AN:
Hi guys,
Welcome to Twilight, if it were gay angels instead of teenaged vampires, and the only 17 year old is Sam.
This is a Destiel-Twilight fusion set in Forks, complete with a twist on all your favorite Twilight scenes, laugh-worthy dialogue, and a few cameo appearances from familiar characters including Jacob and Leah.
To all my old subscribers, I am sorry for my prolonged absence. As you may have noticed, after writing my Twilight pack-focused stories, I moved fandoms and jumped onto the Destiel train. I understand that a lot of you probably won't be interested in this story, but as it is a Twilight story, I wanted to post it on as well. I have already posted this story in full on AO3, under my username Macy2me.
This story is part of the 2024-25 Destiel AU Reverse Big Bang. I claimed some beautiful artwork by Polyhymnia or thence-we-came-forth on Tumblr. Devastatingly, I don't think I can't add her beautiful artwork to my story on FF, but I highly suggest you go and check it out ( thence-we-came-forth .tumblr. com). Or you can go to my profile page and there should be a link to the artwork there.
Chapter 1 - Welcome to Forks. Population 3,120
Dean's given a lot of thought to how he might die—drained of blood by a vampire, heart ripped out by a werewolf, impaled by a rusty rebar in a hunt gone wrong—but dying in the place of someone he loves seems like a good fucking way to go.
A truck loaded with timber logs pulls out in front of him. The freshly-cut ends stare him in the face. He changes lanes.
Nope, not today.
They pass a sign, barely visible through the constant sheets of rain pounding down on the windshield, 'Welcome to Forks. Population 3,120.'
From the passenger seat, Sam gives him directions as they wind through the wet and dreary town. Finally, they pull up in front of a house. It's clean, well-maintained, all its windows are intact and there's no graffiti on the walls. Not their usual gig.
"You sure you got the coordinates, right?" Dean asks.
"I know how to read a map." Sam locks his phone and tosses it on the seat.
Dean could double check, probably should, but his kid brother has a huge brain hidden under his ridiculous mop of hair and would probably bitch about it constantly for the rest of the night. Since Dean values his sanity, he keeps his mouth shut.
The white shiplap panels stand out against the dark green on the forest background. It is almost evening but the house remains dark inside. Given the 'For Lease' sign staked in the front yard, it'll probably stay like that.
"What do we know?" Dean asks, peering out the window.
Sam opens his laptop and his fingers click against the keyboard. It's barely audible over the fat raindrops landing on the roof. Houses line only one side of the quiet road, spaced far enough apart that he can only see three before the rest disappear into the mist. Trees hang over the road, and cling tight to the back of the properties like it is only a matter of time before nature takes back what was once hers.
"So, according to the town records," Sam says, "the house was owned by a Charlie Swan for almost thirty years. His parents owned it before that. Nine months ago, he sold it to an outside corporation and it's been on the rental market since then. Last tenants moved out… a week ago."
"Unlikely to be vampires," Dean says, "or have anything supernatural squatting there. Haunted, maybe? Did it say why the previous owner sold?"
The question as to why their father couldn't have just told them what they were dealing with before he vanished in the middle of the night hangs unsaid in the air around them. Instead of answers, all they got was a set of coordinates. When Dean was ten, he loved the challenge–it was like a scavenger hunt. Now, it puts him on edge.
"No reported deaths at the property, and according to the local newspaper, Mr Swan was a well-loved Forks' Chief of Police until he recently retired and moved out to the Quillette Reservation with his new wife."
"Huh, alright then." Dean reaches over Sam's long legs and opens the glove compartment, pulling out his colt. He opens the driver's door and steps out into the rain. At the back of the car, he pops the trunk before lifting the floor panel and propping it open with a shotgun.
"What are you doing?" Sam asks, casting an annoying shadow over the trunk's contents.
Dean ignores him, shifting stuff around until he finds a tire iron and stuffs it into a canvas bag. He also grabs a shotgun, a machete, a hunting knife, and a bottle of blessed water, just in case. Once done, he yanks the shotgun propping the top open, and shoves it into Sam's chest. He fumbles to catch it. Lastly, Dean does a quick check of his colt before tucking it into the back of his pants and slamming the trunk shut.
Just before he steps off the curb Sam grabs his arm.
"Dean, we can't go in there guns blazing. We don't know what we're dealing with. Let's go find a local café, grab something to eat, and do some more research."
"Look, I don't wanna be stuck in this soggy ass town for longer than necessary, alright? Dad sent us here, so I'm goin' in. Grab the shotgun and cover my ass or get back in the damn car."
