Episode Two: Overhaul

By BurstynOut & Tracer

Part Two

Dean didn't know if it was a feeling that Sam was on the edge of awakening, or if it was just the overwhelming weight of feeling nothing that made him close his eyes after he’d spent half the night forcing them open. He was just so damned tired.

Dawn’s break signaled the ushering in of a new day and with it the busy schedule they’d planned of catching up on what had been going on in the world during their unplanned hiatus, fixing the Impala, and just moving on, moving forward, taking tiny steps. That demanded action on Dean’s part and maybe it was just the knowing of what was to come that made him too tired even to fear what might be found etched across the back of his eyelids.

Sam arose shortly after sunrise to find Dean's eyes lidded, his breathing even, and looking for the entire world like he was comfortably asleep. The absence of sleep, however, could make it so easy to fake, and if Sam hadn't been so eager to get on with the catching up, fixing, and moving forward, he'd have realized that Dean heard him moving, heard him fumbling through his bags, heard him start the day with hope. He should’ve known because Sam, of all people, should’ve been an expert on sleepless nights himself.

Hope had a funny way of masking the truth, and the fact that Sam didn't notice Dean only pretending to sleep as he slipped into the bathroom for his morning shower ritual was a testament to it. Hope allowed little brother to see Dean as strong, brave, and always fine. And because Dean wanted Sam to have hope, he made it his goal to smile bigger and brighter than anyone either brother knew.

But today, Dean didn’t know what he wanted to do less. He was sure getting out of bed right then was pretty low on the list though. He wanted Sam to know he was all those things the younger wanted him to be, he just didn’t know if he could play the role with as much fervor as he once had. Although, he’d be damned not to try.

As soon as the bathroom door clicked shut, and the ancient latch snapped into place with a metallic ping, Dean opened his eyes but made no motion to move. He could tell that his muscles had stiffened considerably overnight, and there was no lingering painkiller haze to dull the throbbing he expected to commence the moment he changed positions.

The position he was in was fine, he decided. So what if he'd already counted every knot on the wall. They looked different in the filtered sunlight of the morning, so they warranted studying again. Besides, if he didn't busy his mind with something, then it would busy itself, and lately, Dean wasn't much for the introspection. He didn't really like the guy he spent time with when he was alone.

His chest tightened to the point of asphyxiation when a buzzing noise shattered the silence of early morning. Before his brain managed to pull enough oxygen from his constricted blood vessels to form a coherent thought, the sound brought a thousand possibilities to mind that made breathing an increasing difficulty.

Bullets. Bullets fired from a distance could sound like giant bumble bees when they whizzed by, and since they traveled faster than the speed of sound, the bees usually stung before the shot was heard. He knew he hadn't heard any gunfire, but that didn't mean he wasn't being shot at.

Or…or…there were several charms they kept in their bags vibrated loudly when a demonic presence was in the vicinity. He wasn’t going to relive that experience.

Oh God, he so had to get up now.

Stifling a groan, Dean raised himself slowly onto one elbow and came face to face with the source of his disturbance, neither demon nor open fire, but equally as terrifying. Three rings already. . .

He reached out across his body as quickly as he could given his stiffness, and snatched his cell phone off the end table, flipping it open and glancing at the caller ID before the fourth ring. He dropped it back onto the table without answering and didn't even stop to consider why. Bullets would have been preferable.

After the fifth ring, the phone fell silent, and Dean knew the voice mail had picked up. He also knew there'd be no message. Dad had a thing about voice mail. He hated it; didn't like for anything he said to be recorded. John had used the background noise from recorded messages to decipher a caller's secret location enough times to know that even talking in code couldn't protect him from being discovered. Sometimes it was what wasn't said that gave a person away. Hence, no voice recordings. The last time he'd recorded the message for his own voice mail system, he'd done it from a soundproof booth in a recording studio. John was nothing if not thorough.

So, when Dean left the phone on the end table and forced himself to rise stiffly, he told himself it wasn't to get away from the thing.It wasn't to escape any possibility of having to hear his nightmare voice in true-to-life, state-of-the-art, top-of-the-line, wireless reality, because there was no message, no voice. It wasn't to escape before John could call back, either. No, it definitely had nothing to do with that.

He was just giving himself and alibi, a disguise that let him maintain the façade of general okay-ness that he knew Sam needed him to wear. Dean went into the living room and settled onto the couch for Sam, because what Sam didn't know couldn't hurt him. Wouldn't hurt Dean either, for that matter, but Dean was the least of Dean's concerns.

