Chapter 2 - Loch Ness Monster

This town really is what it says on the brochure. The rain is relentless as it pounds against the front windshield, obscuring the line of trees on all sides of the car. It forces Dean to drive Baby much slower than she deserves.

According to Google Maps, the Quileute Indian Reservation is just around the next bend. He slows further as he flicks his eyes from the road and through the right hand window and back, looking for a break in the trees. He almost misses the water-logged sign announcing 'Singer's Garage and Salvage'.

The driveway is narrow, and tree branches hang low from the canopy above. Dean briefly wonders how they get trucks down here. The ground is soggy and wet, and there are so many potholes that he can't avoid them all—just aims for the smaller ones. He grits his teeth, praying for the Impala's undercarriage. Eventually, the trees part and reveal a large junkyard filled with rusted cars. There's a large open shed on the right that contains a few more less-rusted cars, and on the left is a small workshop with a four-car bay.

He parks along the fenceline and kills the engine before making a break for it through the fat drops of rain. By the time he makes it undercover, the top of his jacket is uncomfortably wet. This town is going to be the death of him, he swears as he brushes off the water with his hands.

"Can I help you, boy?" a gruff voice cuts through the sound of rain on the tin roof.

Dean lifts his gaze to see an older man with a beard and trucker cap on his head. He's wiping grease off his hand with a blue rag. There's something in the way he stands, the way he holds his head, and the tone of his voice, that Dean immediately clocks him as ex-military.

He straightens instinctively, rolling his shoulders back and down as he steps toward the man, jutting his hand out. "Morning, sir. Name's Dean Winchester. My brother and I have just moved into the area and I'm looking for a job."

The man runs a keen eye over Dean before returning the gesture and shaking his hand, firm and determined. "And what brings you out here, drippin' all over my clean floors?"

Dean falters for a moment, taking his hand back. "I spoke with Ms. Charlie Bradbury at the school. She mentioned you might be looking for help, sir."

The man raises an eyebrow. "She did, now did she?" He bangs his hand on the hood of the Forester next to him. "Jacob?"

A wheeled trolley clatters along a concrete floor in the next bay and a moment later, an impossibly tall man stands up. He's young, still got that boyish charm to his face, but holy hell he's tall. Dean knows tall—he lives with Sam—but this guy has got to be six-seven at least, with shoulders the size of a linebacker.

"Yeah, Bobby?"

"Ya know anything 'bout me needin' help?"

Jacob hesitates, his expression turning sheepish, and younger. "Not that I've heard…" He pauses, glancing at Dean with dark brown eyes. "But, I mean… we probably could use an extra pair of hands."

"Oh, we could, could we?" Bobby drawls, giving Jacob a mock glare. "Glad someone's making executive decisions 'round here."

Bobby takes his cap off and rubs his short hair with his hand. While he's not looking, Jacob gives Dean an encouraging nod and head tilt, as if to say 'go for it'.

"I'm a good worker, sir. Been around cars all my life. Maintain that beauty out there." He points to Baby; despite the overcast day and rain beading along the roof, her paint still gleams. "She's done plenty of miles, and runs better now than the day she rolled off the lot. I'll do everything and anything you need, including cleaning the bathrooms and sweeping the floors."

"Huh." Bobby crosses his arms and eyes Dean like he's heard this pitch before. "You're keen, I'll give ya that. But talk's cheap. Most people don't last more than a day out here."

"I'm not most people." He's worked in worse conditions—middle of the night, pouring rain, half-starved, and scared out of his mind. This? Working here? Should be cushy.

"How old are ya'?"

"21, sir."

"Where's ya parents?"

Dean hesitates for a moment. "Mom's gone. Dad's out on the road a lot for work."

Bobby leans against a workbench along the wall, studying Dean as if looking for any holes in his story. "Alright," he finally says. "I can't afford to pay ya a ton, but you can start tomorrow. Be here at eight, sharp."

"Seriously?"

"Ya want me to change my mind?"

"No, sir. Thank you. I won't let you down."

