He is generally pretty zoned out, and Sam attributes that to shock and the transition period (there isn't exactly a guidebook that outlines the healing process of an angel turned human with acute PTSD and celestial injuries). So Sam is going to follow his gut, and its present ruling is that it's still early days—Castiel fell less than a week ago. He's concerned, but he's not too worried about it yet (not as much as Dean is). Castiel is dealing with a lot right now, and it's probably a very difficult to process. Sam assumes that Cas has a really large frame of reference for dealing with heavenly maladies, but he has no framework for understanding the human perspective of this—physical, emotional, psychological. It's gotta be pretty damn overwhelming for him. Sam can only compare it to his experience of getting his soul back—which was a delightfully traumatic romp—he has the nightmares and memories to prove it, and he sincerely hopes that it's not that bad for Cas. Watching Cas continually twitch and shudder at innocuous touches (which gives Dean this unbearably wounded expression for a split second before he hides it), stare into space during his waking hours, and scream at nightmares that only Dean can bring him back from…well, it doesn't bode well.
Sam figures his best strategy is to be supportive and give Castiel some time to come around on his own before they really start to get freaked out, stage an intervention, and start looking for supernatural solutions. That's how he usually deals with his prickly brother when Dean is having an emotional life crisis infused with angst. Of course, Dean usually makes Sam force the issue (or call Bobby in to broach whatever the problem is). Sam narrows his eyes at the horizon, somehow he doesn't think that it will come to that with Castiel…he hopes not anyway, maybe the angel has more perspective from millennia of watching humans be idiots and close observation of the Winchesters (paragons of emotional stability and psychological health that they are) to realize that the 'bottle it up till it explodes in your face' strategy is not the best one.
Speaking of his brother, Dean…well as far as Sam can tell, Dean either hasn't put two and two together (which is really unlikely because Dean is smart and strategic), or he's refusing to acknowledge what the end of hunting might mean. Dean puts on a good show, he's internalized John's 'hunting is everything' mentality (Sam, in case you did not know this, took Psychology and Human Development in college, so he knows what he's talking about; not to mention that he's been obsessively studying his brother since he was four), but secretly, Dean has wanted a normal life for a long time. Now that that might, kind of, sort of, technically be possible, Sam is fully prepared for his brother to go on an insane self-sabotaging streak or have a nervous breakdown. Or both. Both are likely. Looking out for Cas is the only thing that's really holding that at bay for the present. Well, that and the fact that they have a 'mission' from the prophet: some random address in New York and the promise of an 'epilogue,' whatever the hell that means. Those are postponing what Sam expects will be a full scale implosion, complete with self-destructive alcoholism, passive suicidal tendencies, a really bad attitude, and sudden outbursts of violence. That's what he would have anticipated in days gone by. Dean doesn't really do change, he doesn't like change, change is associated with bad things, and he's so scared of it that he will bolt the first chance he gets…Sam glances at his brother's stony face, and then back at Cas, dozing in the back seat, and wonders if having Cas around might turn this whole thing into a wild card scenario…it has so far.
They're nearing their destination, according to directions Sam printed off. They should be there, wherever exactly there is, by late this afternoon.
They made provisions for basically anything. There is always the off chance that this is a trap, but Sam doesn't have the feeling he gets when he's going into a hunt: a sort of cold focus. He feels something different; anticipation maybe or even excitement. It's been a really long time since he's felt anything remotely resembling that. There is something like possibility in the air, and he can sense it, in spite of Dean's tense attitude.
Providence, NY is a small town, like so many others that the brothers have seen across the country. Nestled in the mountains, it's got that old school vibe, like it's settled in, been here for longer: in the normal course of events that would trigger immediate concerns about ghosts tied to local history, but today, not so much. Sam gazes out the windows at the center of town: cafes, grocery stores, bookshops, a library, restaurants, a town hall. It's scenic, quaint, quiet. The sun is shining, families and couples are walking down the street, a dog barks. Sam takes it in calmly, but Dean's whole face has hardened, like this place is extremely suspicious if not outright dangerous.
"Might be time to wake sleeping beauty back there," Dean says shooting a look at Cas in the rearview mirror.
Sam turns in his seat, and very, very, very gently touches Cas' shoulder, "Hey, Cas, we're almost there."