He intended to lie on the couch until Sam came out of the bathroom and pretend to listen to the radio, which, to his dismay, seemed to be all Paul Harvey, all the time. After he sat on the sunken davenport, however, he realized that getting out would be a bitch, so he just balanced precariously on the edge, elbows propped on his knees and concentrated on breathing. Each breath burned as he forced it to expand his chest just a little farther than the last. He resisted the urge to rock back and forth, because God, how sissy was that, but he could completely understand how the repetitious motion would be soothing in its monotony.

The floor creaked under his feet, and Dean looked up to see Bobby glaring at him disapprovingly, his heavy booted foot braced against a loose floorboard. With a forced smile, Dean straightened and wiggled his eyebrows at the older hunter.

"Dude, your place is falling apart. Maybe I should pack up my little brother and find us a place to stay that isn't teetering on the brink of the Hellmouth," he sassed, mildly put off by the tinny quality of his voice.

"Well, I'd like to see you try seein' as I already got the hood off the Impala and drove it up on blocks so's Sam can get underneath to fix the alignment. Not to mention the fact that you gettin' up off that couch is gonna take an act of God by the looks of you," Bobby stated flatly, pulling no punches now that Dean was obviously not under the influence of any medications. Though, he probably should be, Bobby knew. "Didn't they give you enough of that happy dust to get you through the night? Cuz there's a clinic here in town, and I got an in with one of the fine, full-figured ladies that work in the meds lock-up."

"What? Oh, uh, no," Dean stammered, struggling to find that internal banter rhythm he'd been able to take for granted before. . .well, before. "The stuff they gave me is fine. I'm just waiting for Sam to get out of the bathroom. Shouldn't have had that last glass of water before bed," he lied. He twisted his pain lined mouth into a charming grin. "And way to go, old man. Trips to the supply closet with a full-figured medical assistant, huh?" He wiggled his eyebrows lewdly. "Didn't know you had it in you."

Bobby cocked his head knowingly, "Cut the crap, boy. That baby brother of yours ain't in hearing distance, not that he could hear anything from under that god awful long hair of his anyway." He reached in his pocket and produced the familiar silver flask. He considered tossing it to Dean, but realized it would probably end up hitting the boy, judging by the hunched over slouch of his torso. Instead, he took the two steps it required to cover his meager living room floor and handed Dean the flask.

"You may be set on sufferin' in silence, son, but I ain't set on watchin' it. If you're really all that intent on pulling the wool over your brother's eyes, then you're gonna need at least a couple hits off this. And for God's sake, stop wiggling your damned eyebrows at me. With those bags under your eyes, you look like one of those freaky Goth SOB's that hang out downtown with black eyeliner and face paint smeared all over 'em." He shook his head wearily. "Demons I get. .."

"People are just crazy," Dean finished, his throat burning in a much more pleasant fashion with the warmth of the whiskey radiating through his chest. Bobby didn't do the cheap booze. His was always the good stuff, and it worked as fast as any morphine drip the quacks at that hospital had infused into Dean's veins. "Thanks," Dean sighed, relief washing over him.

"Well, you look like you slept good," Sam observed as he stepped into the room, rubbing a towel through his hair.

"Like a log," Dean lied, watching Bobby's expression from the corner of his eye as he stood stiffly.

"Figured you'd sleep all morning," Sam noted. "That stuff the docs prescribed is supposed to work for like twelve hours."

Dean caught Bobby's disapproving glare, but didn't justify it with one of his own. "How do you expect a guy to sleep when his baby's in pieces all over the front lawn, little brother?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "I don't know what planet you're from, but last time I checked there was nothing outside this house that even remotely resembled a lawn," he teased. "That, my educationally challenged big brother, is a junkyard."

"Oh, I beg to differ there, smartass," Bobby snapped, though without any real heat to his voice. He walked to the front window and drew open the blinds with a rustle, and gestured grandly toward his cluttered property. "What you see before you, my friends, is not a junkyard. This is a fine collection of authentic, hard-to-find, and greatly sought after classic automobiles that give of themselves to keep their memories alive long after they've guzzled their last gallon of fully-leaded gasoline."

"Amen, my newly adopted, much, much older brother," Dean grinned. He moved his elbow with the intention of clapping the old hunter on the back, but jerked it back against his ribcage as the muscles reached the end of their stretching point. Neither Sam nor Bobby missed the pained grunt that pinched his last word, but they both elected to ignore it.

"Well, no one's setting foot in my lawn-slash-junkyard-slash-organ recovery center for classic automobiles without a decent breakfast," Bobby announced, rubbing the fingers of his right hand through his mustache, around his mouth and across his short beard. "I'll fry us up some sausage and eggs. Sam can help me with the coffee, and Dean, you get your ass in that bathroom and get rid of that last glass of water you had before bed," he suggested, carefully choosing his words.

