Chapter Text
Dean
Squirrel and Moose Coffeehouse is locked up. The lights are off and the espresso machine is asleep. It’s a quiet evening, car engines rumble along the street and people laugh around the town square.
It sounds like any other night in the pocket-sized mountain town, and fuck, Dean Winchester wishes it was. Two hours ago he’d been under his car, looking forward to going home with Hatchet Man and a cold beer; grab some pie from the market near Bobby’s and settle in for a good night.
Instead, he’s sitting across from his brother in their shared apartment, stifling in silence above the family business their Dad left behind. He strokes a finger along his knee, skimming over a hole he punctured in the denim.
Bad is coming, it’s written all over Sam’s face and Dean can barely breathe.
“I need to do this,” Sam says quietly, resting sharp elbows on his knees. His hair falls in front of his face but he pushes it behind his ears, as he always does when he’s serious. Freakin’ Sam code for I know what I’m doing, even when he doesn’t. “I gotta help her, I owe her—”
“You owe her?” Dean stops picking at the strands of cotton to wipe a hand down his mouth, “you gotta be kidding me.” The glow from the television, paused five minutes in, mocks him with a blood splatter across the screen.
Sam dips his eyes with guilt and pity. “You know I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for me, that’s not what I mean. You’re my brother. You’ve done nothing but take care of me my whole life.”
Dean scoffs, because Sam knows how he feels about that. They’d gone over this more times than either could count. Sam had found their Dad, not Dean. His younger brother, barely in his teen years, shouldn’t have been the one to trip over John Winchester laid flat on the floor while getting a glass of water. He shouldn’t have been the one that had to roll him over and press two fingers against his neck only to find no pulse.
Dean was meant to protect him from exactly that kinda crap.
“I know supporting me through school was rough on you, and I’m gonna pay you back, every cent.” Sam continues, it’s clear he’s thought all this through.
“I don’t wanna be paid back,” Dean replies, “what I want is for you to think about this.”
It wasn’t their Dad’s old leather jacket or worn out boots in the closet that haunted Dean, it was the fact that without their parents, the only road out for them was buried under rock and blood. His one job was to clear a path for Sam, to make sure he actually had his own choices. But Ruby? Ruby isn’t a choice, she’s a freakin’ parasite.
“I have thought about it,” Sam shuffles, “but honestly, even if she hadn’t asked me to go with her, I don't want to stay here anymore—”
His words cut the rope holding Dean together. “And I do?!” Dean scowls. “You think I wanted this life? Making coffee six days a week?”
“You can leave too,” Sam says, words that Dean has heard more times than he remembers. “That’s kinda the whole point. You took over this place after Dad died, and I’m thankful, I know you did that for me…but Dean, that was fourteen years ago. You don’t have to do this anymore.”
“Oh sure, I’ll just pack all my stuff now, huh? When you’re about to throw your life away for some girl you just met? Someone that not only wants you to give up on your dreams, but is a stone cold thief that has been in our cash register more times than a drunk on a slot machine?” Dean watches his brother keep calm, deep breathing exercises that he must’ve learned at the same time he swapped bacon for kale.
It’s going a hell of a lot better than Dean’s attempt to go easy on him.
“If I take off somewhere, what the hell happens to you then? Who is gonna bail you out, or come drive you home if you ain’t got a home?” Dean asks.
“I’m twenty-eight—”
Dean bites his lip, willing himself to stop, but the anger flows through him like water and he can’t hold it back. He points an angry finger. “I don’t give a rat’s ass. After Jess died and you moved back, I knew it would be temporary…I knew you’d be gone again, hell, I wanted that for you! But not like this. I don’t even recognise you right now,” he pauses with a grimace, “I haven’t for months.”
Strike one for Dean.
Sam darts his eyes into the carpet. “You don’t think I’m capable of knowing right from wrong?” he asks, clenching with hurt. “Ruby is—”
“Screwing you over in every way possible. She is gonna use you, burn you out, the money you worked for? She will take every last cent and leave you with nothing.” Dean knows he’s right and leans forward, casting shadows over his brother’s face.
“...You don’t know her like I do.”
“No, and I don’t want to.”
Sam makes a noise, pleading to be understood. “She’s not evil, Dean, she’s had a hard life.”
“Newsflash, so have we!” Dean storms out of the chair needing to move his feet. He clenches his fist, scrubs his jaw, anything to scratch out the fact his brother is doing this.
“Look, I thought Jess was it for me, that I’d never meet anyone again. Ruby changed that.” Sam sighs, they’d been arguing about her for months and there was no way he wasn’t as tired of it as Dean was. “I knew you’d be pissed but…I have to go with her—I am going with her.”
Dean shakes his head, screwing his face up. “No, you’re not. Not on my watch.”
