Taking in Strays

by PrincessDesire

The night of the fire, Sam is taken by an angel and raised as a hunter with no knowledge of his Winchester ties, so when he meets Dean, he doesn't know that he's not supposed to be attracted to him.

5. Chapter 4: Phone Calls

"Hey Kiddo, get bitten by any monsters?" asks Dean.

Sam snaps back, "Nope, I think that it just had it out for you, Grandpa." Chal, who insisted that the boys talk to each other, left the room after passing him in the phone. Sam thinks that it's one thing for her and John to talk on the phone, they're practicing some messed up courtship ritual, but making him and Dean talk is just weird. The awkwardness of being on the phone with Dean lasts for all of about two seconds, because Dean immediately starts asking questions about their secret, the one that unites them, and does so while referring to Sam as "kiddo" which, while condescending, demonstrates familiarity.

"I can't help it if I'm delicious," retorts Dean.

Sam smiles which is okay because Dean can't see it. "I'll take your word for that."

"That would be a waste."

"Huh?" asks Sam. He feels dense, suddenly, because that couldn't be flirtation could it?

"Genius, my ass," says Dean. "So, everything's okay there? No more waheela attacks?"

Dean's dad must still be in the room, otherwise Dean wouldn't be using this coded language to check up on the waheela cub. It's been three days and already Cujo has let Sam pet it, though warily, mistrusting pink eyes on him at all times. "Nope." Then, he whispers, "Even let me pet it."

"You be careful."

"Yes, mom." Sam leans back in his computer chair, long legs draped over the only section of desk with exposed surface, the only area without textbooks, papers, knick-knacks, pencils, or CDs. He grips the squishy pink stress-relief ball that Chal bought him from Office Depot. It smells funny, like latex, but it's hard not to touch it, subtly amusing to squeeze the soft texture and watch as it slowly returns to its original shape.

"I can't be both your mom and your grandpa, Sam. Pick an insult and stick with it."

"Does 'dick' work?" Sam smiles at the combination of both curse and rhetorical question.

Dean's voice lowers, implying secrecy. "Sometimes it does." And Sam looks at the white cordless phone as though it's responsible for the innuendo that Dean is tossing out. Before he can answer, which would probably take long enough to read War and Peace, Dean says, "Well, I'm gonna get back to the Simpsons. Have we talked in enough to make Chal happy? Ow!" Sam can't hear whatever John's doing or saying, but Dean sounds huffy when he says, "I'm passing the phone back to Dad."

"Night, Dean."

"Night, Danny Boy."

Their second conversation occurs three days later and goes much the same way, with Chal pushing the phone into his hand and John doing the same to Dean. He feels like he's in a reverse Parent Trap where the parents try to get the kids together.

"Hey, Sam. I am totally voluntarily talking to you with no pressure from my dad."

This time, Sam hears the thunk that precedes Dean's exclamation of surprised pain. "Ow. Dad! Not your shoe!" says Dean. "My back's gonna reek for days."

Sam laughs, textbook jiggling to the motion of his belly. "You should watch it; your dad's kind of scary."

"Yep!" agrees Dean, sounding proud. "So, how's Nick?"

Sam looks over at Chal. She's repotting a plant on the dining room table. He considers going into his room, but that just feels like giving in to whatever Chal is trying to foist upon him. "I'd rather not talk about that now," he says softly.

"You should give me your cell phone number."

Sam's surprised. "You'd call me?" He winces at the optimistic immaturity, wants to just pass the phone back to Chal and say, "Never mind, I'm way too dorky for him."

"Dude, I spend hours driving and sitting in hotel rooms watching the fucking paint dry. Sure. What the hell else better do I have to do?"

"Flatterer," jokes Sam, but he's relieved. He knows that their folks are kind of shoving them into a friendship and he doesn't want to be that pesky younger kid that follows the older one around everywhere. He gives Dean his cell number three times since the first time Dean doesn't have a pen handy and the second time he gets the numbers wrong.

"I'll bug you tomorrow once we get under way. We're driving up to Maine in the a.m."

"Cool," says Sam. Tomorrow is a Saturday and except for sleeping, he doesn't have any big plans to celebrate the start of the weekend. "What's in Maine?"

"Ghost, I think. Dad just kind of tells me where to go and I worry about how to kill it once we get there."

Sam grins. Chal always goes overboard with her strategizing, as though she's still part of her old garrison. "Cool."

"Go get Chal; I'm putting Dad back on."

"Okay."

"Bye, Danny Boy."

It would be lame for him to wait around outside for Dean's call and that totally isn't what he's doing by sitting all alone in the Ram listening to the radio, volume low, and re-reading the same pages of a book while sneaking peeks at his cellphone. And if he happens to answer Dean's call before the first ring finishes, that doesn't necessarily mean that he's excited to have Dean calling him of his volition, separate from John's prodding.

"Hello?"

"Sammy!" Dean yells over the sound of the Rolling Stones. "A waheela is not for petting. It's a monster."

There haven't been any signs that Cujo is anything but the bear puppy that it looks like. Not only has it been letting it pet him, but now it waits for him when it hears the shed door open, already anticipating that it will be Sam. He'd been pleased when it had done it, but then it occurred to him that it only makes Chal going out the shed that much more dangerous. Sooner or later, he's going to have to find a new place for the adorable beast. "Tell that to Cujo."

"What?"

"Turn down the music, you dumbass."

The music disappears entirely and Dean says, "You do NOT get radio control in my baby, especially when you're not even in it!"

"Just thought it'd be easier to not have to yell everything."

Stubbornly, Dean sidesteps admitting the logic of that thinking. "So, why are you treating a waheela like a puppy?"

"It is a puppy, Dean. It's a waheela puppy. If it grows up domesticated…"

Dean interrupts, "Don't give me that nature versus nurture crap."

Sam thinks that of all people, Dean Winchester shouldn't think the nature versus nurture argument is crap. He is practically the poster child of the argument for "nurture." Of course, Dean might be in denial, might think that regardless of his upbringing he'd always be proficient with handling firearms and familiar with torture techniques. That would be some messed up innate talents.

"Fine, how about the "benefit of the doubt" crap?" Sam asks.

Dean pauses. "Just be careful, Sammy. Don't let its cuteness make you forget that it's a killer."

Chal does this to him all the time, underestimating his intelligence, inundating him with a repetition of warnings that even a small child could figure out unaided. "Whatever," he huffs, tossing his book, Arthur C. Clarke, onto the dash of the Ram.

"So, tell me about Nick."

"I haven't really been working on him. I've got finals coming up." Sam has been drawing, but he's not sure yet if he has another comic on his hands or just some doodles. So far it's just been forest scenes, mostly because he's been replaying the night of the waheela hunt over and over in his mind. His pencil has been creating leaves and bark, the plants darkened by a moonless night sky. He likes them, thinks the atmosphere adequately reflects the spooky woods that night, but they might just be one-offs with no real story behind them.

"Finals? God, I'm glad I'm out of school."

Sam knows how Dean feels. He likes learning, but hates school. He's heard that college is better, that you have more say in the things you learn there, but the thought of doing core curriculum stuff pisses him off. He just wants to read what he wants, learn what he wants. "Yeah, rub it in…"

"What classes are you good at?" asks Dean.

"I don't know. English."

"Yeah, well, it is the language you speak."