Cas, unsurprisingly, startles awake, jerks away from Sam's hand, all wild eyes and terrified, disoriented expression.
Sam pulls his hand back, hovering an inch or two from Cas' shoulder, ready to brace him in case he should suddenly try to jump out of the moving vehicle.
"Woah, hey," Sam says, "It's okay."
"Cas, you all right?" Dean turns to regard him quickly.
Dean's voice catches Cas' attention; it orients him to the present, so when he looks at Sam again, he seems less likely to run.
"Sam?" he asks, like he needs to confirm this fact.
"Yeah, man," he replies, comfortingly, "Yeah, it's me. We're almost there."
Castiel nods, but it's probably going to take him a few minutes to process where exactly 'there' is.
"Cas?" Dean prompts.
"I'm fine," Cas replies before going quiet and staring out the window.
Sam turns around and shares a look with Dean.
They continue the drive in silence.
The directions take them outside of the town center, towards the mountains that surround it. They pass residential neighborhoods and eventually turn off onto a gravel road. It winds on an incline through a copse of trees; wherever this place is, it's set back and private, removed from prying eyes. Sam considers the pros and cons of that. If something angelic, demonic, monstrous, or otherwise otherworldly is going to go down, at least they should be able to prevent collateral damage to civilians; on the downside, hard to find addresses are usually setups. Sam knows that Dean is thinking the same things, judging by the calculating expression on his face. As for Castiel, well, Sam isn't sure if he's aware of too much right now, he looks very placid, almost blank.
The trees start to thin out ahead and they come into a clearing. Dean pulls to a stop, brow furrowed.
"Dude, what the fuck?"
"It's a house," Sam replies, frowning. Because it is; two stories, rustic, made of stone and wood, shutters closed tight, huge front porch.
"Why the hell would Chuck send us all the way to New York to check out a house?"
Sam shrugs, "Haunting maybe?"
Dean cocks his head, but Castiel interjects, tonelessly, "God laid all the restless spirits to rest."
Sam gives him a look, and Dean licks his lips and sighs, "Awesome." Dean often uses the same words or phrases such that interpreting his true meaning depends entirely on inflection and context. 'Awesome' is one of those words; for instance, in the context of pie, 'awesome' is genuinely meant; in this particular example, the intonation is drier and more sarcastic than Sam has ever heard it, and he has heard is fair share of dry and sarcastic 'awesome's from Dean.
"Let's check it out," Dean half groans.
They all pile out of the Impala. Sam and Dean grab guns and knives from the trunk. Sam is loading his 45 when he sees Dean hesitate before handing a gun to Cas.
"You know how to use this?" He asks, gruffly, like he resents having to put a weapon in Cas' hand. Some really immature part of Sam wants to tease his big brother, 'aww, you're trying to protect him," but he really doesn't want a broken nose; another, more mature and sensitive part of him, finds the exchange touching, but also ironic because Dean is uncomfortable with putting a gun in the hands of a being who has been a warrior for all of eternity.
"I'll manage," Castiel responds, holding the weapon loosely at his side. Dean sighs, and Sam slams the trunk.
"Let's go."
There are no cars besides the Impala, and the gravel road they drove up to get here was devoid of recent track marks; the house doesn't look like it's been lived in for a while, but it does look quite old.
They climb the steps of the porch, Dean in the lead, Sam in the middle, Cas bringing up the rear. Dean peers at the front door, but Sam is momentarily distracted by a flash of sunlight reflecting off wind chimes hanging from the awning. What the—?
"Enochian sigils," Cas supplies, catching Sam's gaze. The flutes of the chime are covered with angelic writing, the charms hanging in the center are comprised of various types of wards against evil, made of silver and iron.
"What the hell?" Sam frowns.
"Dude," Dean says and inclines his head towards the door frame. Sam and Castiel both come over to look. From a distance, it just appears to be decorative carving in the wood, but up close—
"Angel Mad Libs?" Dean cocks an eyebrow at Cas.
"I don't know what that means," Castiel's face clearly states that 'I have literally been human for a week, half of which I have been unconscious, some understanding would be appreciated in regards to your incessant desire to intentionally employ language that I do not comprehend.' Apparently, Dean can read that as easily as Sam because he clears his throat somewhat guiltily.
"However," Cas continues, "these marking are angel warding magic."
