spn_summergen | Fic: A Soot Red Hen

Title: A Soot Red Hen
Author:

dramaturgy
Rating: R
Warnings: No specific spoilers, just speculation for the series finale.
Notes: I'm not sure this is what you were aiming for, but I hope it blows your skirt up anyway. Thanks to my anonymous beta! May her blessings ever increase.
Summary: One apocalypse has been averted, and the boys have settled down. As if anything's ever that easy.

"Fuckin' birds."

Dean reached for the other pillow with his right hand, remembered, and reached with his left instead. Sandwiching his head between the two pillows, he was drifting off to sleep again when one of the birds clipped the glass, jarring him fully awake. He pushed himself upright, groaned, and began picking sleep from his eyes.

The wooden floor was cool underfoot, cooler than the day before. That might be the weirdest thing about living in one place: experiencing seasons. Before, it could have been winter one week in New Hampshire and a few days later, late spring again in Miami. Baking summer heat in Reno, early fall showers in Seattle. Dean made a mental note to look over the furnace. He walked down the stairs, turned into the kitchen, and checked the calendar. Not that it meant anything, but it was apparently late November.

"Time flies," Sam said, turning another page in the Sports section. "Eagles won again."

Dean grunted, gave Philadelphia the finger, and poured himself a cup of coffee. It was still plenty hot, so he set it on the windowsill while he decided what to do for breakfast. And that was when he saw the raven.

"Fuckin' birds."

"Could be worse. Could be the 'Boys."

"No, genius, I mean the actual birds."

"Oh." Curious, Sam set down his cup and stood up in a hurry, knocking his left hip against the kitchen table on his way. He didn't slow down. "Let me see."

The dead raven lay just outside the kitchen, one story below the dormer window in Dean's small bedroom. In the clear fall sunlight, the bird was blue-black and very still. Not even its feathers ruffled. Just outside of the shade of the enormous ash tree, the raven stood out, asserted itself against the yellowed lawn.

"Weird," Sam said.

"No." Dean picked up his coffee. It was good this morning. "It's nothing." He made himself an omelet with three kinds of cheese and two kinds of bacon while Sam stared out the window.

"What do you think it's--"

"I'm going into town later. Wanna come?"

"Huh? Sure. I need to run some stuff by the library."

And just like that, the conversation was over. Dean finished his breakfast, tossed his dishes in the sink, and headed for the garage. He reached for the doorknob with his right hand and instead, thwacked the stump of his arm on the solid wood. "Shit."

"Easy, killer," Sam called from the kitchen.

"Fuck you," Dean yelled back, opening the door with his left hand. "Popeye."

He didn't often miss it, the right hand. No more than Sam missed his left eye. After a while, they were just weapons lost on a battlefield somewhere. You might ache for them, waking up without them might scare you, but in the end, you found something else. All in all, Dean thought, the Winchester brothers had come out okay. Maybe there were days when Sam's headaches were so bad he couldn't get out of bed. And sometimes Dean went quiet for a while, once for a whole week. They both felt their age, in their bones and in their scars. But all in all.

It was cold in the garage. Dean needed to check the pilot light, the insulation on the windows, the faucet covers for out back. There was a whole winter checklist. He decided to clean the guns. This was, predictably, a little more complicated than it used to be, and a little slower. He had to break the shotguns over what was left of his right forearm, hold pistol grips between his knees, and use his right elbow to put clips back into place. More complicated, but equally consuming. He was getting ready to move onto the knives when Sam knocked on the door.

"What?"

"Lunch."

"Yeah, okay."

He definitely smelled like guns, something Sam could hardly have missed. He didn't say anything. Dean stepped over to the sink to wash his hand and his arm. There were no leaves left on the ash tree out front. The water was just warming up when he saw it. Or didn't see it.

"Fuck."

"What?"

"Bird's gone."

+

"You wanna cover up, Sammy? You're gonna scare the natives."

It was still fucking hilarious, the look Sam got on his face. Like you'd just told a debutante that white dress made her ass look big. Sam went back inside for his eye patch, stalking in that same bitchy way as before. He still had that constipated look when he settled into the passenger seat. Dean bit his lip, tried, but couldn't help himself.

"Hey, Sam. Why do pirate kids always have trouble learning the alphabet?"

"Jesus God." Sam cast his remaining eye upwards in supplication.

"Because their fathers insist that there are seven C's."

"It's never going to stop, is it?"

