Chapter Text
A cluster of one-story adobe buildings, sprawling in the New Mexico heat like old yeller dogs, bleached by the relentless sun and the random late afternoon torrential storms, which washed the color from the world with their tears.
The next morning there would still be puddles in the packed clay driveways, reflecting the tangerine clouds in the early morning sky.
The fences and outbuildings were in good repair as were the cars and trucks parked throughout the enclave behind a waist-high adobe wall. There was a large fenced garden and an assortment of the kind of fruit trees that thrive in the Land of Enchantment, a verdant oasis. A shaded pen attached to a shed held a small family of dairy goats. The older ones were napping. The babies were busy doing their critical work of being the most adorable beings on the planet, hopscotching over the bellies of their mamas and aunties.
A big ginger tabby napped on the roof of the shed, resting up for its nighttime vermin-exterminator duty.
One longer building, in front of and separate from the others, stretched parallel to the county road.
Pink geraniums in the eastern windows to catch the morning heat and cool down by sunset, a wrap-around porch with a faded striped canvas awning over a wooden frame of rough-cut pine logs, weathered bone-white, and a red sandstone floor. If a red-tailed hawk were to float above and look down, it would see that parts of the building were newer, annexes that increased its size at least three times from the original.
A bright blue door, the color of the summer sky. Trompe l'oeil scarlet roses, twisted on green vines, climbed the walls. A big wooden sign painted the same blue as the door hung in one of the front windows, framing with more roses and vines a single word in bright yellow: Diner.
Everything was painted recently enough not have faded into typical desert pastels. Someone cared.
Two old wooden rockers and a broad twofer swing hung from the pine logs by thick rope that might have been salvaged from a 20th century schooner sunk in a hurricane in the Gulf of Mexico.
Under a rickety table two puppies, fat-bellied after a meal of goat’s milk sucked out of the pierced rubber finger of a discarded gardening glove, slept in the shade, ying and yang in a crate lined with old towels. Rez dogs, sand-colored fur, long, dark muzzles and floppy ears, a genetic soup of herders and hounds, rescued from a lonely stretch of county road.
They'd been dumped into a cardboard box that morning, then driven away from home by a bully and coward and left by the side of a road, while their mama mourned, an hour away in an old trailer, curlequed on a blanket that still held their scents.
The fuzzy brothers had lucked out. Their cardboard prison normally would have guaranteed death from heat and dehydration under that big yellow star 93,000,000 million miles away by the end of the day. It had sat under a small stand of honey mesquite, which threw a speckled, mostly worthless shade. But, its manmade shape caught the county sheriff’s eye, who was trolling back roads for stranded motorists with overheated radiators.
He brought the whimpering babies to his family’s diner, where his mother gave them each a bath and a meal. Tomorrow, he would take them to the veterinarian, two towns over at the county seat, for deworming and shots, if they were old enough, and later the inevitable surgeries.
His three children were over the moon. No names yet, just “Good Puppies” over and over.
The two boyos were destined for long, blessed lives in a house full of love and slow-roasted brisket, prepared every Friday–eight hours with red wine and a hot spice rub–for the house specialties: pulled beef tacos and burritos. They paid back the love tenfold, guarding the goats, the cats and kittens, and all of the humans that fell under their watch.
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Dean Winchester’s shotgun blast came a beat too late to save Sam from being bounced through the window of an undergraduate dormitory and down into a semi-cushioning cluster of thimbleberries.
After he extracted Sam and laid him on the ground, his jacket folded under his head, Dean circled his baby brother with the intensity of a border collie with only one lamb to protect, hands-on, inspecting the damage.
Only when he was satisfied that Sam was okay–by Hunter standards–did Dean reenter the building and find the artifact–a Civil War-era canteen stolen from a university dig by a hoggish undergraduate. The spirit of a teenage Confederate soldier, lost and lonely, had been rampaging through the dormitory for days. Took that long for the resident advisor to figure out it wasn't a pranking senior on a beer binge and to call a friend who knew a friend who knew the Winchesters.
Dean performed the salt-and-burn in a metal wastepaper basket in the thief's dorm room. Stunk it up terribly.
"Serves you right," said Dean, as the kid sputtered in rage.
When Dean returned, Sam was still on the ground. Meditating, he told brother/husband/lover, who offered to smooch away the boo-boos.