The same marks are inlaid in the banisters of the porch, the railing, subtly, almost beautifully actually. You have to appreciate the amount of craftsmanship that went into this.
"What are they warding against?" Sam finally asks.
"Everything," Castiel replies.
Dean just blinks. That's damn impressive. He and Sam share a look, a nod, and then open the door.
There is an inlay of salt along the doorframe, set in glass.
"Who the hell lives here?" Sam breathes, only this time Cas doesn't seem to have a ready answer.
The house is shadowed. Furniture covered in sheets, layered in dust.
Dean makes a circular motion with his finger, and Sam nods. They split up to search the house. Dean goes to check the upstairs and Cas follows him, while Sam goes to check out the basement.
He proceeds cautiously down the stairs, but there is nothing lurking in the shadows. The space is cool, but not damp; it's stocked with weapons and food stores, old furniture that clearly has been unused even longer than the sofas and chairs in the sitting room upstairs. There are boxes and crates, neatly stacked along the walls, some with protective markings, some without, but all are clearly organized, and tightly sealed. There is a power generator and a fuse box. Sam fiddles with them until the power comes on, and then goes back to the first floor—he will return to the basement later and realize that, much like Bobby's panic room, the foundations have been coated in iron and salt.
On the ground level, there is a living room, a study, a bathroom, a dining room. All of the windows and doorways have salt set into the frames, all of them are lined with the same protective markings that they saw when they entered. Sam pries opens one of the wooden shutters, finagling with the complicated latch, and realizes that they're made of ash and rowan, the fastenings done in silver. His eyebrows almost reach his hairline; that is some serious protective mojo. Really, who the hell lives here?
Summer sunlight illuminates the room, falling across a patch of hardwood floor. Sam narrows his eyes and leans to look more closely; if you didn't know what to look for, you would miss it, but the hardwood floor is in the pattern of small devils' traps. His curiosity is piqued, building to a point of almost unbearable suspense. Like an itch he needs to scratch. He wants to get to the bottom of this. Why the hell would Chuck send them here? A safe house? A rendezvous point? Clearly whoever owns this place has some serious knowledge of the supernatural, and knows how to work powerful mojo, good mojo; it's like Glinda the good witch went to town decorating a magical house for hunters…
Sam's last stop on the mystery tour is the kitchen. It's cleaner, more lived in, but just as empty. The wooden table is uncovered, but there's no dust, there is, however, an envelope and a sheaf of papers. Sam scowls, dropping into a chair and pulling them closer, as he starts to read them, his eyes going wide in response to their contents. He hears Cas and Dean come down the stairs.
"Sam?" Dean calls out.
"In here."
Cas pokes his head cautiously around the doorjamb, and Dean follows more assertively.
"Well?"
"Nada," Dean says, "three bedrooms, a bathroom, and a library. No ghosts, ghouls, werewolves, vamps, demons, angels; it's clean."
"You will like the library," Cas assures Sam solemnly.
"It's killer," Dean nods, and Sam's almost positive that he's being serious. Under other circumstances, he would be booking it up the stairs, but this is more pressing.
"So what'd you dig up?"
"Nothing weird, this place is tricked out with protection symbols."
"Upstairs, too."
Castiel interjects, "This place is protected by the strongest wards humanly possible."
"Right," Dean agrees, impressed, but skeptical, "So, what's our theory? Martha Stewart took some home décor tips from Bobby…I mean, seriously, who lives here?"
"Well, uh, that's the thing," Sam pushes the papers towards Dean, "Apparently, we do."
"What?"
Sam shrugs, "It's all there, notarized, legit, deed's in our names, ours and Cas'."
"How the fuck did we get a house?" Dean shuffles through the papers, glaring like they did him a great personal wrong.
"According to this, we inherited it."
"A house?"
"A house."
"Who the fuck would leave us a house?" Sam can hear the thoughts rattling around behind his brother's strained, incredulous face: they don't know anyone whose life was untouched enough to have anything to leave them beyond guilt and regret.
Sam's head is starting to ache, "Someone named Rebekah Mason."
"Who the fuck is Rebekah Mason?"
Sam shrugs; he wishes that Dean would stop asking questions that he obviously doesn't have the answer to. He has no clue who Rebekah Mason is, but, apparently, Cas does, "Your paternal grandmother."