Shaking off Sam's hand, he jogs across the quiet street. The slick front path leads to six steps, which he takes two at a time, before ducking into an alcove barely large enough to escape the rain.
Water seeps in through his jeans as he kneels in front of the door, trying to get eye level with the lock. Blindly, he reaches into his jacket and retrieves his lock pick set. Despite Sam's protests, he stands guard covering Dean as they commit a felony.
Twenty seconds and one soaked knee later, the mechanisms click and slide free. He twists the door knob and it swings open. Dean grabs the shotgun and slings the bag over his shoulder before stepping across the threshold.
Inside, they are met with an eerie silence and the musty smell of a house sealed shut for too long. The air is frigid cold, and their boots echo loudly against the hardwood floors as they walk past a staircase leading to the second floor. Sam goes to the right toward the lounge room and Dean takes the left, heading into a god-awful yellow kitchen.
There's a small wooden table with two chairs sitting next to a window that overlooks the front yard and its two tall trees. The kitchen is clean and tidy, except for a stack of papers on the end of the bench. He creeps closer, keeping his gun raised until he spies a familiar piece of paper on top, one he knows well–a torn page from John Winchester's journal.
On it, in John's handwriting, is the number '1'.
Dean's orders.
He lowers the gun and places it on the bench with a thunk. "Great."
"You find anything?" Sam calls from the other room.
Dean slides the page off the top and reads the title:
Rental Lease Agreement
He scans the front page, and flips to the back where there's a schedule. The address of this property is listed, start date was three days ago and the end date is in six months' time. Lessee's name is "John Winchester."
The realization hits him and then drops like a lead balloon in his stomach.
"What is it?" Sam stands behind him, reading over his shoulder, making great use of the fact that he is now taller than Dean, despite being four years his junior.
Dean steps away, blood simmering in his veins.
"Is this a contract? Has dad been here?" Sam keeps asking questions regardless of Dean answering exactly zero of them. "Where is he? Do you think he's in town?"
Dean growls, lashing out and sliding the papers off the bench and onto the floor.
"We were so close! So close and he—he—FUCK!" He pulls at his hair and stomps toward the front door. He stops just short of the rain and yanks out his cell. It's up to his ear and ringing before he's truly thought it through.
It rings and rings and rings, and of-fucking-course he doesn't answer.
"This is John. If you can't reach me, try Dean on 555-0174."
A tinny and loud beep sounds over the receiver.
This is my fight, too! She was my mom and I want revenge just as much as you do. You've trained me my whole life for this moment and right at the finish line you fucking bench me? I get that you want to keep Sammy out of it, he's only 17, but Dad, I can help. Please?
But Dean doesn't say that. He grits his teeth.
"I got your message, Sir. I'll look after him." Call me if you need me. Even though I know you won't.
He hangs up before he can say any of the other thoughts building inside of his head. The rain picks up, then starts coming down in sheets. The trees across the road shake violently in the wind, and a shiver wracks his entire body. He doesn't want to be here.
"Dean?" Sam's voice is timid and small, reminding Dean not to take this out on him. He clenches his fists and releases them. "Do we get to live here for the next six months? Like in the same place, and—and I can go to school for an entire semester at the same school and we get to live in a house? A real house with a proper kitchen? I mean—the lounge even has a fireplace."
Dean drops his head. It has been motels and spare bedrooms and the back seat of Baby. It has been constantly on the move, never staying still, never putting down roots. It has been jumping schools, a month here, a few weeks there or nothing at all. Sam hasn't ever known permanence. He was six months old when their entire world burned down, and with it, any sense of normalcy.
As much as Dean doesn't want to be here. As much as Dean wants to be on the road, hunting the thing that killed their mom, a gun in his hand, his father fighting next to him. As much as that is all he has ever known… Sam wants this, and more importantly, Dad wants this.
He plasters on a smile. "Yeah, Sammy."
His brother steps up next to him, close enough that he can feel the heat of his shoulder against his own. "You know, I bet one of these keys—" he holds up a small set of keys in question, "—is for the garage. We can get Baby out of the rain. What do you think?"
Neither of them are stupid. They both know what he's doing. But Dean still takes the olive branch.
"Get it open. I'll drive her in."
Sam smiles and bumps against his shoulder. "Sure."
Ten minutes later, Dean is wet, again, but Baby is under a roof and their meager belongings have been moved into the foyer, dumped at the base of the stairs. They only have four bags, and two of them contain their weapons.