"I'm pretty good at languages in general," Sam says, ignoring the insult. "I mean, I know a lot of Latin and so that helps with Italian. I learned some Korean when I was in Alabama."

"Wait, you learned Korean in Alabama?"

"Yeah, kind of unconventional, but I was friends with a girl whose family had just come from Korea."

"Nice," says Dean. "A girl or a girlfriend?"

Sam smiles. Ji-eun would have had his ass if he'd tried to kiss her, but then, they'd been like ten. The first few months of their tentative friendship, she'd still thought boys were icky, and he'd only gone so far in changing her mind with his bug collecting and fart humor. He wonders what she's grown up to be like, if she still roller skates. "Just a friend."

"You going to college?"

"I haven't decided yet."

A loud honk blasts Sam's ear drum and he pulls the phone back from his ear. He hears Dean cursing. "I hate New York. Hey, why don't we cut this short?" asks Dean.

"Sure."

"I'll talk at you later, Kiddo."

The line goes silent before Sam gets the chance to say goodbye.

On Monday afternoon Dean's phone beeps with the message, Call when Solo. He's just gotten back from lunch at Yum Diner (the name does not reflect the quality of the cuisine) and is lying on the lumpy twin bed considering napping through the intestinal acrobatics required to digest the Yum Time Special. He calls Sam back right away looking forward to distracting himself with the pleasantness of conversation with his friend.

"I'm as Solo as Han," he says after Sam says hello. He's seen the posters, knows that Sam will get it.

"You can officially call Cujo a bitch," says Sam.

"Did it bite you?" His concern is tempered by the fact that Sam's not too injured to text.

"No, I mean Cujo is female."

"No shit?" Dean's eyes flick to where his jacket is lying across his duffel on the second bed. "But she didn't like my jacket!"

"Maybe she's a lesbian waheela." Dean hears the smile in Sam's voice. "I flipped her over, and yeah, before you ask, she did try and bite me, but anyway, I didn't see a dick, so either she's a girl or she takes after you."

"Fuck that, my dick is awesome." He's staring at the air conditioning unit, a Friedrich. It's not hot enough to necessitate the cooler, but he will probably turn on the fan part at some point, just to air the room out. They'd been all out of non-smoking rooms and while Dean can appreciate a good cigar, stale cigarette is not exactly like potpourri. "Almost too big really."

Sam laughs. "Just keep telling yourself that."

A wicked thought slips off Dean's lips. "Bigger than you could take, Sammy." The line goes quiet and Dean thinks he's gone too far. He waits for Sammy to say something but silence drags the moment like the last day before summer vacation. He switches topics. "You're not teaching the damn waheela to fetch, are you?"

"I've rolled a ball for her a bit," Sam's voice is softer, more subdued.

Dean likes that he's shocked the teasing arrogance out of Sam. He just loves causing reactions in the kid, possibly because it's so easy to do. "Jesus Christ, it's a monster not Lassie!"

"Are we gonna have this conversation every fucking time we talk?"

Sam's words should sound pouty, but instead, their tone reminds Dean of his dad right when his temper hits its limit. That voice in John's throat means that Dean's about to get the cold shoulder because he's pushing dad too much. Not wanting the punishment of silence, Dean backs down. "Nah, I'm dropping it now. Tell me something else going on with you besides looking for monster dick." He hadn't even meant the double entendre but it amuses him greatly when he notices it.

"Well, I started a new comic."

Dean feels stupidly sad for Nick, doesn't want the poor junkie abandoned. "Oh yeah? What's it about?"

"It's called Hunters. I'm not sure I like it yet, only done a few panels."

"I'm sure it kicks ass. Do I get to see it next time?"

"You're still heading to Maine right?"

Dean hadn't meant to imply that he was going to be in Michigan anytime soon. "Yeah, but you still need time to draw it."

"If I get any time."

"Still dealing with finals?"

"Not for two more weeks, but that means that a lot of end of year projects are coming due."

"Sucks." Dean doesn't really know what else to say. He'd hated school, felt like it was a façade, just a mask of order in a world of chaos. Knowing how many electrons were in a plutonium atom wasn't going to save your ass from a witch hex. "Well, I'm gonna get some use out of this crappy bed."

"For sleep?" asks Sam.

Dean likes that he's asking, maybe getting braver, though it could just be in reference to it being afternoon. "This time," he says provocatively.

Sam laughs. "What, did your leather jacket fail to bag you company?"

Definitely braver, thinks Dean. "One of these days, your smart mouth is going to get you into trouble."

"Goodnight, Dean."

"Yeah, whatever," says Dean, ending the call with a smile.

On Monday night, Sam's mixing up a bowl of hummus and sucking down the occasional fingerful when Chal enters the kitchen with a smile illuminating her face. Dean's coming, he thinks. That smile would probably be reserved for John, but where one Winchester is, another seems to follow. She doesn't care that he's got chickpeas and garlic on his fingers, just reaches out for him and pulls him into a tight hug.

"You okay?" he asks, surprised, and then worried as he realizes that she's crying. His arms close around her, hands stretched backwards to avoid covering her with food. "Chal?"

She smiles up at him, chin on his chest. "I am great."

"You're crying…."

Chal laughs, rubs the back of her wrist across her wet lashes. "Indeed. I've been a human too long, it seems."

"What's wrong?" He remembers the last time that she cried. She had run over a possum in the Ram. Her response had been as intense as though she'd hit a person. He'd had to talk her out of calling an ambulance. She kept insisting that, regardless of what Sam said, the paramedics would have to try and revive the possum because it was a living thing and that was their job.

She releases him and laughs. "Nothing is wrong. We have another pet."

"A possum?" he asks.

She tilts her head in that way that means she doesn't understand something; she doesn't know the strange connection that Sam now has to her tears and possums. "No, not a possum. A waheela."

Dean's gonna kill me, Sam thinks. "How did you…? Did you go out to the shed?"

Chal nods. "I bought boxes for the move. I was unloading them. So, what's its name?" she asks excitedly.

Sam knew that Chal would take the news better than Dean's dad, but he had no idea that she would be happy about it. Considering this thing could grow up to be another thing that they have to hunt, she should be at least a little frustrated, not shedding happy tears in their kitchen. "Cujo."

"Cujo," she repeats, obviously not associating the name with Stephen King. "Cujo Ackles. It's a good name. I approve of the choice."

"I'll let Dean know."

"Oh!" her hands clasp in front of her mouth and she looks like she might scream. "You and Dean saved the cub?"

Perhaps admitting that hadn't been the smartest thing that he'd ever done. Sam Ackles, snitch by accidental oversharing. "Oh. Yeah, but, Chal, you can't tell his dad! He would be so mad if he knew!"

She hugs him again and this is going past the point of weirdness. He uses the heels of his palm to push her back. "Chal, what the hell?"

She's crying again and smiling still and Sam wonders when she got so erratic. The answer is easy enough, though. She started acting weird when John showed up, when she got her crush. If this is what women act like when they're in love, he's glad she's waited so long to date, and that he likes dudes. "I'm just happy."

"You're happy we saved the waheela?"

"Yes, Sam."

"Okay, so you're not mad?"

"No."

He blinks at her. She blinks back. "I'm going to finish making dinner," he says slowly as though dealing with a crazy person, which he feels that he might be.

"I am going to bring Cujo into its new home." She nods at him and then leaves him standing there in the kitchen befuddled and smelling of garlic.