"Sounds like a plan to me," Dean agreed, his voice tinged with relief.

"Yeah, of course it does to you," Sam teased. "He didn't put you on KP duty."

"That's because he remembers the last time he put me on KP duty," Dean smirked, walking as smoothly as possible toward the back room by taking much smaller steps than usual.

"You almost burned the house down," Bobby accused.

"I was twelve," Dean said over his shoulder. "And you were the one who put your homemade brew under the cupboard in a Crisco bottle. Besides, I always wanted to try blackened Spam. I hear it's a regular Cajun delicacy, right up there with Winchester flambé."

Sam laughed in amusement. "I totally forgot about that," he snickered. "The funniest damned thing I ever saw was the look on Dad's face when Bobby had to explain to him why his son had no eyebrows."

Bobby scoffed from the kitchen as pots and pans began to clatter. "Thought I was gonna have to put some lead in the old buzzard, then," he recalled. "He never did take kindly to anyone or anything that messed with one of you boys."

Sam nodded. "No, that he didn't," he agreed. "Isn't that right, Dean?"

The bathroom door clicked shut, and Sam shrugged as he tossed his towel aside and set about making the coffee.

Within a few short minutes, the entire house was perfumed with hearty aroma of a good home-cooked breakfast that Sam knew was not anything at all like the made to order spatula scrapings they usually had to endure. He'd never realized it before, but Bobby's was probably the closest thing to a homestead they'd ever had. For Dean and Sam, going to Bobby's was like other kids going to visit their grandparents. It just always was what it was, and the atmosphere was the same no matter where they were coming from or where they were going. Sam liked it there.

As the grease began to splatter around the cook top in the older hunter's tiny kitchen, Sam realized that he really needed long sleeves if he wanted to make it to breakfast without first degree burns painting his arms. He made his way back into the bedroom and rifled around for the bag that had his button down shirts inside, making a mental note that they'd probably better unpack before the day was through.

Having found a suitable shirt, he turned to leave. He spied Dean's phone on the end table and remembered that he'd wanted to call and set up a meeting with Zack. He picked up the phone and flipped it open. A missed call prompt on the screen made him purse his lips in curiosity, just as Dean emerged from the bathroom.

"Hey," Sam said pointing to the phone, "Dad called a little while ago. You didn't answer?"

"Oh, I went in the other room right after you got up. I must not have heard it," Dean lied convincingly as Sam dialed the phone in an attempt to return the call.

Sam put the phone to his ear and waited expectantly as Dean pointedly busied himself with putting on and lacing up his boots. When Sam didn't speak, he unconsciously breathed a little easier.

"Hmm," Sam said absently. "Just got his voice mail." He left a quick message saying that he and Dean had arrived at Bobby's the night before and that they were fine if needed to contact them. Then he closed the phone and tossed it on the bed beside Dean. "Guess he must've turned it off again. He'll call back if it's important."

"Yeah," Dean agreed, rising from the foot of the bed. He took a couple of steps toward the door when Sam stopped him.

"Dean."

"What, geek boy?" He asked, turning indignantly.

"You forgot your phone," Sam said, sliding the cell into his hand as he walked past him into the living room.

Dean took it without a word, though really, he hadn't forgotten it at all.

* * * *

It was obscene. There was just no other word for it, not that Dean could think of. She was just sitting there, topless, all of her . . . parts . . . exposed. Some things were for his eyes only. It was just an understanding the two of them shared. To see her stripped and laid open like an exotic dancer made him want to throw himself over her to protect her from prying eyes.

Instead, Sam and Bobby were both ogling her like a cheap trick. Dean knew they didn't respect her in the way that he did, that they didn't know the right touches to make her purr like a kitten, or all the secret places she needed to be rubbed before she growled like the predator she was. They didn't know her, and Dean didn't want them knowing her, but then, he really had no choice in the matter. Because what she needed he couldn't give her anymore than he could give himself what it was he needed.

"Well," Sam interrupted, facing Dean with his arms crossed speculatively, "where do you think we should start?"

Dean moved closer to the wreck, almost afraid to look, but he wasn't about to skimp, not when it came to his baby. He needed to go over every inch, find all her hidden hurts and injuries, before he could formulate a proper plan of attack.

He mentally noted the broken grille, thankful that Bobby had already scrounged up another along with another hood. The car was raised off the ground on blocks, and Dean crouched down slowly and took a long, painful look at the undercarriage.

