Chapter Text
Coffee.
No thoughts ‘til then.
Dean sips, closes his eyes.
Not finishing the bottle was the right call. He didn’t have nothin’ to prove this time. Already knew Ben could drink him under ten times over.
So he called it quits at half. Went to bed. Slept.
Better than he has in a while. Dean stares at his coffee. Swallows.
He’d been holding onto that for a long time. He feels a little guilty for saying it. Not ‘cause it ain’t true. Just, not used to seeing Sam so small.
Can’t believe he took that stick of celery with him to his room.
Dean rolls his eyes. Thing really was his emotional support produce.
That was a big moment for them. He hates to even call it that. But it was… needed.
He’s been lying to himself all these years. Hoping that one day Sam would just get him.
Now, that’s a pipe dream. Sam don’t understand his humour. He don’t appreciate how he deals with hard times. He don’t—
Dean hates this. Can’t even pretend it was easier not knowing ‘cause he knows how much it was eating him alive not to see it.
And it’s not the ugly truth that Sam don’t need him. He does. But not in a healthy way. Maybe it never was.
Healthy…
If he thinks about it—really thinks. If Yellow-Eyes never burned Jess on the ceiling, Dean would’a been lucky to get a smug family Christmas letter.
Sam and Jess both posed in front of a tree. Two kids between ‘em. Sam’s smile begging to be anywhere else ‘cause he never had a normal Christmas.
Dean sets his mug down, sighs.
Sam was ready to go back to school. After one case.
Just one.
Didn’t matter that Dad was AWOL.
He was done. Mind made up. Focused on school. On a relationship.
Family didn’t mean a thing to him.
Maybe it never did.
And to think—
Dean grabs his cup. Takes a few long pulls.
—to think that Dean sat there. In Baby. Scared.
He sighs through his nose.
Dean was scared that Sam wouldn’t be happy to see him at all. That he’d tell him to get gone or get dead.
That he’d put a name to his one fear…
“Hey, Kitten.”
Dean grins, waves his cup at the fridge.
“You want feedin’, you’re gonna have to wait.”
Ben drops into a seat, like he owns it. Legs spread wide. Shoulders relaxed as hell.
“You always know when I’m hungry,” he says, smirking. “You need me to whip up my hangover cure?”
Dean frowns.
“I went to bed early.” He drops into his own seat. “Maybe you’re the one that needs the sludge.”
Ben stares, those weird ass gun-metal eyes taking in everything at once.
“You seen Dan yet?”
Dean flinches.
“Does a Dan live here? Not sure I know ‘im.”
Ben drums his fingers like he’s Mozart.
“Still trying to fuckin’ defend him after all that.” He clenches his jaw. “Thought you said last night that was a long time coming?”
Why does this dude remember every little thing Dean says? Does he keep track of his sneezes, too?
“I had shots then. That don’t mean crap.” Dean stonewalls. “Don’t want him to think…”
“Think what? That you hate him?” Christ, is Dean that friggin’ obvious? “He handled it well.” Ben scoffs, jaw ticks. “Nothing more for you to do, sweetheart.”
Dean hates that he’s right.
He laid down the law. He told Sam the truth.
All the shit he’s been burying came to the surface. And not ‘cause of some spell. Or cursed object. He told him the truth.
Worst part is, he probably never would’ve said it if it weren’t for Ben.
Can’t tell him that, though, so he cooks them up some breakfast instead, gives him the bigger piece of bacon.
If he don’t know, he don’t know. If he does, he’s not calling it out.
Which is what Dean likes about the guy.
Feels weird. Thinking that. Couple’a months ago, if someone told Dean that he’d one day be thinking of his weird-ass-smug-double-with-a-god-complex-no-one-asked-for-unfortunate-houseguest as a friend, he’d throw holy water on ‘em on principle.
Slice a clean line of silver without consideration.
Spray ‘em with bleach.
Put a friggin’ angel-warded kick me sign on their back.
And when all of that fell through? He snorts. He’d still call them crazy.
Friends are rare in Dean’s world.
They come and go. They die. They let him down. They leave. They depend on him. They care too much. They love too hard. They make him weak.
Dean throws his fork down. It bounces.
Ben’s immortal…
He can’t die.