"Mh-hmm. Now git, I gotta get back to work. And don't be late. I don't appreciate tardiness."

Dean nods his thanks, and looks over to the other young man, only to be surprised that he's moved closer unnoticed. His heart jumps for a split second before settling at the boy's smile.

"Don't let him scare you too much," Jacob says with a shrug. "You'll do fine."

"Thanks. See you tomorrow."

Dean jogs back through the rain, water soaking his boots and splashing up the legs of his jeans. But he doesn't care this time. A job means money, and money means keeping Sam's world steady for a little while longer. Sliding into the driver's seat, he lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. He might just survive this town yet.

"So, how was your first day of school, Sammy?" Dean asks with a cheesy grin on his face.

"Quit calling me Sammy," he snaps, throwing his soaked backpack into the footwell between his legs. He's done a particularly terrible job of dodging the rain. Water drips off him and all over the upholstery.

"You know…" Dean reaches out to ruffle his wet hair. "You might have to finally cut that mop of yours."

"Dean!" He swats his hand away.

"Not sure this drowned rat look is really working for you."

"Can we just go home, please?" Sam sighs, looking away from Dean and out the side window.

"Aww, sowy," Dean mocks as he pulls out of the parking lot and points the car in the direction of their new residence. "Did you have a bad day?"

It takes a few seconds for Sam to respond. "No, actually I had a great day. I just have a jerk for a brother. Did you do any shopping today?"

"I did actually, and I got a job. Not that you bothered to ask."

"Seriously?" Sam turns to him with a tentative smile on his face.

"Yeah, seriously. What'd you think I was gonna do? Stay home like Suzie Homemaker and hope the credit cards last for another six months?"

"No, but…" Sam trails off, the windshield wipers filling the silence.

"But what?"

"I didn't think you actually wanted to stay here. I figured you'd try to get out of here somehow."

"I don't want to stay here, but dad asked me to, so I'm gonna stay. Especially since I think there's a case in town."

"What?" Sam asks, his eyebrows furrowed in concern.

"Yeah. I mean, why else would Dad go to all this trouble of setting us up here? Enrolling you in school? Come on, Sam. That's not exactly his style."

Sam lets out a groan of frustration, but Dean plows ahead like he didn't hear it. He's endured enough of Sam's grumblings about Dad to last him a lifetime.

"And there's that teacher we met this morning. Totally something going on with that dude, right? Hey—" Dean reaches out to bump his brother on the shoulder. "Did you have Casti-whatever-his-name-is today? What was it, science and history or somethin'?"

"Mr. Novak," Sam corrects him. "He teaches English and History. And no, I don't think there's anything 'going on with him'."

"I mean, he's weird, right? I asked around town if there've been any instances of suspicious deaths or missin' people, and there have!"

"Seriously?"

"Yeah… I mean, they happened a while back, like ten years ago. But some monsters go into hibernation, and maybe Dad thinks this one's waking up."

"Dean…" Sam says, his voice exasperated, like they've had this argument before, which they definitely have not.

"Humor me, okay?" Dean says, pulling into their driveway. "If there's a case here and we ignore it, Dad's gonna be pissed. And if people start turning up dead, that's on us."

Sam slumps in his seat. "Yeah. I get it."

"Thank you," Dean clicks the garage door remote, easing Baby down the ramp. "So keep an eye out for anything suspicious at school. Ask the other kids. And look into Mr. Novak, yeah?"

"Fine," Sam mutters, unbuckling his seatbelt. "But you're wrong about Mr. Novak. He's like the dorkiest and gentlest guy ever. All the kids seem to really love him, and are we just going to ignore the singing-to-his-plant thing?"

"Nope," Dean says, turning off the engine. "Definitely gonna file that one away for the future. But, hey." He punches his brother in the shoulder, which earns him bitch face number 12. "We've got time to worry about that tomorrow. Right now, I'm dying to break in this new frying pan I bought. Gonna season that bad boy and then whip us up some of my world-famous burgers."

"Pfft," Sam scoffs, getting out of the car. Dean follows. "You've never made burgers before in your life."