Don't kill me.

The text is from Sam and Dean knows instantly what it means. Hell, it's been amazing that the kid has managed to keep the damn waheela secret for this long. There's no way that John would fail to notice Dean hiding something for nine days. Of course, Dean's dad has that freaky marine paranoia going on that contributes so much to his being a good hunter. At the moment, Dad's scribbling down notes from a book he's studying. Normally after checking into a motel, they split off for their own rooms and don't see each other until morning, but this hunt is more of a night gig, and they'll be leaving soon to investigate. Sleep will have to wait for sunrise, if they're lucky.

What? Dean types, turns off the TV and waits for a response. He hasn't really been paying attention to the movie anyway.

Cujo. Chal knows.

I give you one task, Sam.

Dean isn't mad. He is a touch concerned about how Sam is going to react when Chal puts Cujo down and even sad that the beast has to bite it, because it really is cute and Sam is pretty attached.

She was happy.

Run that by me again?

She brought it in and bathed it.

Dean re-reads the text then shakes his head. This is what moms are supposed to be like, he knows, all nurturing and stuff, but she should know better even if Sam doesn't. He wonders why the Ackles family is so damned caring. It could have something to do with living in a home rather than on the road, but Dean suspects that maybe they just haven't had to do that many awful things, like having to kill something that looks human, or torturing someone to get information out of the demon inside them, or choosing to let a child be bait so that a monster will never kill again; maybe they haven't done those hunter things that leave him gasping for breath pouring with sweat in the middle of the night.

She won't tell your dad.

She'd better not.

By this point, if Chal likes the beast, then there's not a hell of a lot his dad is going to do about it. The two have spoken on the phone every day and not just simple calls to check in, but long conversations; Dean has heard his voice, not the words, but the voice, through the walls as they talk for hours. His dad is way too smitten to bitch about her new pet. Dean himself might get an earful, but Sam's stupid impromptu pet won't have anything to fear from Chal's sweetheart.

How pissed? 1-10.

Just keep her quiet.

I will.

Sam misses a call from Dean while he's in class and it drives him crazy to wait until the walk home to return it, but knowing that he'll have more time to talk provides enough incentive for him to wait. They haven't spoken since he told Dean about Chal discovering Cujo. He hadn't even had the nerve to call Dean then, had used text messaging so that he wouldn't have to hear the angry disappointment. Then, when the text messages coming in from Dean hadn't seemed that mad, Sam worried that he'd fucked up and Dean was washing his hands of the matter and he'd wished he'd called so that he could at least gauge Dean's temper by his voice.

Dean is his speed dial 3 (Chal is 2) but pressing the button only takes him to Dean's answering service. Sam lets out a sort of growl at the phone and walks the short route home in a huff.

Chalendra wants to tell John about their boys' act of mercy not because she thinks that John would understand (she's quite certain he would not), but because she has never been prouder of Sam. She wants to say to him, "Look at what a kind-hearted human your son has grown into! Your strength and bravery are in him and they go so well with the lessons I have taught him!" This is why pride is a sin; she wants to take credit for how Sam has turned out, but that's Sam's glory to have, not hers; her role was important, but in the end, his actions are his responsibility and no one else's. And he chose to save the baby waheela, had saved it with his brother, uniting to give the orphaned creature a chance. She loves him so much and wants to shout to all that the boy she has raised from infancy is now a man with a good heart.

So, hearing John's voice this morning doesn't cheer her, but frustrates her. He's talking about the hunt that he and Dean were on the previous night and normally she'd be taking notes, asking questions. Instead, she's staring at the cardboard boxes, still flat, that lay against the wall by the door and speculating about what John's reaction would be to Cujo's existence. Cujo itself is hiding, has been ever since she'd bathed it last night. Chal figures that soon enough it will uncover itself, the need for food and companionship an undeniable motivator in so many of God's living creatures.

"Chal, you there?" asks John.

"Yes, sorry, I am looking at all the boxes that I must assemble to prepare for the move." She's sidestepping, but it's a true enough statement.

"If you need help, you know that…"

She cuts him off. "Again, it's fine. We will have movers for the difficult part."

"Have you told him that you're going to Texas yet?"

"Not yet. He'll be pleased, but he has made the relocation choice often since he's been older, and it won't be too surprising for him."

John laughs. "You have such a soft spot for that boy."

Chal has had a soft spot for Sam Winchester since the night that she rescued him.

Lawrence, Kansas – November 1983

Chalendra arrives, a flurry of feathers and something as close to panic as an angel is capable of, perhaps ten yards from where her former garrison leader and grace-mate communicated her last message. It had been mostly just images with a few words that sounded tinny in Chal's head. A baby and a small child, "vessels", a demon whom Chal recognized immediately even without the name affixed by Raquel's panic: "Azazel", temporary king of Hell. Then there was the pain that radiated into the bond that the two angels shared. Piecing together what is happening, what must have befallen Raquel, is not difficult. Still, Chal is disoriented anyway, protection instinct burning inside her, making her landing inaccurate. It is this inaccuracy that saves her.

The lamplights are out along the street but there is light from a fire burning in a circle. Chal can smell the holy oil and with her keen eyes, she sees her fallen comrade, the one who had once told her that the only true autonomy came from serving others, in a limp pile inside the fire.

She is far enough away that the demons don't notice her. She has enough time to take them in, two alive, three visible non-viable vessels. In one arm Azazel holds a screaming infant. His other hand wields an angel blade, most likely the one that struck down Raquel. She can see his true form, instinctively recoils from the black swirling mass of evil behind his human form.

Chalendra does not fear death, but she does fear failure. She has no time to mourn the loss of her grace-mate and mentor, not if she wants to rescue the human.

She spreads her wings and aims for the leader of Hell, swoops not unlike a raptor and plucks the child from his arms. Azazel is fast for a demon, begins to move before he should realize what's happening, but he is still no match for angel flight speed. In another beat of his vessel's heart, she is a world away, a warm chalet in a lonely mountain.

Her breathing is ragged from fear and exertion. The sound of it gets drowned by the baby's cries. She looks down at the vessel for Lucifer and examines him. She presses a hand to his chest, uses her grace to scan him for any signs of damage. He isn't injured, but he is still upset, round face red and wet. She wipes at his cheeks with her robe.

She wonders that she was the only one summoned by Raquel's cry of distress. It occurs to her then that she did notice some sigils as well in the ring of holy fire. It could be that they muzzled her, that the only reason she was able to call out at all was because of the intertwining of their grace. "Raquel," she sighs, grace heavy and sad in her chest.

Then, the baby grabs her hair and yanks. She leans back, but the small child is amazingly strong. She has to uncurl his little fist from around the strand. "You must not pull on my hair, little vessel," she warns. Her admonition does no good because his other hand has reached out to grab more, and this fistful becomes a mouthful. "You certainly must not eat my hair."

With a mouthful of hair, though, the child quiets. Its eyes are still shiny with tears, but the noise and the diaphragm spasms have stopped. She smiles. "Hair is not a human food though I believe you do digest quite a bit in your short life span."

He takes this trivia tidbit like everything else, with interest.

The chalet smells of wood and pine. Chal carries the baby to a rocking chair and they sit together, the baby gnawing on her hair and her pondering the situation.