"Race ya to the best bedroom!" Sam yells, grabbing his duffel and sprinting up the stairs.
Dean follows, hot on Sam's heels. "I'm the oldest, I get the biggest!"
They both tumble into the first room. It's directly over the kitchen and overlooks the front yard. There's a double bed in the middle of the room, as well as a small work desk and lamp against one wall. At least the place comes with some furniture.
Dean's the first to sprint across the hall to the other bedroom. He passes a small bathroom and another slim door, which is most probably a linen closet. This room is marginally bigger, with what might be a queen sized bed. Dean's face lights up. There's an extra dresser on one wall, not that either of them have need for it, and no desk.
"This one's mine!" he calls out, and turns to find Sam right behind him.
"Nope. I need the bigger bed, short stuff." Sam tries to give him a noogie, but Dean ducks out of the way.
"Pfft, I'm not short. You're short and besides, you need a desk to do your homework."
"You're shorter than me by at least two inches, and I'm still growing. Plus, I can do my homework in the dining room, because we have one of those now."
"Not happening. I'm the oldest, I make the rules."
"Really?" Sam's eyebrows are up, hidden under his fringe. Girl.
Dean shakes out his arms and hovers his fist over the other palm. "Play you for it."
Sam rolls his shoulders and smiles like he's already won. "Bring it."
"Rock, paper, scissors, shoot!"
Sam, of course, wins.
"You're a dirty, rotten, cheater, Sammy!" Dean calls out as he flops back onto his tiny mattress.
"It's not my fault you're so predictable."
"I didn't even pick scissors this time," he mutters to himself.
The sun has officially set, taking with it the remaining sunlight and warmth. Rain echoes loudly around the room, bouncing off the roof and siding. There's so much space around him. Too much space. The ceilings are too high or the floorboards are too smooth. There's no worn carpets under his boots or cigarette smoke left lingering in the air. There's no stiff, starchy bedsheets under his fingers. Actually, there is no bed linen at all. His brother isn't all up in his space, breathing his air, leaving his hair all over the bed. It feels like he's misplaced his phone or an arm.
Across the small hall, Sam is opening and closing drawers and cupboards, unpacking his bag, placing all his belongings in designated spots. Dean's bag lies undisturbed where he dumped it at the bottom of the wardrobe.
Life has been simple in its unpredictability—observe, react, adapt. It's all been about survival, staying low, staying unnoticed. The longest they ever stayed in one town was three months, and even then, Child Protective Services started poking their ugly noses into their business, so they pissed off a few counties over.
When Dean wasn't training, or researching, or hunting with his father, he was looking after his brother, but it was all within the confines of a small motel room with ready-made beds, tiny TVs with flickering screens, microwave meals and the sound of the freeway outside.
With one little note scribbled on a piece of paper, and a fucking Rental Lease Agreement—Dean's life has suddenly opened up. The opportunities are endless. He feels like a balloon that has been cut free from a heavy weight, and he doesn't know what to do about it.
"What are we doing about dinner?" Sam asks, his brother's large frame taking up most of his doorway. Despite his earlier excitement, his eyes now move around the room cautiously and his shoulders hunch in on themselves. He looks just as lost as Dean feels.
And just like that, Dean has direction again. He may not want to be here, but his brother does. Sam has always wanted the normal, happy, apple pie life and now he's got a chance at it, if only for six months. Dean can give him that.
They have a kitchen downstairs, complete with a stove, an oven and a full-size fridge, but absolutely zero food in sight. Guess he'll have to do a big shopping trip tomorrow. Here's hoping that their last credit card from Mr Krisouski is still working. Although, he can't exactly have it declining down the road if they are going to be sticking around for a while.
Fuck, he's gonna have to get a job, isn't he?
"Come on," he says, sitting up, slapping a hand onto his knee. "I think I saw a diner on the way into town."
Sam wakes like a kid on Christmas morning, early and before the sunrise. No normal 17 year old is ever this excited to go to school, but Dean's brother is anything but normal. Suppose that hasn't been on the cards, for either of them. Not since their mom died.
Dean has an extremely restless sleep; the constant sound of rain on the roof is anything but relaxing. He wakes to the sound of Sam cursing in the shower.
"Did you turn the hot water on last night?" he asks, bursting into Dean's room wrapped in the tiniest towel.
"No. Did you?"
"How am I supposed to go to school when I haven't had a shower since Friday?" Sam gets pissy when anxious.
"Go stand in the rain," Dean says around a huge yawn. "Take your strawberry body wash with you."