"That oil on the ground," he said, pointing to a fresh-looking slick, "was it already there, or is it hers?"

"It's hers," Bobby noted, tossing Sam a threatening scowl at the way the younger brother snickered at the other two's usage of the female pronoun. "The oil pan's cracked, and there was spray under the hood when I took it off, probably a cracked head."

"I was afraid of that," Dean sighed. "Gonna need a complete overhaul. I'm surprised she got us all the way back from St. Louis."

"Never ceases to amaze me how far some of them can go with the guts ripped out of 'em," Bobby said appreciatively. "A good honest soul goes a long, long way."

Sam gawped at them both like they were raving lunatics. First, with the female pronoun calling, and now with the soul endowing . . . There was such a thing as too attached to an inanimate object, and Bobby and Dean were prime examples of that fact. Still, if working on the Impala gave Dean something to do during his recuperation, then Sam would entertain the obsession. Just lately, he hadn't really liked the look Dean got on his face when he didn't have anything to do.

"Well, I guess we get a winch and a hoist in here, pull the engine and get it in the shop," Dean said slowly, thinking carefully through his plan of attack as though it were a hunt. "Then," he ducked his head down and looked at the ground, his hands shoved into his pockets, "uh, I know we should do the body work last, but I'd kinda like to at least get the hood on. Freak rainstorms this time of year. . ." he suggested, clearing his throat nervously, "I just don't like the idea of throwing a tarp over her. Doesn't seem right, ya know, to just rip her heart out and cover the hole with some flimsy plastic sheet."

"Sounds like a plan, then," Bobby agreed. He raised one of his gnarled, calloused hands and patted Dean on the back, keeping his own eyes on the ground as he did so. "I'll bring the winch around. Sam can help me get it hooked up, then you two can work on sanding and painting the hood I got for ya while I climb see about getting the engine out."

"I can start on the sanding," Dean suggested, looking up suddenly with a flick of determination in his eyes. "Just show me where I can get set up."

"Dean," Sam said skeptically, "Are you sure you want to try that . . .?"

"Yes, Mom," Dean snapped. "They do make power tools for sanding. I think I can manage to push a little button, and move my arms in little circles. It's not like I'm taking on a whole day of wax-on, wax-off, Mr. Miyagi. We'll just set the hood on a couple of sawhorses, and I'll be set to go."

"I just thought. . ."

"Well, don't. It hurts my ears when you start thinking so damn loud." Without waiting for a response, because he could hear the hurt expression on Sam's face, Dean stalked off behind the shop to look for some sawhorses.

Bobby and Sam just watched him go, and when Sam looked at the old man nervously, Bobby just waved for him to go off and help his brother. The winch would be awhile in fetching anyway.

"Best make sure he don't try something stupid," Bobby prompted.

Sam smiled gratefully and hurried off after Dean, breaking into a jog as the elder disappeared around the corner.

As Sam came around the back of the shed where the Impala's new hood was leaning, Dean found the sawhorse he was looking for and bent over to hook an arm beneath it. Before he could begin to straighten, Sam was at his side.

"I got it, dude," Dean assured him.

"Yeah, I can see that," Sam returned, noticing the scowl of determination his brother had locked in place. He hurried around to the other side of the wooden contraption and looped his own long arm around it. When Dean started to lift, Sam made sure to lift just a little bit higher, ensuring that he carried the brunt of the weight. He was relieved when Dean didn't call him on the gesture.

"So, uh, I was thinking of calling Zack tonight," Sam said, breaking the strained silence as he levered the hood onto the sawhorse table they'd constructed. "We can find out if he knows anything about what the demon's been up to in the last month, if he's got any ideas, you know, about what it wants, what it's planning."

"Yeah," Dean answered noncommittally as he laid out a heavy duty extension cord and plugged it into the outside outlet. "I guess if anyone knows anything about it. . .Hey! Don't dent it. You just got a thing for putting irreparable creases in other people's metal, don't you?"

"I'm being as careful as I can," Sam huffed, refraining from mentioning that the thing probably weighed a couple hundred pounds. As the heavy sheet of metal finally settled into place, Sam rubbed his hands against his pant legs. "After dinner, then?"

"Hmm?" Dean asked, lowering one eyebrow quizzically.

"After dinner, we'll call Zack?" Sam explained. "Bobby agrees that Zack is the man to go to when it comes to anything demon. He called me when you were still in the hospital, and I told him we'd get in touch."