He never—
“If you couldn’t breathe—“ Dean leans in, darts his eyes. “If oxygen wasn’t a thing, would you die?”
Ben leans back, fork still in hand. Just dangling between his fingers.
“You been smoking joints when I’m not looking, Kitten?” He shakes his head, teeth bared in a full grin. “Still think you can kill me?” Lip bite. “You want rid of me that fuckin’ much?”
Dean frowns, swallows, stares at the table.
“No—I—“ Crap. Did that upset him? That’s not what he meant, he was just curious. “Uh… Bunker’s quiet today, am I right?” Forced smile, tone flat as cardboard. “Forget I asked. It was stupid.”
Ben leans forward, fork forgotten—like this conversation should be, hands in his lap. “No, not even I would survive that.” His jaw ticks. “No one would. I probably don’t have to worry about that for a long, long fucking time.”
Dean fidgets. Way to ruin the whole damn day, dude.
“If I didn’t need to fuckin’ breathe—“ Ben grits his teeth. “Those Commi assholes wouldn’t have been able to keep me under.”
Yikes. That’s about the panic attack thing, ain’t it?
Quick. Say something funny. Anything—
“When I was, uh…” Dean clears his throat. “Tortured. In Hell. One of the worst was—he would wrap my face, and—“ He scratches his ear, rights himself. “—poke this tiny hole in the centre. Less than the width of a—“ He huffs a laugh, tongue at the roof of his mouth. “—a penny. I’d take being sliced over and over any day of the week to that.”
Ben’s staring. It’s not the usual one. Dean scratches his ear again, adjusts in his chair, thinks about pouring another cup of coffee.
“You said Hell.” Ben squares his shoulders, chin pointed down, eyes cold as frost. “Where is it?”
Dean leans back, casual.
“It’s not an air BnB, man. You can’t just walk up there.”
“He still there?”
No. He’s not.
“Not anymore, no.”
Ben relaxes like noting happened. Weird.
“Good.” Ben pulls smokes out of his pocket, lights one. “You working today’ sweetheart?”
Good. Something normal. Dean can handle that.
Is he? He don’t know, honestly. Depends on—
“Hey,” Sam says, from the bottom of the steps, shrunk like a pair of jeans on a boil wash.
Dean don’t like seeing him like that. Hates that he’s so skittish. But he can’t go back.
There’s no going back from what he said.
So he just says, “Hey.”
Sam scans Ben, breathes through his nose. Ben’s puffing away like he’s got nothing but time. Ain’t even turning his head.
“I found a case. Not far from here.” Sam gives a small smile. The one that says: I wanna make this work. Dean bites back the urge to tell him everything’s fine. ‘cause it’s not. And Dean owes it to himself to stand by that. “Figured me and you could check it out. See what’s what.”
Dean nods his head.
“Sure. Gimme ten?”
Sam’s eyes light like he thought Dean was gonna tell him to get gone. Stings like hell. But that’s what he’s been dealing with for over a decade.
So. Earned.
“Sure. Yeah—“ Sam throws a thumb behind him. Hanging there like he’s a runaway hitch-hiking on the highway. Probably how he would’a got his ass to Palo Alto if he didn’t pay for a bus ticket. “We’ll leave in ten, then.”
He climbs the steps, shoulders telling Dean he’s lost.
“Guess you are working, then,” Ben says, stubs out his cigarette.
“Yeah.” Dean grabs his plate, stands. “Don’t miss me too much.”
He blinks.
Shakes his head.
Baby eats grit down the highway. The road knows who’s the real Queen.
Dean’s tunes are blasting. Skies are clear. Sam’s tucked into the corner, hands in his pockets like that somehow makes him the Invisible Woman.
If Dean knows his brother. And he does. Kind of the problem here—the lack of reciprocation—Sam’s keeping his cake hole shut to keep Dean happy.
Did the same damn thing ‘bout a year or so ago.
Can’t be sure, so Dean switches tracks to one he knows grinds Sam’s gears.
Ratt. Round and Round.
Sam hates this one. He’d definitely attend a mass CD burning of this exact track if someone was stupid enough to organise one.
It starts.
Dean spots Sam’s lips twitch. Fingers flex a second later. Shoulders tense. Shuffle, shuffle. Tick.
Yep. He thinks staying quiet is somehow gonna fix, what, their whole damn life?