"Our what?"
Castiel blinks, he had been peering curiously at the oven, but now he turns to face Dean and Sam's flummoxed expressions.
"Your paternal grandmother," he repeats.
"And you're just bringing this up now?!"
"It was not of import before."
"The hell it—" Dean bites his lip, takes a deep breath, may or may not silently count to ten, "Cas, why did our dead grandma leave us a house with supernatural mojo out the ass?"
Castiel frowns, perhaps puzzled by the phrasing of the question, then he explains. He tells them that how John Winchester—and by extension Sam and Dean—was descended from the most elite supernatural scholars. How both of his parents were members of a secret society, the keepers of this knowledge on earth. How when John's biological father, Henry, went missing as part of a ritual, and the majority of the organization was destroyed, John's mother, Rebekah, made the decision to remove John from the life to protect him, until he came of age ("well, that really worked out great for him," Dean spits dripping sarcasm. "Dean," Sam censures). She died in a car crash when John was seventeen, his step father never knew, and the knowledge was lost.
"So," Dean's whole body is tense, "You're telling me that we're the French chick in the fucking supernatural da vinci code?"
Castiel looks totally baffled. Sam glares at Dean and then sighs, "Well, I guess it makes sense."
"What?" Dean retorts.
"What cupid said about heaven hooking up mom and dad: the Campbells and the Winchesters, the brains and the brawn," he pauses, "I guess that's how you know about this, Cas?"
"Your genealogy is widely known amongst the host," he replies, still toneless. Sam is staring to suspect that Cas is going to maintain an eerie calm until he completely snaps one day…it's worrying him.
"So why the hell do we get this now? It's not like grandma just kicked the bucket yesterday, she's been dead for goin' on fifty plus years here."
"There was also this," Sam hands Dean the envelope.
It's addressed to the three of them, inside there are two things: a check from Chuck's publishing house for a sum of money that makes Dean's eyes fly wide; it's accompanied by a note that reads, "Retirement Fund. Enjoy the epilogue."
Dean is silent for a full minute, and Sam braces his hands against the table top.
"What the actual fuck?" Dean spits murderously.
"I don't know, man," Sam replies, treading carefully. Cas is watching them both with something like anxiety on his face. Sam is becoming increasingly certain that Cas is taking his emotional cues from Dean and that is a truly disturbing thought.
"I mean, what? Did Chuck fucking know that all this was gonna go down? Did he know about Cas and not tell us? Because a little fucking warning would have been nice," Dean is ranting and the tension in the room is thick and palpable. Sam knows that this more than anything else is what's really upsetting him.
"Dude, I know as much as you do," Sam opens his hands to the side in surrender, "but Cas is here, we're here, supernatural shit is on lock down, and I'm pretty sure that Chuck left us a house and a 'normal life' fund."
"And, that's not suspicious to you at all?" Sam hasn't seen Dean this dubious of his sanity since the Ruby debacle.
Sam rolls his eyes, "Of course it's suspicious," he glances at Cas, who very quietly observes this exchange, "but if it's a trap or a hoax or whatever, it's pretty fucking elaborate…I don't know…"
"What?"
"After everything we've been through, maybe, we should just take it."
Dean glares, "Sam—"
Sam perseveres though, doesn't let his brother cut him off, "Haven't we earned it, Dean? A shot at apple pie…all of us." He lets his eyes flick quickly to Cas and watches as Dean follows the motion, and then he gives his brother the strongest puppy eyes he can muster because after everything—yellow eyes, mom, dad, Jess, life on the road, their sacrificed childhoods, their lives, Cas' grace, Ellen, Jo, Anna, the fucking apocalypse, hell—they do deserves this, they deserve a chance for something better, a do over, a second chance. It's scary as hell—the idea of normal, the idea of settling—more terrifying than Lucifer breathing down their necks, but they need to do this. For everyone they've lost, for everything they've lost, for Cas, for each other, for themselves. Dean can see that in Sam's face, can read him like a book, can feel the thoughts flying through the air at him. He looks implacable, but Sam knows that he's processing. Dean glances at Cas, who is regarding the floor, he looks back at Sam. He's glowering, his face is unyielding, but Sam can feel the moment when he caves just a bit, just enough. Sam has to forcibly restrain himself from punching the air in triumph, maintain a poker face.