"I have!" Dean objects, locking the car. "Remember that time in Plainfield when I used the toaster in our motel room to bake the buns and then I turned it on the side to get the meat patties in."

"You set it on fire! I had to dump a glass of water on it. The whole room reeked of burned meat for days, and they charged Dad a cleaning fee."

"Totally worth it," Dean says with a fond smile. "Best burgers I ever made."

The burgers may not have been the best he's ever eaten, but he made them himself and they ate at an actual dining table, so all in all, it wasn't a bad way to end the day. In the morning, they enjoy warm showers and a hot breakfast (yes, that frying pan was totally worth the extra money for non-stick).

He drops Sam off at school early to make sure he can get to work on time, and definitely does not survey the parking lot for a certain blue-eyed teacher. Instead, he reminds his brother to ask around about any rumors, to which Sam deflates and rolls his eyes before clambering out of the car.

"Oh, I forgot." Sam ducks back down to look at Dean. "You don't have to worry about picking me up after school. Jess has her own car and said she's happy give me a ride home every day."

Dean smirks and winks at him. "Yeah, I bet she is."

"Shut up. It isn't like that."

"Mh-hmm, and the sky's not blue."

Immediately, after he says it, they both look up at the gray sky. It's not raining today, thank fuck, but it's definitely not blue either.

"You're an idiot," Sam says.

"Shut the door. You're letting all the warm air out."

The drive to the edge of town is peaceful. The overcast sky is a welcome break from yesterday's relentless downpour. Surprisingly, Dean is eager to get to work, ready to get his hands dirty, and more importantly, start sniffing around for signs of a potential case. His dad obviously thinks it will take a good six months to crack this one, but Dean's determined to prove him wrong.

Without the rain blurring his vision, the entrance to the property is much easier to find, and as he pulls into the same parking spot as yesterday, the sheer size of the junkyard finally comes into view. Rows upon rows of rusted cars stretch out into the distance. Some are stacked precariously on top of one another, their jagged edges silhouetted against the tree line set a few hundred feet back.

As he makes his way toward the open roller doors, the air is thick with the wet tang of rusted metal, mingling with the crisp, clean mountain air. He's definitely worked in worse places.

Jacob is already at work, his large frame tucked under the hood of a Silverado, making the vehicle look strangely small. He glances up as Dean approaches, giving him a nod.

"Hey, man, welcome back." He gestures with a wrench toward a room off to the back. "You can dump your lunch in the back room. Bobby's in his office."

Dean follows his instructions, taking in the cluttered workspace and four cars in bays ready to be worked on. The lunch room is basically a fridge, a small sink, and an old torn-up couch that looks like it's been slept on more than once.

He finds Bobby behind a computer screen, a pair of small reading glasses perched on the end of his scrunched up nose. Dean raps on the door to get his attention.

"You came back," Bobby grunts, not looking up from the screen. "And you're early."

"Yes, sir. Where would you like me to start?"

Bobby flicks his eyes up over the rim of his glasses, scrutinizing Dean for a moment. "Third cupboard along the back wall. Grab the broom. Hope you know what to do with it."

Dean's stomach sinks for a brief moment before he plasters a smile back on his face. "I'll get right on it."

"Mh-hmm," the old man says, already looking back at his computer.

It's not a huge surprise that he's been tasked with the shit work. This isn't his first rodeo, but he'd hoped, given how small the operation is, that he would score a more important job.

The broom isn't in the third cupboard, but the fourth. He retrieves it with a sigh before starting in the far back corner of the workshop and working his way through to the front doors. The concrete floors are coated with multiple layers of dirt and dried-up mud. He supposes that's the problem with living somewhere that rains most of the year. He finds an empty plastic box and slides it along the floor behind him, throwing in anything he finds on the floor—tools and rubbish, nuts and bolts.

A few people stop by throughout the morning, dropping off cars, and the owner of the Silverado arrives to pick up his car. Bobby handles each of the customers personally, his demeanor a mix of gruff professionalism and barely-concealed affection—except for the out-of-towner, who Dean's pretty sure gets overcharged.