"Fine," Dean clipped. He appeared to be engrossed in choosing just the right grit of sandpaper to use. Finally, he chose a sheet and fastened it onto the handheld sander he'd found in the shop. Satisfied, he lifted the sander in one hand to chest height, quirked an eyebrow as he pointed at it, and smiled his biggest, most charming Dean Winchester grin. "Hah?" He suggested. "Chicks dig dudes with power tools," he nodded approvingly.

Sam bit his lower lip to keep from returning the expression, determined not to let Dean change the subject, despite the difficulty involved in ignoring that whole-face smile Dean did so well. "We need to be doing some research," he reminded. "The demon isn't waiting around for us to plan our next move."

"And Bobby's place isn't exactly the World Trade Center, Sam," Dean countered. "We're safe here. Every inch of this place is consecrated ground, and after what happened to Meg, I don't think any demon would be stupid enough to try to take us inside the house."

"So what," Sam prodded, "we just hang out here, pretend like Missouri never happened, and wait for Dad to give us the heads up?"

"No, we fix what happened in Missouri," Dean smirked, "starting with my baby."

"Fine, Dean," Sam agreed, "but we're calling Zack."

"Whatever, dude," Dean dismissed.

He turned to the hood of the car with a focused determination and switched on the sander.

"Damn!" he cursed, dropping the power tool onto the sheet of metal where it just vibrated its way ineffectually across the surface.

He'd forgotten how powerful the vibrations of a power sander could be. The sudden movements had sent currents of pain shooting up his arms and into his damaged chest with ferocity he hadn't expected, causing every little thing inside his ribcage that hadn't fully mended to grate jarringly against one another.

Catching the worried glare and reach Sam made in his direction, Dean gritted his teeth and latched onto the sander, biting back a grimace as he forced himself to move the appliance in circles over the metal surface. Sam allowed this charade to continue for all of about thirty seconds before he put an end to it by pulling the plug out of the outlet.

"Dumbass," Sam huffed.

"I can do it," Dean asserted.

"No, Dean, you can't," Sam said with a glare of disapproval.

Bobby came around the corner, and motioned that the winch was ready to go. Sam nodded that he was coming and coiled the extension cord around his arm, taking it with him.

"So you don't do anything stupid," he explained, and stomped off after Bobby, leaving Dean to fume in silence.

* * * *

Sam wiped the grimy beads of sweat from his forehead and scrunched his face at the smell of salty perspiration. Rubbing his freshly damp hands off on his greasy pants, the younger bent low to the ground and gripped the edges of the blackened silver oil pan. With a tired grunt, Sam pulled the container, brimming with slick oil, up to waist level before shuffling over to the makeshift, slightly off-balance work table where he dropped it down with a thud.

“Dammit!” The irritated, weary cry filled the early evening air as the deep brown liquid sloshed over the edge of the pan. It rose menacingly over the metal lip and toward Sam like a tidal wave in the Pacific before it turned back on itself and broke with a resounding splash.

“Ha, gotcha good there, didn’t it Sammy?” Bobby laughed, patting Sam’s shoulder while juggling the box of nuts and bolts he’d scrounged up from the back shed.

“Apparently,” Sam grumbled, tilting his head to see just how badly he’d ruined his jeans. “Great…not like I can buy a new pair.”

“Quit whining and take these,” Bobby ordered, thrusting the large cardboard box full of rusting metal into Sam’s chest.

“Take them where?” The youngest Winchester implored wearily, smacking his hands against the box’s sides and letting out a deep sigh.

“Over by the trunk. On the ground is fine.” The older man instructed, taking off his hat and running his fingers through his scraggly damp hair pensively. “I’d say we did good today.”

“Does that mean we’re done?” Sam questioned, not even trying to mask the excitement in his voice. Cars were not his thing, not by a long shot, and working, more like slaving, over one all day had turned out to be a hell of a lot more than he’d bargained for.

“Whoa, hold on there for a minute, boy.” A deep chuckle met Sam’s ears, and his grease-stained cheeks reddened at Bobby’s laughter.

“What?” Sam snapped, clearly irritated. He was tired, dirty, and smelly. The last thing he needed was for some car obsessed, junk yard loving, seasoned demon hunter toying with him about quitting time.

“Your brother finished with that hood yet?” Sam visibly stiffened at Bobby’s question, and met the older man’s raised eyebrows with a frustrated glare.

“No, he’s not.” Sam replied sharply, circling back around the car towards Bobby and jerking his head towards the work table where the long yellow extension cord lay.

“You shouldn’t have done that, Sam.” Bobby reprimanded; his tone low and thoughtful as he ran his dirty fingers over the power cord.

“I was just trying to help.” Sam defended angrily, failing to see how Bobby just couldn’t understand that there was no way in hell his brother could sand a hood in his current condition.

