Chapter Text
“Idjit.”
“Don’t you ‘idjit’ me, Bobby,” Dean retorted, adjusting the Impala’s wheels as they drove over a bump, which could’ve been a log, or not. “My baby’s not built for these backroads.”
“This ain’t a road at all,” Bobby grumbled, one hand on his baseball cap so the car’s jumping and jumbling wouldn’t knock it off. “Last time I came out here, I swore I’d never come back. And you’re a damn fool for makin’ me.” The car hit a ditch, and Bobby spat, “Idjit.”
Dean carefully steered through the thick forest brush, angling the front of his Chevy into the clearest space he saw.
He let the car roll up to the cabin, backing up over overgrown weeds and parking before he looked up. He glanced towards the sky – blue and sunny now they weren’t under twenty feet of tree cover – and then Dean properly noticed the building.
“That’s not a house,” he said in surprise. “That’s a shack.”
“Told ya,” Bobby said gruffly, arms folded.
Dean popped the trunk, then opened up the driver’s side door and set his boots on leaf litter. Drawing a deep breath, the scent of mulch and flowers coated the back of his tongue smoothly.
Sam’s Jeep came up behind them, clearly not having run into any trouble on the bumpy ground. As soon as the Jeep halted, the two engines ticked out of sync, cooling.
Sam excavated his too-tall body from the Jeep, like a construction crane trying to set itself upright. His hands went straight into his windbreaker pockets, now followed out by Jody on the other side, who looked more at ease in a flannel shirt than she ever looked in a business suit.
“Well, there is is,” Sam grinned, looking around. “Bobby’s safehouse.”
“Nothing safe about it,” Bobby muttered, scowling in the shade of his cap. “Ain’t a damn good thing coming of this.”
“Hey, think positive,” Jody said, turning to smile at the old man. “Dean wants a break to get back to nature. What’s closer to nature than this?” She thumbed over her shoulder at the sun-dappled woodland, all the trees sparkling with gold in the breeze.
Dean stood glumly, trying not to speak. The house looked like shit. This whole time he’d thought Bobby was exaggerating.
“You want help taking your stuff in?” Sam asked Dean, already heading to the Impala’s rear. “We can get you all set up before we head back to civilisation.”
Dean took a moment to look around. The sun warmed his face, a warm gush of summer air rising over his gelled hair and tickling at the loose ends. He drew a deep, encouraging breath, then smiled.
“You know what? I got it,” Dean said, brushing Sam away from the trunk. “I got my fishing gear, I got my guns, I got firestarters and I got my music.” He opened the trunk and beamed at the guitars and the vintage record player sitting safely in the trunk. “So I’m good. You guys – head back to headquarters. Make sure Charlie lets everyone know—” He hesitated, then grinned, hands in the pockets of his jacket.
“Here.” He pulled out his phone, taking a few steps away from the car, stumbling over moss and weird mushrooms as he went. He unlocked the phone screen, and started up his camera to record, lifting the phone up to get a good angle on his face. “Hey, what’s up, guys. This is it! Day one of my, uh... sabbatical. Take a look. Got me some trees, got me a river. Lotsa sunshine. Good for the health. My team’s got you covered while I’m gone, so Sammy’s gonna keep the ‘gram updated, and Charlie – y’all know Charlie, my publicist-slash-remixer? – she’s still working on getting the next album out, so make sure y’all follow her for updates.” Dean licked his lips, lowering the phone.
He began a new video, but took a moment to speak. “Look. Uh. Don’t anyone worry about me while I’m gone. Okay? I just need some time to reset. Get my head on right. And who knows, maybe I’ll find some inspiration out here. And I’ll come back with something better than ever. Thank you guys for letting me do this. Seriously, bottom of my heart.” He patted his chest twice. “Stay lovin’.” He smiled, winked into the camera, then ended the video.
Sam came up beside him, just as Dean added his best filter and Charlie’s Instagram handle to the video so people would see it.
“You all right?”