This vessel, while still very small, will one day house Lucifer in much the same way that the human holding the evil thing that calls itself Azazel did. She can't imagine what holding something so immense and powerful will do to such a small human. Surely, he'll grow, but even then, he looks so vulnerable now.

"You are pivotal in the apocalypse. Both demon and angelkind require your body and soul for the reincarnation of Lucifer."

The baby chews.

"You seem to desire sustenance," she says. Really though, she requires some time to think about the actions she must take, to figure out how much she wants angels to know about the little human. She finds him real food, baby food, and she smiles as he slurps it, half down his throat and half down his pajamas.

Flint, Michigan – May 1999

It isn't until after dinner while Sam is browsing the internet that Dean calls back.

"Hey!" Sam greets.

"Hey," says Dean.

"I was in class."

"I was interviewing a witness."

Sam isn't sure which sounds worse. "Did you get the info you needed?"

"Kind of. I have no idea what Jack's is and neither did my witness."

"Jack's?"

"Yeah, some place, thinking maybe it's a bar."

"What city are you in?" asks Sam.

"Westbrook, Maine."

"One sec. I'll check the net for it." Sam thrills at the opportunity to be helpful for Dean. He pulls up the search engine and types in "Jack's and "Westbrook, Maine." "Yeah, it's a bar on Beechwood and Bridge."

"Hey, is it possible to see if there's been any police involvement there recently?"

"If it made the papers, definitely. Hold on." It's too easy for Sam to lose himself in the net. It's like swimming, immersing himself completely in all that knowledge, and sometimes he has to remember to come up for air. "Yeah, looks like. A murder outside the club."

"Outside of it?"

"That's what the article says." Sam can practically hear the wheels in Dean's brain turning. He reads aloud the small article in its entirety. "Doesn't fit?" he asks.

"Maybe," says Dean. "That's really helpful, Sam. Thanks."

The praise is a pleasant touch on his ear. "No problem."

"It's amazing how quick you can find all that out. You can find anything on the internet, huh? Heh. I bet you could find assloads of porn." Sam, wisely, stays silent, but it makes no difference because a lack of response is as much as an admission. "You look at porn on the net, Sammy?"

Damn Dean for making him blush from so many states away. He glares at the screen, but he's picturing Dean's smirk, knows that it's there behind the phone line. Dean just confirms it when he laughs and Sam wants to hang up, but doesn't.

"Hm," hums Dean. "What gets Sam Ackles off?"

Sam's dick responds, just a pulse of attention, to the question much faster than his lips. Dean's waiting this time, patience seemingly infinite when the reward is Sam's embarrassment. "Normal stuff."

"What's normal?"

This is torture, slow painful death by humiliation. He doesn't know that if he hangs up Dean will call back, but the temptation is there. Instead, he whines, "Dean!" like a parent would chastise a child for using a swear word.

"Come on, Sam, there's a whole world of porn out there. No such thing as normal."

Sam glances at his door, then the ceiling, imagining, incorrectly, that Chal is sitting on the other side of the wall listening. "Hold on," he tells Dean. He rises from his computer chair, can't believe that he is, and heads outside. He doesn't know what he's going to say (not the truth in a million years), but he knows whatever he does say he doesn't want Chal to overhear. Not even the rain, just a drizzle, which Sam spies through the half round window built into the front door, keeps him inside

Everything smells like rain, the lethargic wetness making the leaves droop and the grass slosh under his socked feet. Sam hadn't wanted to stop for shoes; worried that the time he's wasting getting to privacy is too long and Dean will lose interest, change the question, because even though it's humiliating and he'd wanted Dean to stop, he also wanted him to continue, to press the issue until he has no choice but to confess.

Sam climbs into the unlocked Ram and says into the phone, "back."

"Where'd you go?" asks Dean.

"Truck."

"Aha." Dean's voice, amused, puts Sam in his place, the lame younger kid too embarrassed to talk about sex within earshot of his mommy. "Private. So?"

"So, normal. One girl, one guy, in and out motion, the usual," he lies. How can he mention getting off to man-on-man action to Dean, so ruggedly, unflinchingly, exasperatingly macho that he could be a cover model for Field and Stream? He waits for Dean to insist he give a better answer, because he's sure that's what's coming. Instead, the line stays quiet. Sam offers, "There may be more of an emphasis on blowjobs," and his hand finds his cheek, cools it with icy fingers.

"What do you like about the blowjobs?" asks Dean.

It's a strange question, almost feels rhetorical (like asking what someone likes about being happy) but then Sam figures that Dean probably means what he likes in a scene that has blowjobs. "Uh, I guess I like their eyes. You know, when they're looking up while they do it."

Dean sighs and again Sam's dick lurches, just a twinge to let him know that it's still there and can be of use at any moment should Sam require it. "Is it because they're down below, looking up? Like, they're doing it all for you? Worshipping your cock and doing it to please you?"

Insta-rection. That's what Lucas, a guy he'd hung out with in California, called it when he'd see a hot girl and get instantly hard. Well, now Sam is portraying the definition as surely as a dictionary entry and Lucas would find it all kinds of funny that he's doing it because of a guy. Sam is so glad he'd gone to the car; maybe he'd instinctively known where Dean's mind would go, how his words that had only hinted before would become overt, molesting his ear.

"Yeah." The word sounds strangled from him.

"That's a great feeling, isn't it? Do you like having power over them?"

Sam doesn't know if he likes it because he's never had power over anyone, especially in the sexual sense, but he likes Dean's voice like this, deeper and almost scripted, like he's sharing details of a recurring dream. If it turns Dean on, then it turns Sam on too, and that is why he says yes. It's not because he's had power fantasies, he hasn't, or because he knows that's something he likes from personal experience, he doesn't, but because Dean wants him to say yes.

"I bet the girls like that. Probably gets them all wet, having you take control of them like that."

Sam's hand is roving and it shouldn't be. He's in Chal's truck, not his bed, and though his breath and the rain outside have fogged up the windows, they're still glass, still transparent. Here Dean is talking about control while Sam is trying to keep from publically exposing himself. Sam wants to hang up, wants to go hide in the shower and jerk off imagining Dean below him, eyes glittering, lustful emeralds, as Sam slides into his mouth. "I should go," says Sam, because he doesn't know what Dean wants from him. Is he talking dirty because he really does want to have phone sex? Is it all a game for Dean? See if he can make the desperate teenager touch himself on the phone?

Surprisingly, Dean chuckles. "Okay, I'll stop."

Please don't, Sam's mind begs, but Dean isn't telepathic, so he changes his voice, changes topics, and Sam wants to smack himself on the forehead for making it stop. "I should probably be checking out that bar that you found. Thanks for that again, by the way. Gonna make it a lot easier to put the pieces together."

Sam doesn't speak.

Dean resumes, "So, would it be cool if I asked you to look up some more stuff? Not now, but in the future?"

"Sure."

"Awesome. Well, I guess I'll go get to saving people. Bye, Sammy."

"Goodbye, Dean."

Sam waits for Dean to end the call then stares at the numbers on the telephone. Eighteen minutes and forty seven seconds they'd been talking. Dean drove Sam crazy in less than twenty minutes.

Cujo likes the boxes. She stands, paws grabbing the side of the boxes, and looks inside with unfettered excitement at each newspaper-wrapped trinket that Sam puts inside. Objects become new to the waheela just by the change in location and she investigates each with her nose, olfactory senses creating a blueprint of the contents of each ball of paper. Sam laughs at her. It's impossible not to find the fluffy white ball of curiosity adorable.