"Everything hurts," said Sam, so Dean thoroughly kissed him on the lips. Pain-free.
The kiss distracted the banged-up younger Hunter for the moment, but it wasn't enough. Neither was the nap in Baby’s back seat on the way to their next motel. Sam still hurt too much, even after the hot shower that Dean made him take, holding him up under the water, the two of them squeezed into a stall meant for one.
But no funny business. Just gentle hands smoothing over the beautiful geography of Sammy's body.
Dean had thought, more than once, that this was how Angels must had felt, eons ago, when they had sculpted mountains and plains and canyons from primordial elements.
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Arnica gel for the owies and antibiotic cream and adhesive bandages for the cuts, to keep them clean. A big compression bandage to protect the bruised ribs. (A purchase that was added to their first-aid kit as the Hunters aged into middle-aged fragility.)
A brace and wrap for the ankle, over another layer of the arnica gel.
No stitches were required, which was good since they were running low on dental floss, Dean told Sam. An old family joke–the era of using cheap vodka and floss was long over. Alex Jones, Jody's foster daughter and budding nurse, had made sure the men were ordering the real deal online, including two kinds of suture material, surgical-grade liquid soap, and real bandages, not relying on the bottoms ripped off from flannel shirts too tattered to wear.
Dean claimed that the warning label on the pill bottle label said: Don’t drive, don’t drink, don’t shoot, don’t play cards or pool for money. Don't have sex, or have lots of sex with the right sexy man. He pretended to read it out loud every time he shook out twice the recommended dosage into Sam’s hand, to be washed down by water or coffee. Or orange juice. Or, even better, a long swig of beer or tequila.
[Warning: Do not try this at home. Hunter physiology is designed to accommodate interactions between alcohol and prescription drugs that would be deadly to mere mortals.]
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Mid-morning, and Sam’s brain was still marinating in that washtub of opiates Dean had forced on him, which didn’t stifle the pain, just stuffed it behind a wall where it didn’t matter as much. Still hurt like Hell. And Sam should know.
Didn't tell Dean, but he hurt too much to sleep. But Dean knew. Of course he did. Dean also knew firsthand what untouchable pain felt like.
What his baby brother needed, his first and last love decided, was a big plate of something spicy, smothered in red enchilada sauce. (If you want green chili you'll have to drive north to Colorado.)
Something to kick in the endorphins. And enough tequila to render him comatose, and thus more likely that broken tissues would knit and heal.
So they hit the road again. Sam insisted on sitting shotgun; the otherworldly wonders of the New Mexico landscape distracted him.
Dean didn't bother with directions. Figured he would give Baby her head and let her take them to a random roadside cantina. Odds were the food would be delicious regardless. And they could order it blistering hot for therapeutic impact.
Dean knew from decades of road trips that nothing soothed his Sammy like long drives in the Impala, their first and last home. They drove, without talking, for a few hours, the well-worn playlist providing the soundtrack.
Stopped once for gas, snacks, and cold drinks.
Dean eased Sam out of the car and provided support as he wobbled behind the convenience store for a pit stop in the tiny but clean restroom. Sam stopped Dean with a potentially lethal bitchface from coming in.
Dean stood outside the door, arms folded over his chest, listening for a crash. Would have broken the door down to rescue Sammy without hesitation, the same way a fourteen-year-old Dean would have, guarding his little brother's privacy in public bathrooms. And woe unto sleazy adults, regardless of their size, who thought the two pretty boys would be easy pickings.
Dean bought snacks and drinks but refused to ask for directions. Had faith in Baby's celestial navigational system.
[Of course, Baby is sentient. Isn't it obvious?]
-----
The diner looked familiar. Maybe, thought Sam, because of the familiarity of throbbing bruises, a sprained ankle, and sore ribs from that close encounter with the confused teenaged ghost half a state away.
Hoped that young Confederate soldier found peace.
A car and a Ford truck were parked diagonally in front. It was mid-afternoon, but probably they'd be serving throughout the day and not be on hold until the dinner rush started.
Dean cut the engine as they entered the parking lot and glided the Impala to rest across from a window where he could keep an eye on her.