Dean nodded. “Yeah.” He handed over his phone. “Don’t hit send until you’re at least fifty miles away. Don’t want anyone stalking me. As much as I love meeting music-lovers when I least expect it, I really just... need to be alone for a while. Y’know? It’s— It’s so much. It’s been so much for so long, I gotta—”
“Hey.” Sam gripped Dean’s arm gently. “I get it.” He cocked his head towards Jody and Bobby, who came to join the conversation. “We all get it.”
Dean managed a small smile. “Thanks for letting me borrow your house, Bobby.”
“Place is haunted,” Bobby said firmly.
“It’s not haunted,” Jody said to Dean. “You have a good time out here, Dean. If you need anything – well, I guess you’re stuck with sending carrier pigeons. We’ll keep our windows open.”
“You’re sure we can’t help you unpack?” Sam insisted, looking bothered. “It’s a lot of heavy stuff.”
“Nah.” Dean knocked his brother’s chest. “This is where the fun starts. Weight training! I appreciate you comin’ to see me off though.”
Sam pressed a smile between his lips, then sighed and brought Dean in for a hug. “Don’t fall down a ditch or something. Or get eaten by bears.”
“What bears?” Dean said, pulling back. “Only bear out here is me.”
“Mm, you’re more of an otter,” Jody said, before grinning and zipping her fingers past her lips when Dean glanced her way. “Sorry. Manly-manly hunting and fishing adventure. Shutting up.”
Dean shook his head, grasping Jody for a hug. “I’ll be fine. I packed everything I need.”
He moved to Bobby, whose grey eyes held Dean’s for a moment before they hugged. Bobby patted Dean’s back, then gripped his shoulder. “You really sure about this, kid?”
“You taught me everything I know,” Dean smiled, pulling back. “Honestly, man, I’m fine, just leave me alone!” He laughed, pushing Bobby away gently. Sobering, he held Bobby’s gaze. “But yeah. I’m sure. I want this.”
Bobby tipped his cap. “Well, then.” He turned back to the car, shaking his head. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, boy. This place might look pretty but there’s somethin’ else lurking out here. I can feel it.”
“Hey, don’t go giving Dean the heebie-jeebies,” Jody complained, going after Bobby, car keys in hand. “Only thing out here that’s haunted is that ghostly-white beard of yours.”
Sam scoffed, hands deep in his pockets. He lingered by Dean, unwilling to leave.
“Aren’t you worried?” Sam asked quietly. “There’s no cellphone signal. No Internet. No phone. No lifeguard next to the river. You can’t call us, or text us, or – anything.”
“Sammy?” Dean took his brother by the shoulders, and looked him dead in the eye. “That’s the fucking point. I’ve had enough of people. Enough of that showbiz life. You know as well as I do, I can’t give it up, there’s a million kids out there that still need me. But I can take a break. So this is me. Taking a break.”
“When are you coming home?”
Dean shrugged. “Ask Bobby to use that sixth sense of his. When it’s time, it’s time.”
“Like, a week? A month? A year—?”
Dean turned Sam around on the spot and sent him stumbling towards the Jeep. “Bye, Sam.”
“But—”
“I’ll see you when I see you,” Dean smiled, enjoying the vagueness. He’d had enough of schedules. He liked the ‘whatever, whenever’ kind of planning. Finally! He was already starting to relax.
Sam was not pleased, but after one more look back and a forced smile, he got in the car.
Jody started the engine, and turned the Jeep around in the clearing beside the house, careful not to bump the Impala, or scrape the windows with a scratchy fir tree. Waving hands emerged from the windows as they left, and soon after, the car horn sounded in the distance, sending up clouds of wild birds from the treetops.
Dean put his hands on his hips, and exhaled in relief.
At last, he had this freaking sun-dappled forest gully all to himself. Peace and quiet. Nothing to do but listen to music, write songs, and dip his toes in the river.
God, this was gonna be the most zen experience he’d had in years.
He’d juuuust reached in to grab his record player – first things first, y’know? Gotta have some sweet tunes to get in the mood for moving in.
And then.
And then.
Someone behind him said: “Hello.”
“GAH!” Dean’s body locked up, hair on end, hands releasing his precious record player. He felt its bulk hit his boot, bounce off, knock on the root of some random tree he hadn’t noticed two seconds ago, flop right over (in slow motion)—
Ka-blrsshhh.