"You're such a jerk, you know that?"
He does know that. He just doesn't care. Turning his back on his brother, he searches out the warm spot on his bed and tugs his ratty blanket up over his shoulder. In retaliation, Sam returns to his shower, but clangs and bangs around the room like an actual moose in a bathroom. Granted, the showerhead is ridiculously low, even for Dean, and it's the middle of January. A high of 46 yesterday, a low of 35, Sam should be grateful the water is actually flowing and not frozen in the pipes.
Dean isn't able to actually fall back to sleep before his brother is back again, standing in front of his bed, this time dressed but noticeably bluer.
"Where're the keys?"
Dean scowls. "What?"
"The car keys. Where are they?"
That gets his attention. "Whaddaya want with Baby?"
Sam rolls his eyes. "I'm going to grab a coffee and a hot breakfast, unless you've got some food hidden somewhere."
Dean grunts his complaint. He should be getting up. It's his job to look after Sam, to make sure he is clothed, fed and happy, yada, yada, yada. But either the constant sounds of rain on the roof keeping him up all night or the fact that he has no case to focus on right now means he doesn't give a shit. He closes his eyes, shutting out his brother.
"Fine," Sam says, probably throwing his hands in the air like a toddler before he stomps over to Dean's wardrobe. He hears him open the door and unzip his bag. He rummages around until— "Ha!" he calls triumphantly, jingling the keys and storming back out, leaving the door open.
Dean falls back into a fitful sleep only to be woken by his brother again, but this time it is accompanied by the smell of coffee and bacon. When he peels his eyes open, he is greeted by the beautiful sight of a styrofoam coffee cup and a greasy wrapped something that he really and truly hopes is an egg and bacon burger.
"And, you're welcome," Sam says, making himself at home at Dean's desk. He kicks his feet up on the window staring out into the yard, not that he can see much past the fog.
Dean pulls himself into a seated position and fluffs up his pillow to support his back. As much as coffee in bed is the dream, he's not about to waterboard himself by attempting to drink it lying down. His drink is bitter and strong, just the way he likes it. He rests his head against the backboard and closes his eyes.
Sam clears his throat. "I know this isn't what you wanted, and it wasn't fair of Dad to just—"
Dean's eyes snap open, sharp and unamused. "Don't."
Sam presses on anyway, voice quieter. "I'm just saying, we can make the best of this, you know? It's only six months. You don't have to like it, but maybe it won't be all bad."
"Yeah, sure." Dean sets his coffee cup down and unwraps his burger. Maybe he should thank his brother for getting him the good stuff. "Six months of rain, high school drama, and figuring out how to blend into a town that smells like wet dog…" He takes a bit of his burger. "All that's definitely high on my bucket list."
"You know, I saw a sign at the diner that said they had the best pie in the State of Washington." His brother gives him a knowing smile… which just makes his face look stupid.
"They all say that. Most of the people in this town have probably never left the county."
"Maybe you can make some friends? Get to know someone. Have a relationship that lasts longer than one night?"
Dean stares at the side of Sam's face, but the idiot refuses to meet his gaze, just looks intently at his bowl of... what even is that? Seeds floating in some kind of milk with fruit piled on top? It looks like something you'd feed a bird, not a human. Dean failed. He failed in raising his brother, 'cause who in their right mind eats that shit for fun.
"Eat your frog eggs, Gwyneth," Dean says, stuffing the last of his juicy burger into his mouth. "G'nna… be late for s'ool."
Dean wipes his hands on a napkin, and shakes his head. Life's complicated enough without dragging some poor sucker into it. Romance? Yeah, not in the cards. Not for someone like him.
Large brick buildings loom over the parking lot, their red facades streaked dark brown after years of rain. They look more like prison walls than a place of learning. Dean thanks his lucky stars he never has to go back to state-funded education. He got his GED a couple of years ago, in between hunts, and that is fine and dandy by him.
He parks at the back of the lot, far away from the rusted-out pickups and dented Civics. No way is he letting some pimple-nosed tween ding Baby's paint. A gold Lincoln Continental sits two spaces down, probably driven by a half-blind teacher in their last year before retirement. Although, that doesn't make them any less dangerous; probably more so.
Sam walks next to him, clutching the paper packet with his transcript like a life preserver. His eyes dart between the other students trickling into the lot, a mixture of hoodies, backpacks, and sneakers trudging through puddles. Dean could tease Sam for how nervous he seems, but doesn't. He knows what it's like to be the new kid starting school in the middle of a semester. It's a shit deal no matter how you slice it.