“You really want to help?” Bobby asked pointedly albeit gently, although Sam knew the question was rhetorical and simply nodded curtly, “Then you can cook dinner tonight.”

“What?” The stunned question didn’t faze the older hunter in the least; he merely allowed a wide smile to cross his face in opposition to the raised eyebrows and scowl he was receiving from Sam.

“Cook, --you know, what you do to food before you eat it.” Bobby clarified smugly, shouldering the wrapped cord and walking back to where Dean was supposed to be working, both men knowing before they arrived that they'd probably find him sulking.

“Bobby, I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’m what you could call ‘culinary challenged’,” Sam protested futilely to his friends retreating figure, dropping his head in defeat. He wanted a nice long hot shower, not an hour long terrifying ordeal that involved watching water boil and scald whatever mass substance he’d find to dump into it.

“Which is P.C. for what, spoiled baby brother?" Bobby dismissed. "Don’t give me that crap, boy. John done told me you went to college. Don’t they teach you anything?” Bobby joked over his shoulder, paying Sam little heed as he continued towards Dean’s location.

“Fine, but you’re eating whatever crap I come up with,” Sam yelled back, a small smile tugging at his lips as he started up the slanted porch steps. He allowed himself to take solace in the fact that Bobby would never ask him to do this again after tonight.

* * * *

Repetitive, high-pitched beeping shrilled in Dean’s ears as he trudged into the cabin, Bobby about a foot behind watching with ready hands lest something unexpected should deter Dean’s forward shuffle. As hard as he tried, the family friend couldn’t keep the tight line of disapproval off his face when Dean stopped short, leaning to brace himself against the kitchen’s entrance with a grunt, arms hanging limply at his sides.

Dean rolled his eyes and pushed off the splintering paneling the instant he caught Bobby’s swift movement towards him. He blatantly ignored the disgruntled huff coming from his host and didn’t even offer a snarky reply to it, choosing rather to merely sink bonelessly into the nearest chair he could find that was in close vicinity to the table.

“Hey good lookin’, what you got cookin’?” Dean teased, leaning back in the chair and taking in his little brother’s frazzled appearance as the younger frantically lifted the lid off the steaming pot and placed it back down anxiously.

“Shut up,” Sam clipped, flicking the stove top off and placing both hands on the pot handle in preparation for a hopefully spill free transfer to the sink. “Like to see you do this.”

“Dude, I used to all the time. I mean, your growth definitely wasn't stunted by malnutrition was it?” Dean stated slowly, shifting his gaze away from his brother and the hissing steam that was liberated from the cookware to Bobby who was still hovering in the doorway watching the exchange quietly. The expression he fixed on the old hunter begged silently for interference, distraction, anything.

“I think we already covered what happened back then.” Bobby smiled tightly, catching Dean’s less than subtle hint, although it didn’t really meet his eyes. He could clearly see the pain of a long day’s work etching its imprint deeper into Dean’s features and the struggle it was taking on the older brother’s part to maintain his façade of indifference.

Bobby knew that Dean was only slightly amused at the show of ineptitude his brother was putting on. The big brother in him was mostly likely begging him to rush to Sam's aid and make sure the kid didn't scald himself. Dean's wary, watchfulness was apparent even in his pained state, and Bobby was certain that the young man's ingrained need to constantly watch over his sibling was a major factor in his suffering. The pain meds had made him loopy and helpless. It was little surprise that Dean was fighting against the need to take more.

But Bobby could tell that Dean was losing that battle by leaps and bounds, and instinct commanded him to take action, to be the good friend and force feed the stubborn Winchester boy his damned pills. Sympathy and wisdom won out, however, and he took his seat across from Dean at the table, smirking at the neatly folded napkin adorned with fork and knife in front of the place setting that was complete with a clean, empty plate and glass.

“So, Sam, whatcha made for us? ‘Cause I’m sure Dean is just as starvin’ as me.” Dean nodded his agreement to Bobby’s statement and looked damn near excited when Sam brought two pots and set them in the middle of the table. The men’s stomachs growled appreciatively when Sam pulled the tops off and exposed their meal, the smell flooding their nostrils.

“Uh…well,” Sam laughed breathily, “We have macaroni and cheese with uh…little, little hot dogs.”

“Sounds great!” Bobby exclaimed, the praise eliciting a beaming grin from Sam as he plunked a heaping spoonful of the cheesy noodles down on their host’s plate.

“Dude, you made beanie weenies,” Dean complained, shaking his head when Sam just smirked and dumped a more than adequate amount of the tiny sauce covered dogs on his plate. “Four years in college, living with a girl on top of it all, and you still can’t cook?”