Chal looks up from her soldering, precise tool poised in midair over a relic she's been tweaking. She observes the scene and laughs. "Jo is ready to move!"

"Can't say I blame her," says Sam.

Chal shakes her head. "I know. No more cold states for you."

"That'd be nice," says Sam. He hasn't told her that he plans to leave on his birthday, and only in part because he doesn't know how exactly he's going to accomplish that. He's mostly worried about how hard she's going to take it. They've always been a duo, united against the world, and while that's the reason why he needs out ASAP, he knows she'll have a hard time adjusting. "The only snow I want to see fall from now on is in It's a Wonderful Life."

"John loves snow," says Chal.

For a second, Sam debates whether the excited puppy is cuter or his substitute mother. "Does he?" asks Sam. "What else does John like?" He says John in a lovey, sing-song voice.

Oblivious to his teasing, Chal tilts her head to the side and considers the, no doubt, long list of things she knows about John Winchester.

"Chal, I was teasing you."

She looks confused. "About John?"

"Yes."

"Oh." Her hands continue their work on the relic. After a minute passes, she speaks again. "He likes biographies. I've made a few recommendations."

Helen Forrest's question, "How deep is the ocean?" resonates from the stereo, just background noise that Sam barely notices. He's taping the Ann Arbor News around a statue of a fat squirrel and smiling at the lovesick fallen angel.

"He also likes baseball. I haven't been to a game since we were in Nevada."

"Chal, I don't think pee-wee baseball counts."

She shrugs. "You played very well for a child; I didn't find watching the game less entertaining for your ages."

A new sound fills the room, the insistent ring tone of the house phone. Sam sees the joy in her face, knows that she's excited that it's most likely John calling. She sets the soldering iron down carefully in its holder before rushing to answer.

Sam shakes his head, then crushes a ball of newspaper and chucks it at Cujo's head. It bounces off the fluff and Cujo happily chases it.

It's been four days since the incident with the blowjob interrogation and Dean is relieved as hell to see the kid's name in the little phone window indicating an incoming call. He was sure he'd scared the brat off with the way he'd been going on about porn and control and shit that he shouldn't have been. He'd been frisky that day and had gotten carried away, but Sam is a genuinely cool guy and it would really have sucked to run him off for good. He presses the green button on his cell phone and promises himself to be on his best behavior, regardless of whatever gutter topics flit through his mind.

"Sammy!" he calls.

"Hey, Dean. You free to talk?"

"Oh man, you have no idea how free I am. Sittin' in front of a Satanic church and waiting for something "suspicious." Do you have any idea how many suspicious people go in and out of Satanic churches?"

Sam laughs warmly. "Probably a lot."
"Damn right a lot." Dean can't help smiling. He's glad that Sam is still talking to him, forgiving his lapse of perviness. "What's going on in Michigan?"

"Just finished the first day of the last week of finals."

"All right! Then you're out in the Texas sun!"

"Your dad told you, huh?"

"Yeah, he said that Chal does whatever you want."

"That's not true."

Dean want to yank back the words because Sam sounds mad already, and it probably wasn't something his dad planned on having Dean repeat to Sam. "Nah," he tries to sound casual. "That's just how it is to stick up his ass John Winchester. I'm lucky if he lets me take a piss when we're driving eight hours."

"Yeah," says Sam. "Well, it's really important to her that we make joint decisions. It's always been that way."

"And she liked your idea to go to Texas, so that worked out for both of you."

Disaster averted, Sam sounds pleased again when he next speaks, and Dean relaxes. "Yep, Cujo was helping me pack boxes."

"Without thumbs? Impressive."

Sam laughs. "She smelled everything thoroughly. I think she could be a drug-sniffing waheela."

"Aha! I knew you and Chal were too relaxed! That's how the Ackles family keeps so peace and love."

"Peace and love? The first time we met you was on a hunt, dumbass."

The Satanic couple entering the building are later than the others for the black mass, but that doesn't mean that they are suspicious, even if the two take note of his car and its location across the street, and Dean might be making excuses in his head for why he isn't getting off the phone with Sam right away. He figures the congregation of freaks can wait two damn minutes for him to finish his call.

"Dude, only people smoking a hell of a lot of pot would think that being vegetarian," he puts an added emphasis of disgust on the word, "was a good idea."

Sam laughs again, a slight chuckle that sounds a bit evil scientist. "Yeah, and we did save the thing we were supposed to kill. Oh wait, that was you and me."

The female half of the Satanic couple emerges from the church. Long legs on spiky black heels propel her at what they call "power walking" speed towards Dean. "Uh, Sam, shit. I have to go." He hangs up the phone without waiting for Sam's goodbye. He has bigger issues to deal with. He rolls down his window and sticks an elbow out, wants to look relaxed though this dame is clearly not.

"Hey there," Dean greets the woman.

Her face is all sharp features and bold makeup, might be friendly somewhere underneath the cosmetics and rage, but that isn't the side she's putting forward right now.

"Get the fuck off church property!" she commands. Her hands wave in the air as she speaks. Careful, Dean thinks, Your white trash is showing.

"Thought you people were all about recruiting for your dark lord?"

"You're thinking of Christians and you're not a recruit."

Her hostility doesn't bother him. Hell, Dad with a hangover is worse than this chick "Well, not with a welcome like that!" he says, smiling. He's not sensing any conviction behind her anger, so he's responding in kind, barely pretending to be offended.

She tilts her head, considers him with eyelids heavy with black makeup. "Who do you work for?"

Normally when people ask him that he's in disguise – a repairman, an electrician, an insurance agent. There's not much point to pretending that he's a professional anything sitting in the impala in a t-shirt and jeans. "Independent contractor," he says. It's certainly as honest as he can get to the truth with a civilian. Of course, this chick probably isn't a civilian, might not even be human, and if she isn't, chances are good that she won't know he's a hunter for very long. "Do I have to be a CEO to sit in your parking lot?"

The Satanist chick tries not to laugh. Her voice strains to sound threatening. She says, "We don't care much for tourists."

"Must be why you're not selling me postcards."

She shakes her head with a small smile. "Just go away. Seriously, or I'll have to call the cops."

He acts boldly then because doing so works out well for him so often. He reaches out a hand and places it on her arm just above her elbow. "What if I want to sight see just the tour guide?"

It's not even close to his best line but she licks her lip absent-mindedly, and the tell lets Dean know that he's in.

"Dean?"

Sam blinks at the red digits on his clock. 4 am. He fists at his eyes with the hand not holding his cellphone, attempts to rub away the sleep.

"Hey, Sammy."

"It's four in the morning." A ridiculously delayed flash of fear crosses his stomach, jolts him awake. "Are you okay?"

"I am fan-fucking-tastic, Sammy. Just needed to say congratulations!"

"Congratulations for what?"

"It's the last day of school!"

Sam's pleasure that Dean remembered is far, far overshadowed by annoyance. "You're calling me at four in the morning."

"Yes, I am!"

"I'm going back to sleep."

"No, wait! Talk to me, Sammy!"

"Dean, I have school in like four hours!"

"Please talk to me Sam. Tell me about Nick! Tell me about Cujo! Tell me… tell me about that shit I'm not supposed to ask you about."

Sam's never heard Dean whine before and there's a desperation to it that makes him think that it isn't something that he often does. "Are you okay?" he asks again.