They follow the signs to the main office, the slap of Dean's boots against the soaked pavement echoing louder than the few distant voices. Dean opens the door and steps into a wave of warmth, the smell of old paper and coffee hitting him square in the face. It's a relief after the biting wind outside, even if it reeks of academia.
Leaning on the front of the desk is a man in a long beige trench coat, a mess of dark hair on top of his head.
"I think I did it again," the man says, in the most delicious voice Dean has ever heard. It rumbles at a frequency that's an octave lower than should be legal outside the bedroom. "I think I might be a… serial killer."
Dean freezes mid-step, his brain immediately going to every possible worst-case scenario. His hunter instincts flare to life, urging him to grab the knife stashed in his boot. Next to him, Sam stiffens.
"Really?" the redheaded girl behind the desk says, entirely unfazed.
"I believe it may be beyond saving," he continues. "I've consulted several websites, but they all contradict one another. Should I try… singing to it again?"
Dean mouths sing again? to Sam, who looks back equally confused.
"Maybe it needs more. Have you tried interpretive dance?"
"I'm serious, Charlie."
She snorts. "Relax. It's a fiddle-leaf fig. It's probably being dramatic. That doesn't make you a plant murderer."
Dean blinks, caught somewhere between relief and incredulity. Sam lets out a barely-concealed laugh, which gets the attention of the trench coat dude and the receptionist.
"Oh, hey, welcome. Don't mind him." She points a thumb at the trench-coated man. "He teaches History, not Horticulture."
The man turns slowly. Dean stares, eager to see if his face matches that deep voice and broad shoulders. He catches a sharp jaw and carved chin, but the moment his gaze locks on Dean, the man's entire posture changes. His eyes are dark black, like an endless void. They narrow into slits, and he clenches his jaw so tightly, it looks painful.
"What are you doing here?" he growls, his voice so low it sounds like it's been dragged through broken glass.
A cold shiver shoots down Dean's spine. His instincts scream danger, and his hand flexes at his side, itching again to grab that knife. There's something almost unnatural the way the guy's voice sounds, like it doesn't belong to him entirely.
"Oh, sorry," Sam says, clearly uneasy, "is this not the right place? The sign said—"
"Castiel," the receptionist chides, cutting through the tension like a whip. "Why are you trying to scare these poor boys?"
The man, Castiel, visibly recoils. His shoulders hunch, and he shoves both hands into the pockets of his coat, as though he's trying to grab onto something or hold himself back. For the briefest moment, his gaze flickers, and Dean swears he sees a flash of something else—self-loathing, or pain. Maybe both.
"Apologies," Castiel says, his voice softer now. He ducks his head, his expression twisting into something sharp and bitter. "Excuse me." He brushes past them with a measured, too-careful path, giving Dean a wide berth.
The door swings shut behind, leaving a gust of cold air in its wake.
Dean exhales slowly, his pulse still racing. His mind buzzes with questions.
"Don't mind him," Charlie says, her tone of voice suggesting the opposite. "He can be a little intense sometimes, but he's harmless… unless you're a plant." She laughs at her own joke, but it feels forced. "I'm Charlie, by the way, or Ms. Bradbury, officially. How can I help you?"
At the prompting, Sam shuffles forward and hands over his transcript.
Dean… well, Dean is still stuck on the pure venom that came out of that guy's mouth. He knows he needs to get his head in the game if they have any hope at selling the whole just-moved-into-town-but-please-don't-contact-Sam's-last-school-because-he-hasn't-attended-for-two-months. But his world feels off-kilter, like something is very wrong.
It's only the pleading, puppy dog eyes Sam gives him that overrides his need to chase after the guy and asking him what the hell his problem is.
"Oh, Samuel Winchester. We were expecting you. One moment." Charlie's voice brings Dean back into the room. She spins around on her chair, and flies over to a stack of document trays. Three seconds later, she is back, manila folder in hand. "Your father dropped these off on Friday. Said you'd be starting today. He also said that he'd be out of town a lot, so he's listed a 'Dean Winchester' as your direct contact." She turns her dark green eyes on Dean, and he tries not to react to the news. "I'm guessing that's you?"
"Uh, yeah, yeah. That's me."
"Cooli-o."
Her fingers fly across the keyboard as the boys steal glances at each other. John Winchester has never been invested in Sam's schooling before. It's always been a touchy subject. Even asking if they were staying long enough to be enrolled was risky.