Outside, a car screeches to a halt and sounds its horn. An invite to someone, and Sam stands up to look through the blinds. “You can’t stop me,” he says calmly, but with enough attitude to knock Dean into another level of pissed off.
“The hell I can’t.” Dean strides over, prepared to swing a punch if he has to. Anything, if it’ll stop Sam from hurling himself off a cliff.
The horn goes again and Sam throws his hands into the air. “Dean, could you stop for one second and see that I’m doing this partly for you, too?” he argues. “With me gone, you can think about what you really want without thinking you’re Dad.”
“What the hell you talking about?” Dean narrows his eyes. “I know that, but looking out for you? It’s what I’m meant to do.”
“No, it’s not,” Sam runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head and raising his voice; frustration finally at his feet. “Last month you told me you wanted to head out on a road trip, that you wanted to sell the shop and—”
Dean intervenes, because this is crap. “I was drinking beer and shooting pool at Benny’s, that wasn’t serious.”
“Yes it was!” Sam exclaims, his eyes big and every part the puppy. “I’d never seen you more serious, Dean! You don’t wanna be here and you don’t have to be!”
“Have you lost your mind?” It’s a serious question, but it’s punctuated by the long sound of the horn; someone leaning a fist fully into it. Dean thunders over to the window, throwing open the blinds. “The hell is going on out there?”
“It’s my ride,” Sam says quietly.
“Your ride?” Dean asks, the apartment tightens around his throat and panic cracks into his ribs as he looks out. Ruby is in the driver’s seat of a car he doesn’t recognise, one she probably hotwired from a parking lot.
All this talk of leaving and the son of a bitch meant right now?
The blinds crash together and Dean turns to find Sam coming out of his room with two bags over one shoulder, his chest rising and falling like the damn tide. “Wow, you really can’t see it, huh?” he mumbles.
Sam rubs a hand over his jaw. “It’s you that can’t see it. Maybe things will work out with Ruby, maybe they won’t, but I’m giving it a shot. When was the last time you did that?”
It doesn’t warrant a reply, not in Dean’s book. He’s a freakin’ parent in this scenario, he doesn’t get shots. Squeezing his fist tighter and tighter, he’s furious with himself for not recognising the signs. Sam had spent so much time with Ruby, first showing up late for his shifts, eventually blowing off the coffee shop all together. Dean had hoped she was a phase.
Clearly not.
“How long you been planning this?” Dean asks, not wanting the answer, but he needs to ask anyway.
“Not long,” Sam replies, “but Dean, you taught me that helping people, it’s what we do, and I can help Ruby.”
Dean huffs, not buying it. “Sure. Well, you can help her all the way to Narnia for all I care.”
“Dean—”
“I mean it.” Anger bubbles into his throat like bile and Dean grits his teeth. What’s he meant to do? Pretend this is a good plan? When he was the one wanting to chase some dumbass dream of Americana, he got his ass served. John hadn’t let him go, and he’ll be damned if he’s gonna let Sam. “If you walk out that door, don’t you dare think about coming back,” he says, looking at his brother hard.
The bags look small against Sam’s back and he nods in agreement as he turns. Nodding. Accepting it. His head is low and his legs long, looking like a regular sasquatch on his way out the door. “...I’ll call when we’ve reached the motel,” he says over his shoulder, pushing the door handle.
Dean doesn’t have time to fight about it, or tell him not to bother. It’s right on the tip of his tongue, but before he can say anything he hears the door shut and Sam’s gone. His brother’s footsteps are loud, even downstairs. He hears him walk until the main door to the coffee shop closes with a bang, leaving nothing but a cold silence in its wake.
The shock unravels slowly at first, suddenly Dean blinks, looking from the door to the table next to it and noticing Sam’s keys in the bowl. His mouth drops, gasping oxygen back into his lungs, filling his belly with everything that just went down. Without realizing what he’s doing, he moves towards his brother’s room.
Sam’s room is an empty shell, not that he ever had much in the way of decor, but surfaces have been cleared and photo frames removed. All that’s left are a stack of law books on top of the drawers, some weights next to the bed, and a pull bar stretching across the doorframe.
Dean checks the closet last. Looking for some hope or a clue that Sam thought he might come back, but old sweatshirts and busted sneakers tell the grim truth. He slams the door hard enough for it to bounce open again.
So much for being the responsible older brother. So much for keeping him safe. So much for saying the right thing.
The living room feels hollow when Dean walks into it. He’s lived alone before and knew he would again, but this feels worse than the times before. This is the first time they’ve gone their separate ways on bad terms, and Dean couldn’t feel more of a failure if the ghost of John Winchester himself decided to list all the ways he’s screwed this up.