Dean sneers, grits his teeth.
No. Fuck this.
Dean pulls Baby into a hard shoulder—rolls her window down to cuss the asshole out that almost clipped her.
Turns to Sam, shuts the track off.
“You hate that song.” That should say it all. Sam fidgets, sinks down like he got stuck on a slide halfway. “You know you hate that song. I know you hate that song.”
“Dean—“
“No, Sam. Don’t Dean me. You think not complaining about hair metal is gonna, what, smooth things over? Just like that? There a case, or were you hoping the drive was enough? Cause that’s what it looks like.”
Sam frowns, shuffles again and fists his hands in his pockets.
“There is a case, Dean.” He taps his foot. “And you’re right. I’m sorry. I thought I’d—I dunno, extend the olive branch.”
Dean can’t help but smile. He pats Sam’s arm, folds one arm over Baby’s wheel.
“By torturing yourself?” His little brother. Christ. “Even I can’t hear that song without hearing your endless rants about the lyrics—or the base, or-or how it offends you personally. Whydya think I don’t play it so much no more?”
Sam cracks a smile, like a beer just staring to hiss after the ring pull.
“Guess I ruin everything.”
Dean pulls them back onto the highway.
“Not like that.” He switches gears. “And I know. Before you say you let me drive last week, Dean—isn’t that the same thing?” Bitch-Sammy voice, nailed. “You were being a passive aggressive little bitch.” He holds a finger up. “Not being an asshole. Just calling like I see it.” He looks at him, holds it for a beat. “Not anymore. This is the new us. Okay?”
Sam rights himself, swallows.
“What the hell was in that drink Ben made you?” He shakes his head. “I saw coke and milk left out on the side.”
Dean smirks.
“That’s exactly what it was.” He pushes her to 70. “No idea how he thought of it. Don’t need to know. All I know is, it made me feel normal after five or ten minutes.”
Dean closes her trunk. They’re both dressed in their fed get-up. Fake IDs have been picked. They’re ready to go.
“So what kind of witness we walkin’ into here?” Dean walks ahead. “The come-to-Jesus kind, thirty-cats kind, or the can’t-believe-this-is-happening-to-me kind?”
Sam catches up, tilts his head.
“The fourth kind.” Dean snorts. “Not a reference, Dean. Not everything is a reference.” He pulls his phone out, scans it. “This is the my-life-is-a-lie kind.”
Oh great. Just what they need.
“Existential crisis kind of crap?”
Sam nods, reads something.
“Yeah. Hasn’t left her house in four months since the accident.” Dean cringes. “Exactly. Pretty sure what we smell in there won’t be sulphur.”
Dean stops, wrinkles his nose.
“If I was eating then, I woulda clocked you for that.”
They get to the house. Looks normal from the outside. Inside, though? Chernobyl.
Probably. They haven’t gone in yet.
It’s what Dean’s imagining.
Dean knocks, rights his cuffs. They wait.
About seven different locks un-catch before the door finally opens. A crack. Stuck on the chain.
“Hello?” Voice is quiet. Scared. Makes sense.
Sam does his not-here-to-hurt-you voice. It works. She lets them in.
Okay. It smells. But not as bad as Dean thought it would.
They both sit on the couch—Dean imagines a dust cloud puffing up from his ass hitting the seat.
“So, Jane, right?” Sam asks.
She nods. Plays with her hair.
Sam does the thing, the lean forward, eyes soft, high school councillor with way too much empathy, one.
“If you’re okay with it, we’d like to hear what happened.” Sam clears his throat. “You’ve had issues with the police on this—which is why they passed it along to us.”
Jane takes a long time to get to the actual point. The seven locks things makes sense now. She said Joe Public didn’t believe her. Accused her of murdering her brother. Which, harsh. So she got locks installed to protect herself.
One good kick would make that a fools errand, but Dean’s not gonna risk making her even more paranoid by telling her that.
Anyway. So after she’s done yapping ‘bout all that, she gets to the meat of it.
“And then, I don’t even know how to explain it. It’s just—my brother ran a red, passed some old man, and then suddenly this car comes out of nowhere and takes the front part of the car off, and my brother—“ Tears. Dean nods, softens his eyes a touch. “with it.”
Sam hands her a tissue.