"I got a lot of time on my hands, Sammy. A lot of time."

The Impala crept down the asphalt drive and picked up speed as Dean pointed her towards town. From a branch in the ash tree, a raven watched them go.

+

There were no cars at the firing range. It was their only stop on the way into town, and around here there were always people in a hurry to shoot things. No cars, though, just a single motorcycle, something in chrome and black leather, with a rider. Dean pressed on the gas pedal, grateful that Sam was absorbed in his canvas bag of books.

"I think I may have left one at home," Sam said.

"Uh-huh."

The rider dismounted, anonymous behind a black helmet fronted with tinted glass. The head turned and caught sight of the Impala. The rider waved, reached for the helmet.

"Did you see me put it in the car?"

"Nope."

Under the helmet was a cloud of dark red hair, caught up in the wind. Dean didn't need to be any closer to know who it was. She blew a kiss at him. It was all he could do not to pull the car into a screaming U-turn at seventy miles an hour.

"Paperback, blue cover, little red silhouette of a guy, arms akimbo..."

"Dude. I have no idea what you're talking about."

The red-haired woman stood alone in the parking lot and waved at Dean until she disappeared from sight.

"I think I may have left it at home."

Sam was oblivious, engrossed in the mystery of the lost library book. Things only got stranger in town. There were people on the streets, but everybody was in a hurry. People here liked to take their time, do things at their own pace. But not today apparently. No one made eye contact much less conversation.

"Where's the fire?" Sam muttered, finally cluing in.

"Dunno. I'm gonna drop you here, swing by the station."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Okay, man, but I keep telling you. She's way out of your league. Always has been."

The sheriff's squad car and truck were still outside the station. That was some relief. And inside, there was the sound of pencils being sharpened. Dean felt his shoulder blades relax for the first time since he woke up.

"Jesus," he said, pushing through the station's front door, "Somebody in here wanna tell me what the hell's going--"

There was another one of them on the desk.

"Hi, Dean."

She was petite, Asian, with some kind of punk haircut that was short everywhere, except for the purple fringe tucked behind her left ear. Her smile was lazy, and she couldn't be bothered to even sit up straight for him. Cross-legged, she leaned back on her left arm and with her right, sharpened the pencils. She took one out of the box, put it in the sharpener, and waited until it was ready. Then she added it to the rest in a wicked looking pile.

"Where are they?"

"The good officer and his assistant? They're out on a call."

"Right."

She sighed and tilted her head at him. "You knew this day would come."

Dean turned on his heel and went out the way he came in.

"Don't forget to stop for gas!" she called after him.

The bitches always knew. He wasn't surprised to find the gas station empty. The streets were clearing out now. Lights were going on in the cozy apartments above the shops and, he imagined, in the houses in the small suburb. People wanted to be alone with their family or their friends or maybe their god. Dean gassed up the car, suddenly in a hurry himself.

"As I live and breathe," someone said behind him.

Dean grit his teeth and tried to ignore the way every hair on his body stood up at once. Tank full, he turned and replaced the nozzle. This one had a skimpy top, denim shorts, and a perky brunette ponytail. There was a competitive glint in her eye and an ammo belt over each shoulder. She looked like she ought to be on a teen magazine cover, not here, scaring the hell out of the natives.

"Where's Steve?" he asked coolly, screwing the gas cap back on and closing the cover.

"House call."

"He works at a gas station."

She shrugged. "Hurry on home. She'll be coming by for you in the morning."

There was nothing to say to that. It was hard enough not blowing a gasket right then and there. So Dean got back into the car. The engine purred, filling Dean with a robust satisfaction. But the Impala wasn't loud enough today. In the rearview mirror, the woman in the sundress smiled and started singing in a clear carrying voice. I went back home, my home was lonesome.... Dean actually shivered. He couldn't help it.

Sam was sitting on the library steps, bookless, next to the fourth one. She didn't look more than twenty, black, with a shaved head and a sundress. She wasn't making conversation, just doing knife tricks for Sam's edification. Sam stood up, nostrils flaring, and did his best not to hurry. Fuck. Sam got in and slammed the door pretty damn hard, but Dean couldn't bring himself to be pissed off about it.

Sam didn't say anything, so Dean kept his mouth shut too. He hit the stereo, only to be immediately confronted by a familiar drumbeat and Robert Plant's signature wail. Dean forced himself to listen, unwilling to be spooked again.