He leans against the wall, staring at where their initials are inked under the double hung windows, so that whoever came next would find them. Now it’s nothing but a reminder of how he thought life was gonna go.
Staring until the room drains of color, a tear falls down his cheek.
There’s too many failures for him to pick from, so he cries for them all.
*~*~*
*~*~*
Being upset doesn’t last longer than a cry and two beers, leaving Dean with a bitter taste and anger fresh in his blood. By morning, nobody stands a chance.
His office in the coffee shop is tiny with enough room for a bookcase, a dark oak desk he patched up himself, and a hidden bottle of bourbon in the bottom drawer. He snatches his jacket off the brass hook in the office and thinks about it.
A drink is fucking tempting, but he’s got inventory to do.
When he storms into the front of Squirrel and Moose Coffeehouse, the sun is glowing through the windows and hitting the wooden beams like everything is fine. It looks like the start of a beautiful day, which means people will want their freakin’ coffees.
He reaches into the bowl of keys under the cash register, luckily he can hide in the basement of Chuck’s Bookshop.
Jo Harvelle is opening this morning, watching him from where she’s shuffling chairs into their usual position. Dean usually enjoys her company: they wrestle over the jukebox he’d rescued when Harvelle’s Roadhouse became Benny’s, he teases her about Charlie, and she gives him shit for caring more about his Dad’s 1967 Chevy Impala than anything else.
But right now, the tension is tight and he’d rather be alone.
“What crawled up your ass?” she asks, never one to shy away.
“Nothing,” Dean replies. He drops the keys to the bookshop with a crash next to the espresso machine and finds the arms of his jacket, checking his phone is where it should be. It's close to twelve hours since Sam left, and it’s been radio silent. Not that Dean’s done anything more than thumb into his messages, debating whether to ask him if he’s okay, but deciding to shove his cell into his pocket without a word.
“Yeah right.” Jo walks over, giving the counter an extra sparkle with the towel she’s carrying. “I take it Sam left?”
“...You knew?” Dean asks, flipping his collar up with a huff. Great, his brother jumped off the deep end and told everyone before he bothered to mention it to Dean. He glances past her shoulder and notices a bucket of yellow daffodils outside his shop; they weren’t there yesterday, but the town has been decorating the square with them all week. Who knew golden happiness in a friggin' tub could piss him even more?
“He told me that he was thinking about it,” she replies, bringing his attention back. “But you saw this coming. We all did. He saw a wounded bird after losing Jess and he went for it.” She makes a bee-line to freshen up the table nearest the door and Dean throws a look after her.
“Don’t give me that crap,” he grunts, “you met Ruby, you know as well as I do that she’s a fucking demon. She saw how messed up he was, sweet-talked him into helping her, and he did it because that’s just who he is.”
Always wanting to do the right thing, nothing is ever black and white with Sam, just shades of gray.
“Maybe they’ll help each other,” Jo replies, spraying disinfectant, “or maybe not, life can’t be all hookups, Dean.”
“You wanna elaborate?” he asks, tightening the lines above his nose.
She shoots off a few more sprays from the bottle. “Sure. But you’re not gonna like it.” No, he probably won’t, but he narrows his eyes for her to continue and she puts everything down to face him. “I think you’re stuck in a cycle of stuff you don’t wanna do and you screw up every chance you get to break out of it. You’re jealous that Sam can let this place go and you can’t.”
Dean is not jealous, and just to make sure he’s clear about that he huffs.
Loudly.
Before working for him, Jo was bartending and she’d heard it all: Lisa, Benny, all the ones in between. Unfiltered thanks to the booze, Dean had probably spilled more to her than he remembers.
She walks towards him, counting on her fingers. “You wanted to go when Lisa asked you, you wanted it to work, but when those moving vans came, what did you do? You bailed.”
“I have a job here, and I wasn’t gonna leave Sam with no home—”
“Whatever, Dean. Then we had Benny,” she widens her eyes as her middle finger joins the index finger at cataloging his love life, “who you gave up on the second Andrea came back—”
“She was his wife,” Dean interrupts.
Jo snorts, taking her hands to her hips. “Come off it. It doesn’t matter if it was Lisa and you have a job, or Benny who has a wife, it’s always the same.” Dean rolls his eyes, and having failed to get him to admit he’s repeatedly shot down chances to be happy, she changes tactics with a sharp look. “What are you worried about?” she asks.
“That she’ll put a gun in his hand and send him straight into a liquor store,” he replies without hesitation.
“No,” she says, “that’s not what I mean.”
Dean’s heart is wrung out over the coffee shop floor. Sure, he’s avoided relationships pretty much forever, but only because every time he’s actually tried, they have all blown up in his face, and Jo should get that.