“Hey, I make a mean Ramen,” Sam countered, finally settling down in the vacant chair and serving his own food. “And I had Jess. Why cook when you have a woman to do it for you?”

“Amen.” Bobby agreed thankfully.

“You’re single, man.” Dean pointed out, smirk in place.

“Which is exactly why I empathize with Sam on this one,” Bobby clarified, placing his hand over his heart solemnly. “All I need is a good woman, who’ll ignore the guns, holy water, and salt lines, and I’d never set foot in the kitchen again.”

“I’m with you, brother.” The reply came from Sam as he stretched his long arm out and placed his hand supportively on Bobby’s shoulder, giving it a firm shake as Dean laughed deeply.

“Hey, boy, don’t laugh at what you can’t appreciate. We all know you ain’t capable of keeping a woman.” Bobby chided lightly, waving his finger at Dean.

“That’s not true,” Dean shot back convincingly. “I just have a 24 hour policy.”

“I can vouch for that.” Sam chimed in, giving each man’s plate a look, “Come on, less talking, more eating. I spent an hour in there.”

“Wasn’t long enough.” Sam jerked his head over to his brother upon hearing that statement and didn’t find the grimace or slow, drawn out chew Dean was emphasizing to be the least bit humorous.

“Dean,” Bobby reprimanded, his face firm.

“What? Is something wrong with it?” Sam pleaded desperately, alternating looks between the two men.

“Dude, did you boil the water then add the mac or did you just dump the whole box in and light the burner?” Dean’s eyes were dancing with delight at the mistake he just knew his brother had made.

“Dumped it in . . . why?” Sam’s face was contorted with utter confusion and Dean couldn’t help but smile easily at him.

“It’s like rubber, dude, and some of its hard, that’s why.” Dean leaned back in his chair, and crossed his arms over his chest taking pleasure in the fact that his cooking skills surpassed his college boy’s.

“It’s fine, Sam.” Bobby encouraged, shoveling a huge portion into his mouth and swallowing it down without a flinch. He’d tasted much, much worse in his long career.

“No, it’s not.” Sam sulked, after working to swallow his first bite, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s an easy mistake, son. One I’m sure your brother has made on more than one occasion in his cooking excursions.” Bobby issued a warning glance when Dean’s trap flung open to refute, effectively silencing him, “Which is exactly why he is going to finish every last bite.”

“What?” Dean gaped, ignoring the stern eyes fixated on him.

“We were out there all day working ourselves to the bone. You, more than any of us, need the food, and your brother made it. That’s all you need to know. So eat!” Bobby ordered, obeying his own command and finishing off his helping of the undercooked noodles.

“You mean torture myself,” Dean groused under his breath, but picked up his fork anyway. He was too tired to argue, and Bobby already had enough on him to sic Sam on his ass for years at the moment.

“You sure?” Sam queried nervously, fiddling with his fork, “’Cause we have cereal.”

“Nope, we’re fine.” Bobby answered quickly, giving Sam an appreciative smile, “Now, Dean, thank your brother.”

“It’s better than Dad’s,” Dean offered, shrugging his shoulders.

“You’re welcome,” Sam nodded happily, the worried lines that had been creasing his face relaxing noticeably as his brother complied and started eating.

The rest of the meal passed quickly amidst the moments of varied sarcastic commentary that switched back and forth between just how bad it was to swallow the hardened shells and rubbery processed meat to the staining effects of grease on jeans. Soon, the brothers found themselves elbows deep in soapy water, scouring pads and towels in hand while Bobby turned in for the night.

Sam had instructed Dean to do the drying, because he'd assumed it’d be easier on his brother’s sore muscles not to have to scrub too hard at the glued on pasta remnants. He’d have to have been an idiot not to notice how slowly his brother had eaten and risen from the table. With the meds Dean was supposed to be taking, nothing should hurt too badly, and Sam hoped his brother was just stiff and tired. He was pretty much both of those things himself after the day they'd just spent. Yet his older brother looked like he’d battled the Demon alone this past afternoon and lost.

“So, uh…I'm gonna go ahead and call Zack tonight like we discussed,” Sam started, handing Dean a sopping dish.

“Okay,” Dean muttered, wiping the towel across the soapy plate and placing the semi-dry dish in the rack.

“Anything you want me to ask him?” Sam pressed, stopping his scrubbing and giving Dean a skeptical glance.

“No, you just uh…he gave the number to you. You know how to use a phone, right? Or do you need me to dial for you?” Dean joked, elbowing Sam slightly in the ribs.

