Chapter Text
“Last one,” Dean says, heaving the box into the bed of Eileen’s rusty green pickup truck. It lands with a dull thud, nestled closely against other boxes and miscellaneous pieces of furniture. Dean wipes his sweaty palms against his jeans and closes the tailgate, taking a second to school his expression before turning to face Sam and Eileen. They stand hand-in-hand, with matching nervous-excited grins on their faces. It’s sickeningly sweet.
“I guess this is it then,” Sam says. His eyes are teary as he takes a sweeping look around gravelly clearing, his gaze lingering on the Bunker’s door. He blinks several times in quick succession, and Eileen squeezes his hand. Dean rolls his eyes, resolutely ignoring how he’s getting a little choked up himself.
Dean clears his throat. “Guess so.” The air is suddenly heavy and solemn, quiet in remembrance, in the turning of the page, in the dawn of a new era. Before he gets the chance to do something stupid like tackle Sam in a bear hug or break down crying, Dean cheerfully claps his hands together and pastes a cheery grin onto his face. “Well, no reason to stand around here with our thumbs in our asses. Let’s get this show on the road!”
Miracle comes bounding out of the woods, barking merrily at the sound of Dean’s raised voice. Sam grins, easier now, and Eileen smiles brightly. “Let’s,” she says, flipping the keys in her hands as she makes her way over to the drivers’ side of the truck.
Sam nods to him as he opens the passenger side door. “You okay following us?”
Dean lets Miracle into the backseat of the Impala and smiles. “We’ll be right behind you the whole way.”
And with that, they’re on the road again.
***
It’s a three hour drive from Lawrence to Sam and Eileen’s new house, which is located just outside of Omaha, Nebraska. It’s a cute little place on twelve acres - two stories, window boxes filled with purple flowers that make Dean sneeze, nice front porch. It kind of reminds Dean of the cabin where Jack was born, if that place were a little newer and a little nicer.
Jack. Dean sighs. He wishes the kid had decided on a little more of a hands on approach, if only for their sakes. He and Sam don’t talk about it much, but they miss him dearly. Dean misses him dearly. Walking around the bunker feels like walking through a ghost town these days.
Like a Rolling Stone plays over the speakers, and Dean spares a glance out the window. It’s mostly farmland, here - cornfields and windmills and a large blue sky stretching out as far as the eye can see. The Impala rolls smoothly over the cracked, concrete road. Dean focuses his eyes back to the bed of Eileen’s truck, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the music. It’s funny, he thinks, the idea of Sammy living a domestic life in the midwest, of all places. Good, though. He’s happy that they’re taking a step back from the life to focus on actually living. They definitely deserve it, of all people.
Sam’s new place will be almost exactly halfway between the Bunker and Sioux Falls, where Jody and the girls live. They’re supposed to be coming to help Sam and Eileen move in, so long as Claire doesn’t find some hunt to go on in the meantime. It’s good to see everything going back to normal, everyone returning to life, as it were. A sort of regression to the mean. For Dean, it isn’t that simple. After everything that’s happened, with Chuck and Jack and Cas, he’s not sure how anything will ever be normal again. He feels suspended midair as everyone else goes crashing back down to the earth, stuck hovering above them in the atmosphere.
When you ain't got nothing, you got nothing to lose
You're invisible now, you've got no secrets to conceal
How does it feel, ah how does it feel?
To be on your own, with no direction home
Like a complete unknown, like a rolling stone
Bob Dylan sings, and Dean drives.
***
They pull into the driveway around dinnertime. The door creaks as Dean gets out of the Impala. He lets Miracle out, and she goes running around Sam’s new yard, yapping happily, ears flopping around with her movements. Dean smiles.
“Okay,” Sam says. He’s fighting a smile, Dean can tell. The excitement of the new house is getting to him, settling in and growing roots. He moves to grab a box out of the back of the truck, but Eileen slaps his hand away.
“No, dinner first,” she says, signing along with her words.
“Yes,” Dean groans thankfully. He signs emphatically along with his words, staring Eileen down with exaggerated gratitude: “Thank you.” She laughs as Sam rolls his eyes.
They set up a picnic supper in the yard: sandwiches, chips, beef jerky, and some Reese’s candies that Dean had picked up at the Gas N Sip in Kansas before they left. Sam tosses both Eileen and Dean an apple, which they both ignore, much to Sam’s disdain.
“So, this is it, huh?” Dean says, looking around. Even empty as he knows it is at the moment, the house looks homey and inviting. Like a place where Sam and Eileen can be safe from the horrors that they’ve dealt with for the last few years. Hell, for their whole lives up to this point. “What’s next? Dog? Two-point-five kids?”