He sighs, "I guess we can spend the weekend at grandma's while we figure this shit out. Free room and board anyway…"
Sam's smile is tentative and unsteady and he has to keep it from filling his whole face, "Okay."
"Cas, you cool with that?" Dean asks. His tone is one that Sam recognizes as trying to bury something important in flippancy.
Cas regards Sam, who grins reassuringly, and then Dean, with whom he shares that freaky profound bond stare that they have, before nodding slowly, "I approve of that plan."
"Well then, that's settled," Dean says, shoving his hands into his pockets and hunching his shoulders unconsciously, like he wants this, but he's trying to protect himself from it. Sam is struck suddenly with the realization that Dean has never really had a home, not since he was a small child, and it went up in flames. The shifty looks that he keeps shooting at Sam and Cas, tell him clearly that he's terrified of letting himself settle into something that can be snatched away again so easily. Sam would reach out to Dean, but that's just not how they are, so he sighs.
"I guess we should make this place a little more fit for human habitation," he points out.
Dean looks appraisingly at the walls, windows, cabinets, and floors, "You know, for a house that's been abandoned for more than fifty years, this place is in pretty damn good shape."
"The wards," Castiel interjects, impassively.
"What about them?" Dean looks prepared for the news that they've crashed and a hellmouth has been unleashed over their heads.
"They protect against everything," Castiel continues, and Dean relaxes slightly, "not just the supernatural, but the natural—decay, fire, pests—it was meant to be a safe house."
Dean seems subtly reassured by the news that the house is fire proof, and, honestly, Sam relaxes once again at the promise that it's demon proof. Dean is still tense and wary; mistrust and unease coming off him in waves. But Cas' comment catches Dean's attention and the hunter is taking in Cas' pallor, his slightly sweaty brow, and the way he's leaning one arm on the counter top for support. He looks back to Sam, who knows that if it weren't for Cas they would probably continue this argument indefinitely, winding down some dark and twisted psychological roads, dredging up old wounds, and inflicting some new ones. As it is, Dean's distracted by Cas' injuries and exhaustion. He gives Sam a nod that promises a continuation of this argument, and Sam shrugs because he would expect no less.
"Well, in that case," he shoots a conciliatory grin at the fallen angel, "Cas, what d'you say we go find you a room and get you settled, huh?"
"Is there a hidden room that we should be looking for?" He looks confused.
"Just c'mon."
Sam rolls his eyes as he watches Dean lead Cas upstairs. His brother is still freaked out by change, trying to bury his worries in caring for Cas and forced levity, but the dam is going to break and soon. He sighs heavily and walks into the living room, opens another shutter, and lets the light stream into the house—his house. It's a weird phrase, but he thinks he could get used to it. A small smile steals over his features without any conscious effort; it's loose and easy, like a gesture long forgotten from another life.
"You comin', Sammy?" Dean calls, "Move your ass or you're gonna hafta to sleep in the library."
"Perhaps Sam would prefer that arrangement?" Cas' voice is quieter, and he can hear Dean laugh. It's the first time he's heard that sound in what feels like forever.
Sam's smile grows a little broader in response, and he shakes his head, mounting the stairs two at a time, heading towards the sound.
AN:
Sorry for the delay, folks! Thanks for taking the time to read and review this story! You are all awesome and I'd love to hear what you think of this chapter!
A couple of notes:
I'm keeping the Men of Letters storyline intact. It makes a lot of sense to me and I like it. I have however included my own headcanon, which will probably be blown out of the water before too long, that Grandma Winchester was also a Woman of Letters. It just seems to make sense to me. Honestly, I was frustrated that we never learned her name or anything about her. I was also annoyed that the Men of Letters, a thousand + year old organization didn't have a better contingency plan for dealing with demon invasion or making sure that the next generation got the info. I allowed myself to accept with the caveat that Grandma Winchester was also involved and decided to protect John and the legacy by going underground after Henry disappeared. Please, roll with me on that one.
Providence, NY is a made up place, based on several towns that I've been to in NY/PA/NJ. I apologize to any Providence, NY that may actually exist, for stealing your name.
Sam quotes "As Time Goes By" in this chapter, just a couple of years early, obviously, those words are not my own, credit to the SPN writers.
Thanks again everyone! Hugs and love! More soon!