Dean watches each interaction with growing interest. It's clear the man has built up a trust here among the locals, and Dean can't help but respect that.

At the same time, his mind is churning about the best way to start his investigation. It's clear that Bobby knows the area and its people inside out, but his sharp eye is something Dean doesn't want trained on himself too closely. He'll have to tread carefully. Going in guns blazing will burn his bridges way too fast, but sitting idle isn't an option either.

By noon, his shoulders are aching and his back isn't far behind. Sweeping isn't new territory for him—digging graves and running for his life are definitely worse—but something about the repetitive motion has his muscles protesting. So when Jacob calls over to him to tell him it's time for a break, Dean lets out a quiet sigh of relief and props the broom up against the wall.

Once in the break room, Dean retrieves his pack lunch and slumps onto the old couch, rolling his shoulders with a groan.

"You gonna survive?" Jacob asks, a smirk poorly hidden on his face as he opens the fridge and pulls out his own lunch.

"Sweeping is brutal, but it should be good now until the next downpour."

"Which will be later tonight," Jacob says, dropping down next to him.

Dean lets out a groan of complaint and Jacob laughs as he opens his small lunch bag and pulls out a stack of sandwiches—six to be exact. Dean's eyebrows shoot up. "You planning on eating all those yourself?"

"What can I say? I burn calories fast." Jacob shrugs as he takes a huge bite.

Dean chuckles, eying the sandwich suspiciously. "So, you worked here long?"

"Yep. Started here the day after I finished high school. Was Bobby's first employee."

Dean whistles. "So he's used to working alone."

Jacob nods. "Dad and him have been friends since they were teenagers. He started slowing down a few years ago, and Dad just dropped me off, said he'd pick me up at four."

"How'd Bobby take that?" Dean asks, already suspecting the answer.

Before Jacob can answer, Bobby steps into the room.

"You boys talkin' about me?"

"All good things. All good things," Jacob says, with a sing-song tone.

"Yeah, yeah. Why don't I believe ya?" Bobby pulls out the chair opposite the coffee table and slumps down in it. He takes off his cap and rubs his head before sliding it back into place.

"Because you only believe the worst in people."

"I'm a ray of sunshine," Bobby grumbles.

Jacob chuckles and Dean hides his smile by biting into his sandwich.

"So—" Dean starts, but decides to swallow his mouthful before continuing. "Any good hiking trails around here?"

"Yeah, there's a few. Depends what you're after."

"You hike a lot?" Bobby asks.

"Yeah," Dean lies, nodding. "I like to get out. Be at one with nature and all that. Anything big in the woods I should know about?"

Jacob chokes on a bit of his sandwich. He pats himself on the chest a few times and then reaches for his drink bottle. "Sorry," he says, voice hoarse. "Went down the wrong way."

Bobby narrows his eyes at Jacob and then turns them on Dean. "No bears, if that's what ya meanin'."

"But there are wolves," Jacob adds, his tone light but there's a small smirk on his face. "I hear they can get pretty big."

"Stick to the marked trails," Bobby grumbles, "and you'll be fine."

Dean gets the distinct feeling there's more to this conversation than they're letting on. He wants to ask about the deaths from way back. Jacob would have only been a teenager, but maybe he heard something. Bobby sounds like he's the kind of person who knows a little bit about everything in this town. But Dean holds himself back, not wanting to look too suspicious. He's got time.

Jacob turns the conversation on Dean, asking where he's from.

"Originally from Kansas, but after my mother passed, we moved around a lot. Pretty much lived in every state but Alaska."

"I'm sorry about your mom," Jacob says in a tone Dean knows well. "Lost mine when I was a kid too, but I've, ah… never been too far from here. Went to Canada once." He shrugs. "But this is home."

Dean nods, and swallows a faint pang of jealousy. He's always wondered what it'd be like to stay in the one place, to get to know your neighbors by name, or have the mailman wave at you and ask how your kids are doing. But that's always been someone else's pipe dream, Sammy's maybe. Not Dean's. That's not the life Dean'll ever get.