"I don't want to talk about me!" Dean yells. "Just… just distract me, Sam, please."

It doesn't matter that he has no idea what he's supposed to be distracting Dean from; Sam starts talking. He tells Dean about Cujo's leash training (Chal's idea) and the girl in his geography class who got caught cheating on her final and the books about necromancy that Chal found at a church sale and the time he bought chicken noodle soup from a vending machine and for years hadn't been able to smell chicken broth without feeling nauseated. He hears dean laugh or grunt, know that he's there and still listening. Dean doesn't interrupt through his ramblings. Even with the late hour and the pressure of his bladder, it still feels good to be listened to. And Dean doesn't know all these things, hasn't heard Sam's stories over and over again like Chal has.

When Sam finally winds down, mouth starting to yawn instead of forming words, Dean whispers, "Thanks, Sammy."

"What happened?" Sam asks.

"Had to be a hunter," Dean replies. "Had to stop them. She was nice though, under that. It wasn't her fault what they did. Well, it was, but she didn't know it was wrong. She'd been raised that way."

San stomach tightens. Dean killed someone or something that his mind identified as female. "Were they hurting people?"

"Oh yeah," Dean's lips flutter like a horse's, air blasting his cell's mic.

"And now they aren't," Sam says, not asking.

"I guess," Dean says with reluctance, knows where Sam is going with his point even through his drunken haze.

"Then it's good that you were a hunter."

Dean makes a little sob, three parts pain, one part whiskey. "I hate these ones, Sam."

"I know," soothes Sam, wishing that he could give the older boy a hug and offer him some comfort.

"She was so soft and sweet."

Sam gets it then, why Dean is drunk dialing him. Dean slept with the woman he had to kill. Sam's sure he's never felt such misplaced jealousy before. It's petty, envying a dead woman, and completely inappropriate to the moment, to the suffering that Dean is going through, and to the deceased.

"Her neck was ticklish. She giggled when I kissed it." Sam doesn't want to hear this, is about to suggest they hang up when Dean squeaks out, "I shot her in the heart."

"Dean," Sam breathes, sympathy stealing his air.

"Yeah, I know, I had to. Whatever. I just wish the bad guys were always bad guys, obvious ones like Darth Vader. I can't handle it when they're soft and sweet and good and evil at the same time." A sniffle snitches on Dean, lets Sam know that he's tearing up or maybe full-on crying. Then, he laughs. "Fuck whiskey, man."

"Seems more like whiskey's fucking you tonight."

Dean snorts. "Yeah well, I just wanted to call and wish you good luck on your last day of school."

Sam's bladder is happy that the conversation is drawing to a close and so is his heart, because he can't stand hearing Dean hurt like he is. "Thanks, Dean."

"All right, night Danny Boy."

"Hey, Dean." Sam pauses, knows that what he's thinking is really embarrassingly cheesy, and hopes that Dean's too drunk to hold it against him. "You're brave for helping people even when it's hard."

Dean doesn't respond, just says goodnight again.

"Night, Dean," Sam says and closes his phone. He glares at the lightening sky and the impatient clock before shutting his eyes and trying to get at least some sleep before class.

The packing officially commences, the past week merely a warm-up. Cujo is growing more uncomfortable about her environment with each wrapped piece of furniture and every stacked box. Chal has the 80's station on and she's singing with impressive volume, Madonna lyrics sounding way more blasphemous on the former angel's lips. Sam has the back claw of a hammer to the wall as he pops out nails that formerly held the large gold-frame mirror and his hips shimmy slightly from side to side with the beat.

Sam laughs at her when she attempts a high note and misses it entirely. Singing was never a talent she possessed, but the lack has never hindered her attempts.

For a second, her mind calls up her dear garrison-mate Thomas, his lovely voice and his appreciation for what humans call "low-brow" humor. "I hope Thomas has had the chance to hear Madonna. He would love her."

"Yeah?" asks Sam, encouraging her to continue. She knows that he likes to hear about heaven and its host, but the bittersweet taste that accompanies voicing those memories often deters her.

"Thomas sings bawdy songs too."

Sam set down the hammer and the crooked thick nails, flicks off a black spot of something stuck to his hand. "Yeah, but what's bawdy to an angel? Partridge Family jokes?"

"Angels are hardly the saints humans care to paint us as," she reminds him. Though Chal has never met an angel that doesn't feel superior to humankind, she's found many that are just as flawed as the wingless mortals of Earth, just as ready to let emotions guide them to make bad choices. "I still remember his favorite; shall I?"

He cocks his head expectantly, giving tacit permission with his attentive posture.

"Oh, but it's in Enochian."

"So?" asks Sam. "I can understand Enochian."

Chal can feel the guilt that leaps onto her face. "I haven't taught you the kind of words that you would need to know to understand the song."

"Chal!" He chides happily.

"Give me a minute to consider how it would translate. I might not be able to make it all rhyme."

"It rhymes?" he asks while lifting three boxes into one stack near the fireplace.

"Persephone, birthing hips and curving waist

Could use more than a pomegranate to taste

No matter if called Hercules or Heracles

He was still the best upon his knees"

Sam's laughter is immediate and intense. He actually grips the back of the sofa to stay upright. Chal's suspicion that his reaction is less about the lyrics and more about her singing them is confirmed when he gasps out, "You know dirty limericks!"

"Angelic dirty limericks," she corrects. The song has eight more verses, four couplets, and even she begins to laugh when she attempts to translate an Enochian word pun about testicles. It's embarrassing for reasons that she knows are human, specifically American, but it tickles her anyway, partially because of his amusement, greater than she's seen in years, and partially because this is an aspect of her garrison that she has never before shared with her ward. When she finishes, he claps and she covers her face with a dirty hand. "That is Thomas's, not mine," she reminds him.

"Then I hope to get the chance to meet Thomas someday."

May that day never come, she thinks. Thomas never had trouble following orders, never had twinges of conscience like she had, at least none that he voiced. Thomas would not have stolen away Sam, would have left the baby crying in his crib, blood-saturated future leaking down his throat and mother burning to ashes on the ceiling. She'd let her love for humanity, let the exaggerated sense of right and wrong, compel her actions. Fifteen years later and Chal still doesn't know whether she'd shown weakness or strength that night, can't even say whether it was the correct choice, but she'd definitely acted with compassion and, true to her nature, given everything she had to the path she'd chosen.

They continue packing, Chal singing along with the radio and Sam occasionally chuckling and shaking his head at her, as though the song had been her invention. When the house phone rings, Cujo growls, high-pitched warble sounding dangerous to its wild ears. She wishes she could still communicate with animals, let the young thing know that the phone poses no threat. "Shh, Jo."

"It's just John," says Sam. Then, his cellphone begins to ring, perky ringtone chiming from the leg pocket of his shorts. For a second, Sam and Chal exchange a worried look before hurrying to answer. It could be coincidence, a solicitor and Dean or John and a wrong number, but the Winchesters are hunting demon today and that means it's more dangerous, more likely to be the news that someone is hurt.

Sam retrieves his cellphone and stabs at the green button. "Dean?" he asks.

He hears Chal's formal "Collins residence" greeting from the kitchen.

"Sammy!" greets Dean, cheerful voice calming Sam immediately.