Yep. That was broken.
Dean sagged in dismay, unable to tear his eyes away from the wreckage.
His record player... Smashed up into little tiny bits...
“Oh,” said the voice. “Oh, no, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you...”
Dean raised his eyebrows. “Right,” he sneered, swivelling on his heels to face the source of the voice. “And when a stranger drives up to a cabin in the middle of the forest, he absolutely expects to be greeted by a...” Dean gestured vaguely at the figure before him. “A muddy hippie. Great. That’s just awesome.”
The man hugged himself with one arm across his middle, holding his elbow. He looked thin, but that might’ve just been because of the oversized, oatmeal-coloured overshirt he wore, paired with loose, khaki-coloured canvas pants. And Crocs. Dirty white ones. Dean’s gaze shot back up to the man’s face, with its dark stubble and sloped fatigue-lines below his eyes.
“Umm,” the man began, offering a muddy hand. “I— I’m Castiel. Who are you?”
Dean hesitated, but eventually stretched out his perfectly clean hand and let it be contaminated. Castiel’s eyes were sky-blue, and it was hard not to notice, given how Castiel stared; Dean found their pigment shocking in a world of luscious greens and earthen browns.
It took Dean a moment to recover, catching his breath – blinking a few times... but at last he stammered, “What? O-Oh. Right. Dean. Dean Winchester.”
Castiel paused, finally letting go of Dean’s hand. He tilted his head. “Have I met you before?”
Dean actually laughed at that. “Come on,” he chuckled, gaze darting away to the thick woodland around them. “I think I’d remember meeting you.”
Castiel narrowed his eyes. “You would?”
“Yeah, I mean,” Dean gestured at the human dirt-stain before him. “Don’t get much of this where I’m from.”
“Which is where, exactly?”
“Uhhh, Lawrence, Kansas? But I’ve lived all over.”
Castiel seemed intrigued. His eyebrows rose towards his widow’s-peak hairline, and something brightened in his face. “I’ve seen you on TV.”
Dean snorted. “You get TV reception way out here? Well, woo-hoo. Jackpot.”
Castiel cracked a smile at that – but it was a strange, lopsided, awkward smile. “What are you doing in this place, Dean Winchester? This is the middle of nowhere. ‘Off the grid’, as they say.”
“Could ask you the same question, stranger,” Dean frowned, turning back to the trunk of his car, lifting out a thick wad of vinyl records in their perfectly-preserved cardboard sleeves. He shot Castiel a quick glance, then began carrying the vinyls towards his new house.
As Dean unlocked the door and entered the cabin, he heard the grunt of Castiel realising how heavy vinyls were, when lifted in large numbers. “Hey!” Dean called, “If you’re gonna touch those things, try not to get them dirty.” Only after he spoke did realise he sounded annoyed. And, well, he was. What was he gonna do without a record player, now? Listen to birds? Sing to himself like freaking a Disney princess?!
Dean elbowed the nearest switch with force, but frowned when no electric light came on.
In the pale daylight that stretched from the open door, he set his stack of records down on a dusty wooden coffee table. The couch beside it was ripped up, its wooden frame chewed by wild animals; the rug was mossy, and – as Dean looked up – he saw the ceiling was overgrown with vines.
“Great,” Dean sighed. “So much for my refreshing, feel-good retreat.”
“That’s why I came out here, too,” Castiel said, having overheard. He placed his armful of records beside Dean’s stack, straightening up to smile at him. “Four years ago. I used to be a tax accountant. Door-to-door religious textbook-salesman on the side.”
“And what happened?” Dean smirked, following Castiel back outside, ducking the vines in the house’s doorway. He imagined he’d have to cut back those vines, first thing; he practically had to do the limbo to get himself indoors. “Holy tax accountant career tanked?”
“No,” Castiel shrugged a shoulder. He placed a hand on the lifted trunk of the Impala, peering in at Dean’s belongings. “I just found I prefer living without excessive human company. And only doing my own taxes. Of which there are none, as I no longer have an income.”
Dean’s eyebrows jumped. “Well, that’s a reason-and-a-half to stick around.”