"What does yer daddy do?" Bobby asks, and Dean looks up, having almost forgotten that he was even there.

"Bit of this, bit of that," Dean says, keeping it vague as usual. "Mostly construction."

"Mm-hmm, and how old's yer brother?"

"Seventeen. Bright kid."

Dean's not keen on the attention being directed at him and his shady past, so he deflects to Bobby, who provides very little about himself, before trundling back to his office. He does mention a dog, Rumsfeld, who's sleeping around the yard somewhere that Dean's yet to meet.

After lunch, Dean's tasked with tracking down a replacement alternator for a '97 Jeep that came in during the morning. Bobby sends him the vague direction of 'in the far east corner, past the old Buick with the busted hood propped open.'

Happy to escape the workshop, Dean takes off into the crisp air, toolbox in hand. While following Bobby's vague instructions, he finds three old beat up Buicks—none with their hoods open—and a few very large paw prints from Rumsfeld in the dried mud. How big is that dog? Dean wonders, shaking his head.

It takes him nearly an hour of combing through rows of rusted vehicles to finally track down the Jeep, which turns out to be more south-east than east, but he's not gonna mention it. Maybe Bobby's mind isn't as sharp as it used to be, or maybe he's testing Dean.

Even though it's been a little while since he's got his hands under the hood of a car, it feels good to get a little greasy, and to be doing something different. The familiar movements of removing the bolts in tight, cramped spaces return to him and he falls easily into the rhythm of it.

While he doesn't get to install the actuator—Bobby sends it Jake's way instead—Bobby gives him a brief nod, which Dean takes as a pat on the back. The rest of the afternoon is spent sorting and cleaning tools in dusty cabinets. Not the most thrilling work, but at least he's getting a feel for where everything is.

When Jacob unfolds himself out the engine bay, stretching out his arms toward the ceiling with a dramatic groan, Dean checks the time and is relieved to find it's four o'clock.

"You heading out?" Dean asks from his spot on the floor where he's wiping down a torque wrench.

"Yep. Gotta get home and feed Nessie. Otherwise she gets real catty."

Dean blinks, trying to piece that together. He put the wrench back on the shelf. "She your girlfriend?"

Jake bursts out laughing, clasping his hands together in mock glee. "Nope. My cat. Little bitch is so demanding. She thinks she's a princess."

"No offense," Dean says as he follows him into the break room to wash up. "But you don't strike me as a cat person."

"Oh, I'm not. My wife found her and brought her home. I objected, she gave me puppy dog eyes and I caved. Now that thing—the cat, whose official name is Roast Chicken, by the way—follows me all over the goddamn house and sleeps between my feet at night."

"Roast Chicken?" Dean asks, a bit confused. "How'd you go from that to Nessie?"

"It's such a stupid name, I refuse to call her that." He leans closer to Dean and whispers, "And she's super ugly… so I kinda named her after the Loch Ness Monster. But don't tell Leah."

"That your wife?"

Jacob nods as he dries his hand on a paper towel.

"She already knows, dude. There's no way she hasn't figured that out."

He pauses, considering it, before shaking his head. "I really hope that's not true."

"He's not wrong," Bobby says, walking in to join them. "That girl is ten times smarter 'n you."

Jacob groans, rubbing the back of his neck. "Great. Just what I needed to hear." With a resigned shake of his head, he grabs his lunch bag from next to the fridge. "Alright, I'll see you both tomorrow." He waves over his shoulder before heading for the door, pausing just long enough to pull his jacket from the hook on the wall.

Dean turns to Bobby with a smile, hoping that he's not about to get his marching orders. "See ya tomorrow, boss?"

"I sure hope so. Plenty more cupboards need cleanin' out."

"Awesome. Can't wait." He flashes a shit-eating grin and turns to follow Jake.

"You're a shitty liar," Bobby calls out. "But at least you're handy with a broom."