The tall Hunter pushed himself out of the Impala, waving off Dean's need to help. He limped slowly up the stairs to the porch and through the front door, listing as if buffered by an invisible wind. Eased himself down into a booth with a clear view of the Impala. His long legs spilled out into the aisle. Slowly, he turned and dragged and tucked them, inch by inch, under the tabletop.
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Dean liked to play the road game of matching people to their vehicles.
He figured the well-dressed elderly white couple, in a side booth tucked in the corner, were retired tourists with money to spend on nicer motels. They had an old AAA map spread out on the booth's table and were pointing and arguing in whispers, what Dean would call "recreational fighting" with jokes and smiles and soft touches.
They were ignoring the douchey built-in GPS map screen that douched newer cars, he assumed. Being old-school bought them some points for good taste.
A late-model dark blue Volvo Wagon (the V90 model still build in Sweden)–reliable and safe–with Illinois license plates was out front, keeping Baby company. The couple could have chosen flash instead of substance. More points for class.
The truck's occupants were obviously the four workers in matching khakis, with a company logo on their denim shirts. They had staked out the biggest table in the middle of the dining room with space for a couple of laptops, clipboards stuffed with paper, plates of tortilla chips, and a couple bowls of salsa. The bottles of beer indicated they were done for the day, waiting on a late lunch.
Delicious smells wafted in from the kitchen as the door swung open. A girl in a long black apron embroidered with scarlet roses, over jean shorts and a blouse the same color blue as the front door, balanced a tray on one hand. Dean's expert dessert radar sussed out two double servings of sopapillas with the ubiquitous plastic bear filled with honey. Frosty tall glasses were filled with something fizzy, which Dean would bet was Coco Rico, Sammy's favorite coconut-flavored soda.
Dean wondered if he could get vanilla ice cream with his order of fried goodness.
The girl carefully walked over to the old couple. They scrambled to get the map out of the way, then rewarded the girl with warm smiles and repeated thank-yous as she offloaded the plates, glasses, the bottle of honey, and a hefty stack of paper napkins.
Dean couldn't hear what they were saying, but the girl smiled and demonstrated the right way to eat one those addictive creations, tearing a hole in a corner of one of the pastries, sticking the top of the bear inside, and giving it a squeeze. Sticky-sweet yum.
When he was little, Sammy called those little pillows of fried batter "inside out donuts." Made Dad laugh, which is why Dean remembered. A rare occurrence.
Suddenly, Dean had a shiver of déjà vu.
He looked over at Sam, who was still doped up, and nonetheless, he could tell, still in pain. He waved over the girl, who made a little bow to the couple and beelined towards the Hunters. She took a quick side trip to put the tray down and grab menus and a coffee carafe from a service station near the front desk.
Up close she was pretty, the way all young women are pretty, maybe 16, with long black braids, black eyes, and dark amber skin. She faltered a step when she saw Sam's bruised face and bandaged hands.
"My husband was hurt. He's okay, just needs a good meal and the healing power of topshelve tequila before I find him a motel room for a long nap."
Dean smiled at her, full voltage, and the girl inhaled sharply, those beautiful eyes fixed on the older Hunter. In his concern over Sammy, he had forgotten the collateral damage he still could inflict by just being very very happy. What was once described as "weaponized flirting" was now a by-product of a "Winchester in love." Softer and sweeter, with no endgame. But it was enough to bring strong women and men to their figurative (and literal) knees.
So, he changed his expression, opting to replace it with a small, friendly smile from his repertoire, leaned over, and took the menus from her frozen fingers. He leaned in and pushed the cups, waiting at the ready, closer to the edge of the table.
"Thanks for the coffee, you're a life saver."
She shook off the first impact of a Dean Smiletm and filled the cups with the black elixir, smiling back.
"Welcome," she said. "Water? Chips and salsa?"
He squinted at the name embroidered in yellow on the apron.
"Dee, is it? Pretty name. You read my mind."
Sam looked up as he sipped his coffee black, which told Dean how he felt. His boy needed the high octane caffeine.
The younger man smiled at the girl reassuringly when her expression changed to that of shock and then concern.
"I had a bad fall, but I'm stitched up okay. I know a good meal will fix me up in no time."
His words helped. She smiled back.
Dean looked around and through an open door saw a full bar on a wall behind a wooden counter in a small adjoining room.
The feeling of déjà vu grew stronger.