“More than anything...” Castiel mused, his attention turning to the warbling, twittering forest around them, “I feel at peace here.” He looked at Dean again, but this time kindly. “I hope you can find the same peace, Dean Winchester.”
Dean felt a pang of wonder inside him. Normal people never really said shit like that out loud.
Castiel reached to touch Dean’s arm, then stepped away. “I live just over the river. If you need anything – anything at all, Dean, I’ll do what I can to assist you.” His eyes lowered to the broken record player, lying forlornly amongst the undergrowth. “Again, I’m... so terribly sorry about your equipment. I know as a musician, your music player must be... invaluable.” A frown of undeniable sorrow and anguish crossed his face. “I owe you a debt, and I’m willing to repay it however you see fit.”
Dean found he could not speak. His eyes lingered, watching his new neighbour turn away and walk into the forest. Castiel hopped down a few rocks, and walked into the water – over the water, even though it rushed and tumbled in a scary-looking way. Dean supposed there were stepping stones under the surface.
The river was only about ten feet wide. Soon Castiel’s serene figure floated up the other side of the gully, clambering a set of steps, higher and higher... right up to a pretty little house, which overlooked the sylvan valley. Afternoon sun shone golden up there, and Dean could see glistening stained glass windows – and a delicately smoking chimney, which eased out a line of white, up past the tree canopy and out into the open sky.
A smile now graced Dean’s face. Castiel’s window had a good view of Dean’s cabin. At least someone would notice if he fell in the river and drowned. Huh! And to think Sam was worried about losing his big brother forever.
Shaking his head, Dean returned his attention to his car full of stuff, and bowed forward, reaching for a third armful of vinyls.
Dean’s house was now crowded.
His record collection took up half the space, all congregated in hunching piles around the coffee table. Centred on the coffee table: a solar-powered coffee pot borrowed from Sam’s camping supplies, and a dozen coffee flavours and roasts.
Then there were the clothes – his six toughest pairs of jeans, a leather jacket, t-shirts, underwear, and a disgusting plastic raincoat which Sam had suggested he buy on the way “just in case”.
Entertainment included a radio, a little boxy TV – but best of all, a small library of books: graphic novels, horror, Westerns, vintage sci-fi... plus some dog-eared romance titles, hidden at the bottom of the pile. Dean had had enough foresight to bring a flashlight, food, water, blankets, and toilet paper too, thank God.
With a sigh of angry satisfaction, Dean set his hands on his hips and gazed upon the mounds of junk he’d assembled in his new abode. “Home sweet home,” he said, with the hard twang of sarcasm.
It seemed likely that these objects he’d brought might become his only salvation in the next few weeks. Without music, coffee, and fiction, he felt lost. And now, without a record player, he had no music.
Hell... at least he had his guitars. Their two curved bodies and slender necks lay seductively in pride of place, lounging across the torn couch. One acoustic, one electric. Dean smiled, realising this retreat couldn’t be all bad. He couldn’t listen to other people’s music without his record player, but he could make some himself. He was good at that.
Quietly, deep down, he acknowledged to himself that this place was disastrously underwhelming. He could hear something dripping, and the smell of mildew was already making him nauseated.
Scowling all the way back to the Impala, Dean slammed the trunk shut, then got into the driver’s seat and let the car roll forward until he made it stop, and set it to park again. Now the car’s massive hiney wouldn’t block the house’s entrance.
Dean got out of the car again, slapping plant matter from his hands.
He paused. “The hell,” he uttered, looking closely at the mossy stains on his pink palms. Peering back into the car, he was struck with alarm: a thin layer of green had coated the Impala’s steering wheel. Not only that – it was on the glass, and the seats—
“Aw, man,” Dean whined, straightening up, eyes to the sky. “My record player and my car? What did I do to deserve this, I don’t know,” he muttered, stalking back to the house. “Oh, yeah, sure, Uncle Bobby! It’ll be fine, Uncle Bobby! What kind of man can’t handle a few overgrown leaves? Should’a listened. Ugh. Should’a listened.”
Dean slammed the door behind him, and the windows rattled.
Outside...
The forest hushed, swaying in the breeze. Whispering.
From branch to bud, some tiny lights glimmered – there for a moment, gone by the next.