Ran a red light. Passed an old man. Car came out of nowhere…
Dammit. A friggin’ Trickster.
Dean sighs, covers it with a cough.
“Well, ma’am. Thank you for your time, but I think we’ve got all we need,” Dean says, gets up, walks out without looking back. He hears Sam stammer a little, hand off a business card, and then he’s speed-walking up to him. “Move it or lose it, Sammy.”
“Dean—“ Sam catches up, runs a hand through his hair. “—would you slow down?”
Dean ignores him, strides to Baby’s trunk, opens her up. He lifts a few things out of the way, feels around. Bingo.
“A’right.” He holds it up, inspects it with a smirk. “Let’s go hunt us a Trickster.”
He tosses it back in, shuts Baby’s trunk, and rounds her to get into the driver’s seat. Starts her up.
BEEP.
“Gawk in your own time, Samantha. Day’s wastin’.” Sam snaps out of his daze, folds himself into the passenger seat, looks at Dean like he’s the second-friggin’-coming. “What?”
Dean guns her engine, pulls off.
“How did you know—“
“Ran a light. Old man. Car out of nowhere?” Dean rolls his eyes. “I didn’t want it to be. But that’s Trickster 101.”
Sam goes quiet, fidgets a little.
“So what’s our next move?”
“Find a diner with good Wi-Fi.” Dean grins. “Before that, get your phone out. Start checking social media. Look for things—recent things that sound hokey.”
They pull into a diner a few minutes later. Dean grabs the laptop out of the back, half-listens to Sam reading off tweets while they walk up to the joint.
Bell rings. Nice and quiet inside. Perfect.
“…and then there’s this one about a cheerleader who fell off the top of the pyramid.” Sam scans for replies, Dean guesses. “A lot of people are saying that there’s no way she would have fallen.”
Dean stops, turns. “She die?” Sam shakes his head. “Then keep looking. I dated a few cheerleaders in my time. Only takes one to mess up somewhere for the whole thing to collapse.”
They take a booth at the back. Dean sets the laptop up.
“Yeah, that makes sense.” Sam folds himself in, clears his throat. “So you actually listened to them?”
Dean smirks. “Trust me, Sam, you let a cheerleader bitch and moan about the rest of the team? You’re in.” He loads up the feed of the accident, Charlie helping them in spirit like always. He smiles, waves down the waitress when she comes over. “Coffee for me, please, honey. Sam?”
Sam asks if they do smoothies. Dean rolls his eyes. The waitress puts their order in. Back to work.
What was it Jane said? Uh… 3-3:30PM. Okay. That’s the window.
Dean swipes to 3PM, skips 10 seconds at a time, keeps his eyes sharp.
“Oh, here’s something,” Sam says, tapping the laptop. “A post about missing teenagers. All of them mysteriously vanished. All were last seen leaving the Union Station Plaza.”
“That’s not far from here.” Dean chews his lip. “Got any names for the missing teenagers?”
“Yeah, they’re all listed here.” Sam shows him. “Teenagers aren’t normally Trickster’s MO, Dean.”
“Not normally, no. Thanks.” Dean sips his coffee. “Read ‘em out to me.”
Sam does just that. Dean checks each one. Teenagers aren’t in the data base. But their parents are.
After some digging, Dean keeps seeing the same fountain. Same homeless guy. And a cane that means he’s blind.
It’s petty, he’ll give ‘em that. Icing teenagers just ‘cause they’re trying to get five minutes of fame?
“You seeing what I’m seeing?” Sam shows Dean his phone. Dean spins his laptop.
“That’s our guy.”
As soon as Dean got a hit on the licence plate, they set up the ambush. Tracked his car. Lied in wait for the son of a bitch.
You only get one shot at a Trickster. So if any other causalities happened today, well, hopefully knowing that the bastard’s gonna bite it ‘ll make ‘em feel better.
It’s quiet as hell. No one else around. Could hear a pin drop.
Sam knows the plan. The timing’s gotta be tight, or it’s game over.
Crunch.
Show time.
Dean keeps an eye on his wallet, left on the ground. It’s bait. If this dude’s as greedy as Dean thinks he is, he’ll bend to pick it up.
And when he does… Now, Sam!
Sam grabs him from behind, squeezes him like a friggin’ boa. Dean walks up, stake in hand.