Dean has been thrown completely off his game, first by the extremely handsome man with suspicious hobbies and then the fact that his father is acting… very out of character.
The printer whirls to life, and Charlie flies away again on her chair, collects the piece of paper, and slaps it down on the table in front of them.
"We've gone ahead and selected the same classes you were enrolled in at your last school. But if you need to make any changes, just come and see me. I can sort it out faster than Lightspeed."
Dean has just a moment to question if that was a Star Wars reference before the door behind them opens again, bringing in a fresh wave of cold air. He tenses, wondering if the man is back.
"Ah, Miss Moore, perfect timing."
A young girl with wavy, long blonde hair walks through the door, and in slow motion flicks it over her shoulder. Dean can literally see Sam's mouth drop open and heart eyes appear.
"What's up, Ms. B? Is this Samuel?"
"S-sam," he says with a stutter, and holds out his hand to greet her.
Dean smirks in glee. So much teasing material to file away for later.
The girl looks down at his hand and then smiles up at him. She reaches out and shakes it. "Call me Jess." She looks back over at Charlie. "Is he ready to go?"
"Yep, all set. Have fun, you two!" Charlie calls out and waves them out the door.
Sam hitches his backpack up on his shoulder and follows Jess out the door like an abandoned puppy that's just found its new owner. He doesn't even turn back to glance at his brother.
"Don't mind me, just the loyal chauffeur and babysitter," Dean mumbles and turns back to Charlie to see if she witnessed the same thing as he has.
"Ah," she says, resting her head on her propped up hands. "Young love, it hits so fast. I believe we've just witnessed their meet-cute." She winks at him, like they've just started a club.
Dean softens slightly, trying to brush off the unease that is still gnawing at him from earlier. "Think you might be right. Well, it was nice meeting you. I'd better get going…" He glances out the door at the sleeting rain. "Guess I should probably go be a productive member of society or something."
"Oh!" Charlie says, her face lighting with excitement. "Are you looking for a job?"
"Yeah, guess I am."
"What's your flavor?" She taps her chin with her finger. "You don't strike me as the customer service type—"
"Hey! People love me."
"Oh, I bet they do," she teases, "but do you love them?"
He opens his mouth to argue, then closes it. "Good point," he says, conceding.
She tilts her head, giving him an appraising look. "Hmm… construction? Nah. Carpenter? No, not quite right. Lumberjack? I could see you swinging an axe. You've got the uniform already."
Dean looks down at his red flannel shirt peeking out from under his leather jacket, and smooths it down self-consciously. "Flannel is a fashion choice. It has nothing to do with my career choice."
"It's something, alright…" she muses, and Dean scowls, caught somewhere between annoyance and amusement. "Sorry, I have this bad habit of getting 'overly friendly' too fast. My wife says not everyone's ready for that. I'm working on it…" Without pausing for breath, she points at him again. "Cars. I bet you know your way around an engine."
Despite her perceptive gaze, the ease of her chatter softens the tension still lingering from Castiel's odd behavior. It feels comfortably familiar, the kind of teasing he's used to from Sam. She's also not hitting on him, which is refreshing.
"Say you're correct…" He shrugs, leaning into the banter. "You know anyone hiring?"
"Ha! I knew it." She clicks her fingers in triumph. "I do, actually. Old guy runs a place called Singer's Garage and Salvage. He could use another helping hand."
Charlie clicks a pen and scribbles something down on a notepad.
"That's okay," Dean says, holding up his hand. "I don't want to trouble you any further. I can just look it up."
She scoffs. "Yeah, good luck with that. You won't find him online." She tears the sheet of paper off her notepad. "Head out of town towards the Rez. Just before you hit the border, you'll find the exit. Bobby's a bit rough around the edges, but he's a teddy bear on the inside."
"Alright." Dean accepts the paper with a small smile. "Thanks."
"Anytime, and the same thing I told your brother, if you need anything, I'm your gal. There's not a ton of cool people in town, but I can hook you up."
Dean chuckles softly as he heads for the door.
Charlie seems nice; doesn't seem to suspect anything weird about Dean or Sam, which is great.
Unlike that other guy. Because the way he reacted, well, it suggests he knows Dean's a hunter and that can only mean one thing: Castiel is a monster who needs to be taken out.
AN:
Thanks for giving my story a shot. I'd love to hear what you think.
There are 31 chapters in total which are all written, but currently being beta read for the second time. First beta read was done by MalicMalic (she has to speed read the story because I was running late for my deadline) and second read through is being done by WanderingCas. Thank you both so much.