He peeks into the kitchen, sees the way that Chal sort of oozes against the house phone, the way she hangs onto every word when it's John talking. Sam rolls his eyes. "What's going on?" he asks. He opens the door, starts to step outside when an excited waheela nearly trips him. "Hey!" he calls to her. She hasn't gone far, just sniffing at the flowers in the yard, as though they are the most exotic perfume ever. "Stupid mutt."

"What did you call me?"

"Not you, dumbass, Cujo. She's out in the yard without her leash." Sam should go back inside and get her leash, but he's not going to. As long as he's out with her, it shouldn't be a big deal. Her nose always prevents her progress anyway. If he didn't know better, he'd swear she was part hound.

"I've got news," says Dean enigmatically. This must be some good news; they've never called simultaneously before.

Sam hoists himself atop the truck's hood. From here he can keep an eye on Cujo and the rest of the yard. Part of him is going to miss the place, but that tends to pass quickly enough. Home is where his computer is.

"You learned to read!" Sam jokes.

"I could read Latin before you learned your ABCs."

"Hey, take your call outside!" snaps John from the background of the phone call. Sam hopes that John isn't that grumpy to Chal. He'd liked John okay, but the guy has a higher bar to meet if he wants to date his surrogate mother.

The phone makes bumped sounds and Sam hears a door closing. There's a wind wherever Dean is, creating a white noise in the line.

"Dad wants some privacy with Chal, you know what that means," says Dean before cursing loudly. "Why the fuck is there a Lego on the ground?"

"You at school?" asks Sam.

After a few more interesting swear words, Dean answers. "Nah, a hotel. Some kid left a freakin' white Lego here. They're sharp, man!"

"I remember," agrees Sam. He'd been pretty good about putting away his toys after playing with them, but there was always an errant block or two that missed pickup and sometimes they became found again by the flat of his foot. "Why are you walking around barefoot?"

"I've got socks on and I didn't know that Dad was gonna toss me out of the room so that he can have phone sex with your mom."

"So, about your news…"

Dean laughs. "That's my boy, always dodging the sex talk."

"When it's about my mom, yeah."

"And when it's about you," points out Dean.

Sam can't help but feel this is not a good time to discuss their borderline phone sex, nonetheless, he feels the need to defend himself. "Maybe I'm just not much of a talker."

"I don't buy that for a second. You never shut your damned mouth."

"Well, dude, some things you talk about and some things you just do."

"More a man of action?" Sam can hear Dean's smile. He walked into that one.

"Guess you'll have to find out," Sam hears himself say. Oh God. He'd flirted back, hadn't meant to. It's one thing for to Dean to drop lines like that, Dean's older, better-looking, and self-confident to the point of narcissism, but for Sam to do it either shows that he's into Dean or trying to be like Dean, both true and both humiliating.

"Oh yeah?" asks Dean. Sam's height loses an inch. "You gonna show me the next time we meet, Sammy?"

Sam, wisely, keeps his trap shut. Instead, he watches Cujo sniff around the tires of the truck, occasionally glancing up at him, perhaps suspecting that he'll soon carry her back inside since she looks anxious.

"Well, good thing that I'm going to be seeing you soon then."

"What?" asks Sam, heart pausing.

"My news. Dad wants you two with us on this hunt in Missouri. It's dealing with your specialty and since he knows you're out of school, he thought maybe you and Chal could help us out."

"How does your dad know about my specialty?" Sam likes the idea of helping, freaking loves the opportunity to see Dean again, but he's suspicious, knows that Chal wouldn't put them in jeopardy by telling her new beau about the demon blood fueling his talents. Sure, he'd bragged abstractly once to Dean, but had he then told John?

"Chal told him, said you could suck them out and waste 'em without killing the host."

"Chal told him that?" Sam practically yells.

"Yeah why? Is this more Secret Agent Daniel stuff?"

Sam is freaking out. The phone is sweaty in his hand suddenly and he can't catch a full breath. "Hey, you okay?" asks Dean.

Sam doesn't know what to believe. Years of hiding his powers, his name, moving from place to place trying to stay one step ahead of angels that might come for him, they overwhelm him. He can't believe Chal would throw all that away, tell his deepest darkest secret to a hunter. Chal never trusts anyone but Sam, he's furious that all it's taken is a crush and now she's letting loose their secrets like she's hopping up on sodium pentothal.

"What's the problem?" asks Dean.

"He's gonna hunt me."

"Hunt you? Dad? Whoa, hold on there, Sam. No one's gonna hunt you."

"Sure you will!" Sam exclaims. He's not even sure what's going on anymore.

"Sam, you're not a monster. So, you've got a little extra awesome. That just makes you Spiderman. You're one of the good guys. Dad knows that. I know that."

He can't handle this call. "I gotta go," Sam says, clicking his phone shut.

He jumps off the Ram and takes to the sidewalk. It's a warm day, humid, the clouds heavy like eyes full of tears. Some days when he's walking, he tries to guess about who people are just by the decorations in front of their houses. Right now, he might as well be walking with his eyes shut. He barely even hears the click of Cujo's little claws behind him. His phone rings. He pulls it out of his pocket and stares at it, undecided until he opens it whether or not he's going to answer. He does.

Dean talks before he does. "Look Sam, I don't really understand what's happening, but everything is fine. I don't think less of you for what Chal told Dad. Are you mad cause it wasn't her place to tell? Because I can get that. Everyone has shit they don't want people to know about them. Those things don't make them bad people."

"Are any of your secrets as big as being able to kill demons with your mind?" Sam hisses. Sam's angry at Chal; he knows he's taking out his anger on the wrong person.

"Yeah, but not as cool."

Sam slows, brisk near run now a normal walk. He breathes, focuses on the sky and the trees and the sign that reads "slow children," a sign that always makes him think of baby turtles.

"Is your secret that you like messing with guys' heads?"

"Uh," Dean pauses. "That's not a secret."

"Messing with my head?"

"Again, not a secret. What's your point, Sam?"

"Nothing. I'm… I'm pissed at Chal and fucking misdirecting."

"Yeah, well, that's fine cause I like talking about me. Wanna know one of my secrets, Sam?"

Sam rubs his head. He already knows where this goes. This is where Dean says something hot and his body reacts and his brain gets confused about what Dean wants from him and what he wants from Dean, besides the obvious. "Not really."

"Well too bad. I'm going to tell you anyway. When I was twelve, I tried to gank myself."

Sam hadn't been expecting that. He stops on the sidewalk. "What? Why?"

"Told you your secret was cooler."

"Twelve?" Sam asks. That is so young to want to die.

"Yeah, twelve. Got it into my head that I was a monster. I wasn't though. Just like you aren't." Dean sighs. "I'm not going to hurt you, Sam, ever."

Sam believes him this time. "And your dad?"

"He'd have to get through me."

"He could get through you."

Dean laughs. "Yeah, but it would slow him down."

"This is really weird, Dean. Chal is so big on the whole "joint decision" thing. Why would she just tell him?"

"Do you actually want me to answer that?" asks Dean cautiously.

"Yes."

Cujo circles him, then decides to chew on the small white metal wiring that old people raise around their lawns instead of fencing.

"She knows that she can trust Dad and knows that you can help us track down the demon we're looking for. Maybe she thinks that once we get it, Dad could settle down… with her."

"They haven't even been on a date yet." Of all the things that he could have picked to argue about, that shouldn't be the one. There's the fact that it doesn't matter how much Chal trusts John if Sam doesn't. That should be top priority. Yet, his words have revealed the true priority of his heart. "And I don't know your dad. I know you."