“Kids? Really?” He shakes his head. “That’s what you use your powers for? Pathetic.” Dean presses the stake to his chest. “I’m gonna do this real slow. For each and every one of them.” The guy looks confused. Ain’t that cute. “Wondering why you can’t snap to the Bahamas?” Dean pushes the first inch in. Dude grits his teeth. “Melted sugar. Good thing you got to it before the ants did.” Smirk. Couple more inches. “Well, I lost a wallet, but it was damn worth it to see your stupid, ugly face realise the mistakes you’ve made.”
Dean’ll give him one thing. He died quietly. Didn’t beg. Didn’t monologue. Didn’t cry.
Just grit his teeth, stayed silent ‘til he’s dust.
Dean kicks his wallet over, empty, of course. Picks it up. Tosses it on the roof of the car.
“Let’s light it up and get out of here,” he says. Sam grabs the gasoline, douses it. Lights the match.
They get in Baby, peel off.
Sam keeps looking at him. Like he can’t believe it. Dean’s face turns sour. This is the point. This is what Ben was talking about. Sam’s known Dean his whole damn life. Always believed he was just a joke.
Dean’s jaw ticks. He slams the music on and drums the wheel to calm himself.
Ben saw it… Somehow.
“Dean, uh… You wanna grab a beer?” Sam asks.
Normally, he would. They would. Couple of beers after a hunt. Relax a little. Maybe hustle some pool if they’re up for it.
But not tonight.
No. Tonight, Dean is gonna have a drink. Just not with Sam.
He sent Ben a text earlier. Told him he was posing as a whisky expert, and needed to know what was good. Figured if he did, Ben would give recommendations of what he likes.
Which was the plan.
Ben sent him back a few options. Left it at that.
“Not tonight, Sam.”
“Oh. Okay.”
They drive the rest of the way in silence. Dean pulls into a gas station, picks up a bottle of whisky and some smokes, since Ben said he was running low again.
Hops back in Baby, and speeds the rest of the way home.
Sam pauses for a beat at the stairs, shuffles. Awkward as hell.
Then.
“You’re not just the muscle, Dean,” he says, claps Dean on the shoulder. Squeezes. “Good night.”
Dean watches him walk off, breathes out when he’s out of sight and smiles to himself.
Okay. Now then. Yeah. Whisky.
Dean clears the steps, sets the bag on the table. He shrugs out of his jacket, tosses it. Grabs one tumbler from the kitchen, sets it out in front of him and waits.
Nothing to see here. Just one guy having a drink after a hard day. Not weird at all.
He takes the bottle out. Inspects it, looks towards the stairs.
There he is.
“Hey, Kitten. You get the smokes?” Ben folds himself into the opposite seat. Eyes the whisky. “You sharing that?”
Dean fishes out the smokes and tosses them. Ben picks ‘em up. “Do I have a choice?” He sighs like this is a huge pain in the ass, but gets up anyway to grab another tumbler and slides it across the table. “We’re not shotting this. I mean it.”
Ben smirks.
“You seem happy.” He leans back, puts a cigarette between his lips. “Hunt go well?”
More than well. Dean finally got to prove he’s not just—
He grunts instead, pours himself two fingers then slides the bottle across. Ben catches it easy.
“I don’t wanna talk about work.” Dean raises his glass, sips. Tastes it. Nice. Real nice. “It’s not poisoned. I promise.”
Ben sips, nods his head, impressed.
“I told you poisons don’t work on me, sweetheart.”
Yeah, but Dean was making a joke ‘cause of earlier when—never mind.
“The more you know,” he says, waves a hand. Ben blows a ring of smoke. “This is good.”
They’re quiet for a while. It’s nice. Not awkward. Not weird. Just nice.
Two guys sipping whisky, passing the bottle back and forth.
Appreciating the little things.
“You and Dan kiss and make up?” Ben asks, randomly, eyes on his whisky.
Dean snorts, shakes his head.
“Sort of.” He swills the liquid. “It’s a start. A good start. I think this is good for us.”
Ben makes a noise in his throat, scratches his cheek. “You know I don’t give a shit about Dan. But it’s good to see you happy, Kitten.”
“Shuddup,” Dean says, hides a smile. “Drink your whisky.”