When Lisa wanted a fresh start, Sam had just lost Jess. Was he really meant to leave his brother with nowhere to go? And Benny? That was always meant to be a roll in the hay situation. When Andrea drove back into town, Dean gave them his blessing. Benny was a good man, he’d done a lot for Dean, and he deserved a good woman and a clean stack of sheets.
“Whether or not I ended a relationship and why, has nothing to do with anything,” he says, “I’m pissed because Sam is screwing his life up—”
“Yeah, he might be,” Jo replies, knocking Dean off his soapbox. “But you might feel a whole lot better about things if you stopped worrying about Sam and started thinking about what you want. He can take care of himself.”
Which is where Dean can’t agree. “I’m going next door, you good in here for a few hours?” he asks.
“Yeah,” Jo accepts defeat with a sigh. She repositions the ornamental trees she’d picked up from a thrift store a few days ago, one on each table. She cares so much about the coffee shop, more than Dean has in years.
Dean nods, jiggling the keys in his palm. “You need anything—?”
“You’ll know it.”
Morning is rising above the mountains when Dean steps out, the sun starting to warm on his shoulders. He isn’t angry that Sam can just up and leave, especially on some fruitless journey that’ll end in police custody rather than a little white chapel, he’s not. Everything he’s done has been to make sure that Sam can get a perfectly cut lawn and picket fence. He's angry because, right now, Sam couldn't be further from that.
His own love life might be a little dry, but the lecture isn’t needed. You don’t go a year without a hot blooded human in your bed, or your car, and not know that. Meeting someone was the dream and Lord knows he tried, but the constant goodbyes grew too much.
Everything has an expiration date when you’ve got family to put first, and Dean accepted it long before the 30 today balloons turned into dust.
That’s just how it is.
*~*~*
He opens the front door to the bookshop and the bell rings out. Like most of the stuff in here, it’s seen better days. Chuck’s Bookshop predates Squirrel and Moose Coffeehouse, but they’ve had an arrangement for as long as Dean’s been walking and talking. His Dad made it so they could use the basement for storage, the coffeeshop being without one. With the two stores connected, side by side with one roof, it sure made life a hell of a lot easier.
He’d never met Chuck, who left town before he and Sam were born, but his son Gabriel didn’t paint him in the best light. Absentee father and occupied with himself, Dean never asked for details, but it sounded damn familiar.
The desk has paperbacks piled high and the oldest cash register ever. How Kevin, one of the local kids who somehow got roped into shop-sitting, used it was anyone’s guess. In Dean’s expert opinion, it needed scrapping with everything else.
Dust trails across the room as Dean wanders in, the sun streaming through the windows. They’re identical to his own, except Dean has actually bothered to maintain his. Decades ago the shops were probably not that different, but now their similarities are few and far between.
The books that won’t fit onto the shelves are stacked on the floor and Dean moves the ones blocking the basement door. Whoever said that coffee and books were perfect together hadn’t been downstairs in Chuck’s Bookshop, and Dean sighs on his way down.
Bags of coffee beans and too many boxes of paper cups, stirrers, napkins, wait for him. So do hardbacks with broken spines and enough book glue to smell like a fish pond.
“Alright, what we got?” He pulls out a pen and the leather bound journal from his pocket, flipping it open to the current week and underlining: Chuck’s.
The first box contains sugar sachets, hundreds of them past their use by date. They slip through his fingers and he rubs his jaw, he asked Sam to check these three months ago.
“Awesome” Dean mumbles, throwing the box to the side and noting in his journal. Must be nice, being able to care so much more about yourself than anything else.
He rips off the tape for the second box and finds paper cups. Dean was super proud of the cartoon moose and squirrel he’d had designed for them, possibly one of the highlights of the last six months—and that's all kinds of sad. He grabs a row to start counting when the single lightbulb hanging above him goes out, leaving the basement in the dark.
“Really? Had to be now?” he grumbles at the power outage.
The bookshop has a personal vendetta against him, he swears blind. Like whatever deal his Dad struck is one that wants Dean to suffer, and while he’s cursing the ground it was built on, the door starts to move. “No,” he mumbles before taking off two steps at a time, “no, no, no…c’mon!”
He reaches the top in time for the door to click shut. This isn’t the first time the basement has threatened to bury him alive, but it’s the first time it’s got him. “Don’t, not today,” he says, trying to push the door open. The urge to call out for his brother is instinctual and he gives in, shattering his fists against the frail wood at the same time. “Sam?!” he shouts, “hello?!”
His phone is out of service and the weight of his chest suddenly feels unbearable, he knocks four times in a row, shouting for anyone at all that might be nearby, but nobody can hear him. It’s like a bad dream with no escape, trapped in a stupid basement with nothing but coffee, rejected stories, and his own head.
All ‘cause he forgot to hook the door open.
Like everything else, it’s his fault.