They were halfway home when he realized that he knew exactly where Sam's missing book was. It was sitting next to a half-empty glass of water on the upside down apple crate next to Dean's bed, the one he used as a bedside table. He was halfway through the story, just never really looked at the outside.

+

"Pot roast is almost ready."

"So we're really not talking about this."

"I hate to toot my own horn, Sammy, but I make a mean pot roast."

"Seriously? You want to talk about dinner?"

"The key is leaving out the carrots. Carrots ruin everything."

"I swear to God, Dean."

"Replace the carrots with onions. That's the key."

It hung in the air for a moment between them. Dean wondered if that vein in Sammy's forehead was really going to explode this time.

"Just like you," Sam finally said. "Why you gotta blame it on the root vegetables?"

In Dean's defense, the pot roast was awesome. They both ate until they were stuffed. And then Dean took the apple pie out of the oven to cool. Sam dumped the dishes into the sink, reached for the handle to run the water, but decided against it. Dean situated the pie on the stove's back burner and got the paper.

"What do you wanna watch tonight?"

"Whatever."

"Seriously, your choice."

"Seriously, I don't care."

"Fine. Let's see here. I've got Baywatch, Baywatch, or Baywatch..."

"Real classy."

"...Hawaii."

"Way to mix it up there."

"Or we've got Red Sox at Yankee stadium, game seven."

"I meant what I said, Dean. You can pick tonight."

"Okay, then. USC is going down."

"Always with the Rose Bowl."

"Character trumps hype. Every time."

+

Dean woke up at dawn, for no better reason than something was wrong. He pulled on his jeans, but left his shoes on the floor. Sam was still sawing wood in his room, and Dean had no intention of waking him. Light was just making itself known over the horizon. Soon the empty town would be glowing pink, then the empty farms, and then their place. He shivered a little and remembered the furnace. Winter was coming fast. Dean skipped the last squeaky step.

She was already on the porch. Tilting her head just so, she caught his eye through the picture window and waved. Dean gave her the finger. She grinned. He detoured to the kitchen, long enough to start the coffee, before stepping out onto the porch. He did not invite her inside.

"I was wondering when you'd get here. Your Stepford clones were out in full force yesterday." Behind her, in the trees, a thousand ravens settled themselves with no more noise than the ruffling of feathers.

"I wanted to come personally. I got a soft spot for the two of you."

It was unfailingly ironic, how she was the perfect picture of wholesome. She was wearing urban fatigues and a t-shirt, but somehow that sense of 100% pure Grade-A sunshine burned right through. Flawless tan skin, waist length blonde hair, and a deadly smile. He'd always assumed her eyes were blue, though he'd never seen them. As far as he knew, no one in town had either. Maybe she was born with the reflective aviators. She wore them with the same innate ease as her shoulder harness, with its Walther PPK and USP. God only knew what else she had hidden on her. Bizarrely, neither her manicured nails nor her open, earnest eagerness looked out of place.

"Right," Dean said, ending the silence. "We're beautiful and unique snowflakes."

"But you are," she insisted. "Don't look so surprised. When I chose you..." Her voice trailed off in nostalgia.

"What if we say no?"

"Dean. That's not part of the deal. You know that." She tried, and failed, to look gracious. "Besides, we've already rounded up your friends. Steve, Nancy, Victor, and the Harvelles."

He scratched at his morning stubble, flecked with silver. How he managed to go grey in a town without time was beyond him. Inside the house, floorboards creaked and the final step squeaked. Sam was up.

"I guess this is it, then. We're like the Michael Jordan of hunting."

"Don't be ridiculous. You never lied to yourselves about how much you need the game. Morning, Sam."

"Gunnr. Never a pleasure." Sam was still in his boxers, carrying a mug of coffee in each hand. One of the ravens flew from the tree and landed on the porch railing in front of him. "Where's Fido?"

Her teeth seemed sharper this time when she grinned. "At the groomer's. Cleaning her up for the big dance."

"I'll bet," Dean muttered. The coffee was good this morning. Like every morning. The birds started to flutter, dancing around the branches. He looked up at Sam.

Sam shrugged. "Time's up."

Dean spat in the dirt. He liked this house, with its creaky stair and its temperamental furnace. He liked driving into town in his baby, the way the girls looked at her. The ravens in the tree were calling now, a raucous and inescapable noise. The seasons, the coffee, the library, the omelets, and the easy sleep. He took a deep breath of November and let it out.

"Time's up."