"I'm kind of a less cool version of him. I mean, I'm still way cooler than you, but not as cool as him."

Reluctantly, Sam smiles. The water in his eyes, never actually formed into tears, dry with the wind.

"So, when are we joining you guys?"

Dean's voice sounds excited. "Does that mean you're in?"

"Hell yeah, ganking demons is my specialty after all."

Chal is still talking in her room, presumably talking to John when Sam gets back. He heads straight to his computer chair, further imprinting an outline of his ass into the cushion, and puts his head into his lap, cradling it with his fingers. "Shit," he sighs into the curtain created by his palms and bangs.

Though there is still the looming issue of the possibility of John pretending to be accepting of Sam so that he can shoot him in the back of his head at the first opportunity, another serious problem is what is currently making Sam's forehead throb with worry. He is going to see Dean for the first time since they started talking about blowjobs and bondage. He regrets it, the dirty talk, and doesn't because he's also excited. He doesn't know how much of it Dean meant, how much was just the temptation of the phone, the detachment of faceless conversation pulling dirty words from Dean's brain without associating them with Sam. "Oh man," he sighs. Was any of what Dean's been saying focused on him? He has no idea, but now he will have to find out, see what he's gotten himself into by answering Dean's questions, by playing along with the game. Dean's been pressing the issue, wanting to know Sam's tastes, tossing out words that made Sam's libido pulse. Sam wishes he could go back, retract the things he's told Dean, isn't ready to have Dean look at him after what he's said, and certainly isn't ready to do anything implied by stating those predilections. He just has to cling to the hope that he's misread things, that Dean was just being playful and has no intent to follow through on seeing how much Sam likes blowjobs.

Unable to deal anymore with the horrible worry knotting his stomach, Sam pulls out his Hunters comic. He knows that Dean will like it, and not just because he's one of the characters, but because Dean had been so into his Nick comic. The surprised amazement on Dean's face had made worthwhile all the hours of observing vagabonds, drawing lines, erasing them seconds later, and trying to keep his pencil still as he cried, emotions brought to the surface by the discovery of Nick's sad past.

He's barely had time to look at the comic when Chal knocks on his door. Sam hides the pages beneath a textbook. "Sam?" she asks.

"Yeah?"

She enters. Her face is alight. He smiles, unable to feel the same kind of free-spirited enjoyment of seeing the Winchesters again. And that's a shame because their friendship could have been a good wholesome thing, would have been until his hormones, or maybe Dean's, had pulled their relationship into something more complicated. "Did you hear?"

Sam nods. "Yep."

Chalendra crosses to his bed and sits. His heart leaps into his throat momentarily until he remembers that he has, in fact, put away his absolute most private object, one that had only a few hours ago been serving as a rather convincing, for his creative mind at least, replacement for Dean's dick. She speaks and Sam tries to relax his body language, feels guilty as a fox in a hen house. "We're to meet on Monday at a diner called Shorty's in Clever, Missouri. John says that the town is too small for us to miss each other."

"We could probably hear the Impala from here," Sam jokes but his voice is strained.

Chalendra, observer extraordinaire, jumps on it. "Are you upset?" she asks.

The betrayal he'd felt chokes him for a minute and he coughs to clear his throat. "Chal, why did you tell John about my powers?"

She shrugs, a movement so much more casual than he'd been expecting. He'd thought she'd at least feel guilty for ratting him out to a stranger, someone outside of their family unit of two, but no, she's freaking shrugging. "It made sense to tell him what you can do, so that he knows how useful you can be on a hunt." He glares at her, eyes feeling sunburned with anger. "Is that a problem?"

"Is that a problem? Yeah, it's a friggin' problem, Chal. All my life it's been about fake identities and moving around and now you're just going to spill everything to some guy that you've got the hots for?"

He hears Cujo in the hall outside the door, little feet shuffling her into the room to investigate the raised noises, to see if there's something that she should be snapping her small yet long jaws at. Sam doesn't even want to look at Chal right now, thinks that maybe he'll cry. He focuses on his notepad, reads the list of items that he needs to pack away the day that they leave, things that are too important to box up in advance.

"We can trust him, Sam. He's a good man and he's on nearly the same mission we are…"

He interrupts her. "Shouldn't it be up to me to decide that? I mean, what happened to all that crap about mutual decisions? You didn't even ask me if it was okay!"

She reaches out her hand, touches it to his leg, and he looks at her. "I apologize. I know he can be trusted, so I revealed your ability to locate and eliminate demons."

"Have you told him about… what you are?"

"What I was?" she asks bitterly. Sam knows that she misses her angelic existence every day, has always felt that she was terribly brave for embracing her humanity as she has. "No, I didn't want him to doubt me when I told him that your ability is innate."

Sam pops his lips. "You didn't want him to know you were lying, you mean."

Chal can't object, because it's true. "I also omitted mention of your telekinetic abilities."

Sam's eyes close as he processes the information. 'So, I'm just a freak born with an ability to kill demons."

"And to sense them. That seemed pivotal to share."

"Is he going to hunt me?" asks Sam.

"Of course not. I would never let anyone hurt you. I am your guardian!" She seems appalled that he could doubt her ability to protect him. It's almost as if she forgets that she no longer has the grace which makes it possible for her to do so.

"Well, I don't want him to try."

"He won't. He trusts my judgment."

He smiles. It shouldn't be comforting, her blind faith, but it sort of is. There may not be many social things that Chal is good at, but she's freakin' great at reading people. "Yeah, I get it."

She reaches over to him, places a hand on his knee. "How do you feel about doing the hunt with them?"

He wants to lie, has never been able to lie well to Chal, not that he's very good at lying in general. Instead, he leans on the truth, hoping that he won't have to get into details. "Nervous."

She laughs and her hand grips tightly. "Oh good! I'm not only one!" Her relief manages to break through his tension and he laughs with her, feels lighter.

"You're just nervous about seeing your boyfriend," he sing-songs.

She opens her mouth but instead of objecting, sticks her knuckles between her teeth instead. "Is he my boyfriend?" she squeals.

Sam's lived with Chalendra for sixteen years and never seen her reduced to a mass of such silly excitement, not when a squirrel took a nut straight from her hand, not when Green Bay won the Super Bowl, not even when they'd discovered that the clown ghosts killing innocent children in Oregon were haunting an ice cream factory. He's seen her in every sort of mood and been there for every major event in her life since he was a baby. This is a new side of her and rather than feel angry about that, he, for once, feels like he's enjoying it with her. Chal's first love.

He takes her hands in his. "You're really into him, aren't you?"

She nods rapidly, short dark eyelashes fluttering. "He's John Winchester," she says as though it's an explanation.

Sam recalls something Dean said the night they'd all had dinner. "The Winchesters are always an exception," Dean had said, or something like that, and it seemed to be true. Awkward socially-stunted Chal finally likes a boy.

"Do you think he likes me?"

This time he doesn't think she's asking because she doesn't know. He thinks she just wants to hear it. "Chal, he's called like every day since he and Dean left. He likes you."

She squeals again and hugs him. He doesn't fight her off, isn't in the bad mood that seems to have settled on him years ago. He hugs her back, tries to keep this moment unselfish but can't stop the little voice in the back of his head that asks, but does Dean like me?