Sam blushes, long hair falling in his face. Eileen smiles. “We were thinking chickens,” she says. Dean raises his eyebrows.
“Chickens? Seriously?”
“Fresh eggs!” Sam squawks, indignant. “And they’re great for insect control in the yard!”
“You’re taking care of them,” Eileen signs. “And they better not bite at my feet.”
Dean snorts. “Alright, Farmer Sam. What else?”
Sam shrugs. “Garden, maybe? Fresh vegetables would be nice-”
Dean groans.
“-they’d be nice, and gardening is a great hobby, come on, Dean.”
“Sure, Sammy.”
“I wouldn’t mind a garden,” Eileen says.
Dean shakes his head, smiling. “I’m happy for you guys.”
“What’s next for you, then?” Sam asks.
Dean finds that he doesn’t really have an answer. “I don’t know,” he says. “Live in the Bunker with Miracle. Help out with hunts as needed. Maybe run the FBI phones and stuff, like Bobby used to, you know? I don’t think the apple pie life is for me.”
Sam nods. He’s frowning a little, but he doesn’t voice his disapproval, which Dean appreciates. “As long as you’re happy,” he says.
“I am,” Dean says. It should be true; they won, didn’t they? Chuck is gone. Heaven’s in working order, as far as they know, as is Hell. He isn’t though, not really. It’s like he’s in limbo, waiting for the other shoe to drop, whether it be good or bad.
“We can do some of that too,” Eileen says. “Research for hunts, phone calls.”
“Yeah,” Sam says. “We were thinking of writing some more reference materials on this stuff. We’ve definitely got the experience, you know?”
“Yeah,” Dean says.
“So much of the info we have, even the Men of Letters’ stuff - it’s all about how to kill things, how to trap them, you know? Which is great, but there’s not much out there about people like Garth who manage to live peacefully as monsters. How they manage to do that. It adds to the stigma.”
“Sure,” Dean says. “No, I think that’s a great idea, Sammy.”
“We have other ideas too,” Eileen says, “But those can wait.”
“Of course,” Dean says. “We’ve got all the time in the world, now.”
Sometimes, it feels like less of a blessing and more of a curse.
***
They carry everything from the truck into the house, which is now littered with boxes and haphazardly placed pieces of furniture. Eileen directs Sam and Dean throughout the house, telling them where to put this and that. They manage to get the bed in the master bedroom set up, and Eileen goes about putting the bedding on it as Sam and Dean head downstairs to unpack more boxes.
“You gonna be okay?” Sam asks. They’re in the kitchen, putting blue-rimmed bowls and plates away in the oak cabinets.
Dean studies the edge of a plate as if inspecting it for chips or cracks. “Yeah,” he says with finality, “Yeah, I’ll be alright.”
Sam sighs. “I just- after everything, Jack, and Mom, and- and Cas, I don’t like the idea of you being alone in the Bunker. You deserve better than that.”
Good old Sammy. Dean shakes his head. “I’ll be fine, Sam. I could use a bit of boring, to be honest. And I won’t be alone.” He gestures to Miracle, who’s made a bed out of a rug on the floor. Her paws twitch as she sleeps.
Sam rolls his eyes. “The dog doesn’t count, Dean. Just promise me you won’t become a recluse, okay?”
Dean laughs. “Okay, Sam.”
Dishes clink as they’re placed into their new homes. They move on from plates to cups to wine glasses - (“Wine, seriously, Sam?” “Eileen likes it!” “No, Eileen likes beer. This is all your hipster self, man.” “Shut up, Dean.”) - and finally, bowls and silverware. They’re collapsing the empty cardboard boxes when Eileen comes down the stairs.
“This is enough for tonight,” she says. “I’m beat.”
As if on cue, Sam yawns. “Alright. Time for bed. The couch is free, Dean, just set the boxes on the floor.”
“Sure thing,” Dean says. Sam and Eileen retreat upstairs.
The house is suddenly very quiet. The wind whistles softly against brittle window panes, which are cool to the touch now in the chill of the night. Dean snags a blanket from a box and settles onto the couch. He stares at Sam’s ceiling, Sam’s goddamn popcorn ceiling, and tries to count sheep. It’s a futile exercise.
He’s officially an empty nester, he thinks, slightly hysteric. Sam’s moving out, Jack’s moved out, Cas is gone. He’s alone.
Miracle’s wet nose brushes against the hand hanging off the edge of the couch. Dean pets her ears and closes his eyes.
He does not dream.