“I’m serious, man.” Sam exasperated, turning to face his brother head on. “This guy, he’s supposed to be a demon expert, you know? I mean, what if he knows what the Demon is after? He could help us get to the damn thing and send it back to hell where it belongs.”

“Yeah, I get that, Sammy. I just don’t know why you have to call him tonight. It’s not like we’re going anywhere for awhile,” Dean disputed, his face exhibiting a weariness Sam wasn’t sure he’d ever witnessed before.

“In case you forgot, Dean, the bastard said he wanted me. That he had plans for me. I really don’t know how the hell I held off calling this long, and why you don’t even seem interested in finding out what he meant.” Sam’s fists were clenched at his sides, and his face twisted in concentration as he battled against the rising rage that threatened to surface in response to his brother’s attitude.

“I know what he said Sam. I was there.” Dean threw the towel down on the cluttered counter, more than ready to fight this one out.

“Well why don’t you act like it? Any other time you’d be climbing the walls here, man. You’re seriously okay with just waiting here until something happens?” Sam flung the questions out at rapid speed, the words woven in exhaustion and indignation.

“’Til my baby’s fixed, yeah. We’re stuck here ‘til then,” Dean replied, and Sam was stunned by his sudden shift from mad to calm. “If you’re going to call him, do it now, ‘cuz I ain’t waiting up forever.”

“Since when do you have a bedtime?” Sam asked, raising his eyebrows in disbelief as Dean brushed past him.

“It’s more of a preferred start time. You think you can look this good on just a couple hours? I don’t think so.” Dean stated smugly, issuing Sam a huge grin before turning and heading back to their room.

* * * *

The humble abode of Zack Murzak

"Sam?" Zack shouted into his phone. "Sam, you'll have to speak up. I can't hear you. There's some kind static on the line tonight."

The agitation in the man's voice was nearly muffled by the insulating walls of heavy, ancient texts that he kept stacked around him like a child's fortress. The uneven piles of dusty books that curved and wavered toward the ceiling of the den seemed almost to dance in the light of the flickering fireplace that kept the air dry despite the damp winter air that seeped into the rest of his ancient home.

"Yes, Sam, I've been conducting some heavy research of my own using the information you gave me when I contacted you at the hospital, and I think I may have some answers." The middle-aged demonologist pushed his round-rimmed spectacles up onto his forehead, shoving his thick, dark hair back, and let the glasses rest on top of his head as his shoulders slumped studiously forward over the massive text he was studying.

He'd obviously been at it for some time. His outfit looked to have once been properly fastened and pressed, but now his white button-down was half unbuttoned and wrinkled, and his sleeves were rolled up almost to the edges of his suit-vest, exposing surprisingly heavily muscled upper arms.

A dark shadow spread like an oil slick across the polished hardwood floor. It was unique in that, unlike the other shadows in the room, it did not waver in the light of the flickering flames. It slid silently, snaking amongst the stacks of books toward the sound of Zack's voice.

"I think I may know what the demon wants from you, Sam," he explained. Then he sighed heavily, exhausted by the shouting. "No, Sam, what it wants!" He clarified, repeating himself for the hundredth time since the conversation had begun.

"Look," he finally huffed, defeated, "we can't do this now. I can barely hear you, and I'm not sure this is a secure line."

As if on cue, the lights in the room, already dim because Zack preferred a certain Masterpiece Theatre ambience to his study, flickered on and off, accompanied by an electronic hum.

Zack's head snapped around suspiciously as he half-stood from his padded, leather chair, the wheels rolling loudly across the floor as it slid away. "Sam, I'll be in touch with you. Before you leave Bobby's, I'll come see you. Just call me if you don't hear from me before you leave." He looked at his phone questioningly. "Sam?! Are you there?"

He looked at his phone again in frustration. "Damn!" He cursed. He stared at the display as though he could will the connection to re-establish himself, a more profane stream of curses coming to mind. "Friggin' computerized crap!"

He was completely enraptured by the green glow of the phone's screen, and didn't see the suspicious shadow slinking silently up behind him.

The lights flickered again, drawing him out of his frustrated stupor. Muscles tensing, he noted the chill that crept down his spine, despite the roaring fire, and silently bemused his impending doom. With a mask of horrified resignation paling his distinguished features, Zack spun on his heel, mouth slightly agape and eyes wide with terror, as the first wall of his textbook fortress caved in toward him, revealing the murderous intruder.

A scream ripped through the night and was cut eerily short. The cell phone crashed to the floor, its hard plastic clicking an oddly inappropriate punctuation to the preceding raucous as the room fell still and silent.

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