Dean smiles as he steps out under the roller doors into the cool twilight air. He hasn't uncovered any dramatic clues today, but getting to know Bobby and Jake isn't a bad way to start. They seem like good people, and hopefully, with time, he can earn his way up to actually working on the cars.

Light pours out the windows of their little two bedroom house as Dean pulls into the driveway, and he's pleased to find the place warmed up already when he opens the front door.

"Honey, I'm home!" he calls out as he makes his way to the kitchen.

"In here," Sam replies from deeper in the house.

Dean throws his keys onto the kitchen counter and drops his lunch stuff in the sink. He follows the sound of papers shuffling, only to stop dead in the doorway when he finds their dining table buried under stacks of books, printouts, and paper.

"Did a printer explode? What the hell you doin', man?"

Sam, hunched over a notebook, doesn't even glance up at his brother. "Do you know how far behind I am?"

Dean frowns. "I mean, I'm sure you are a little… It's been a couple of months since Tahoma."

"Three, Dean," Sam says, his tone accusatory, like it's somehow Dean's fault.

"You went to school yesterday and you weren't this manic. What happened?"

Sam pauses mid-scribble, his pen hovering over the paper. For a moment, he looks like he's deciding whether to answer or continue to ignore Dean. Finally, he sighs and glances up.

"I did a couple of placement tests yesterday and today I met with Mr. Yorkie, the guidance counselor. Apparently, I've missed too much coursework to qualify for AP classes this semester."

Dean winces, knowing how important this is to his brother. "I mean, I know that sucks. But I'm sure you can catch up."

"You don't get it." Sam shakes his head, already back to scribbling on his paper. "If I don't take AP English and Calculus, I'm going to fall behind on college prep. Three semesters, Dean. That's all I've got left. At this rate I'm going to be stuck at some second-rate college because my transcript isn't good enough!"

"You wanna go to college? Since when?"

"Since forever, Dean."

Dean runs his hands through his short, cropped hair, his frustrations building, but he doesn't want to become their dad. Don't lose your temper. He leans against the door frame and crosses his arms to block some of the energy from his brother.

"I get that this is important to you, Sam. I do. But you know our lives don't exactly come with a college brochure, right?"

Sam's jaw tightens as his scribbling becomes more aggressive. Dean has to hold himself back from pushing harder; this isn't about him. Hell, maybe that's the problem. Maybe Sam deserves a shot at something better, and Dean just needs to get out of the way.

"Why not?" Sam finally snaps, putting his pen down and glaring at Dean. "Why can't we stay in one place for more than a few months? Why does everything have to be about the next case, or Dad's latest set of coordinates? You think I wanna keep living like this forever? Following daddy's orders like a good little boy?"

Dean exhales sharply, forcing himself to stay calm. "I'm not saying you can't have all that, Sam," he says through gritted teeth. "But right now? There's a reason Dad set us up here. You think he's just gonna let us play house while there's a case to solve?"

Sam deflates, slumping back into his chair, and Dean hates himself for doing that to him. Just as he turns to leave, Sam grabs a notebook from the pile and tosses it onto the table in front of Dean.

Dean frowns. "What's this?"

Sam doesn't raise his gaze or say anything, just goes back to writing in his notebook, his pen moving more controlled this time.

Dean raises an eyebrow and picks up the notebook. He flips open the front cover. Across the top of the page, in Sam's neat scrawl are the words, Forks High School Rumor Mill.

Dean's lips twitch into a small smile as he skims the page. "Thanks, Sammy."

"It's Sam," his brother mutters, but the bite's gone from his tone.

Dean tucks the notebook under his arm, the wheels turning in his head. Maybe they could pull this off—Sam catching up on school, Dean getting to do a little manual labor and working on the case on the side.

"Oh," Sam says, not looking up. "Mr. Novak was absent today so I couldn't talk to him or anything."

"Did anyone say why?" Dean's smile fades, his brow furrowing.

"Family emergency or something."

Dean rolls his eyes. What are the chances?

AN: Please don't ask me to commission artwork for you. I already have an artist. Thank you