Chapter Text
The lawman laughed, surged forward, and wrapped the Hunter in a bone-breaking embrace.
Daniel released Dean, who staggered slightly, even though he was used to his brother's bear hugs.
Sam struggled to his feet, swaying a little, one hand braced on the table, grinning as well.
Before Daniel could grab Sam, Dean stepped in between the two tall men.
"Sammy's a little bruised up from a hunt, Officer Dan, so be easy, okay?"
"Still the over-protective big brother, I see. Good to see you both, hermanos."
But then Daniel took a second look at Sam and frowned.
"Sit down, old friend. We have plenty of time, yes? Let me check in with my mama and daughter. Want you to meet my wife and my boys."
By this time the locals in the dining room were openly staring at the Winchesters with friendly smiles. And Dean and Sam could hear the phrase "black dog" sprinkled in conversations. They weren't used to being celebrities, not quite sure what people knew, or thought they knew. A good chance that the legend had grown over the years, except any exaggerations were probably close to the truth. But definitely, there was a welcoming vibe, so the soul mates relaxed.
The four workmen came up as a group. Shook hands with Sam and Dean. Thanked them, over and over. Returned to their table, finished their meals, and left for home.
That opened up the flood gates. Pretty much everyone in the dining room–men, women, children, babies in arms–came over, shook hands, and said their thanks in English and Spanish. Dean and Sam realized that the community actually knew exactly what happened. Knew intimately, it appeared, about the Supernatural, which they took for granted, and were pleased to meet the famous Hunters who had saved their good friends 25 years before.
Camilla came out and shooed folks away with a fake frown. Cleared the dirty dishes.
The soup was doing its job, helping Sam's body heal faster as it kept the pain at bay. Dean helped him to his feet, and they hit the john.
When they returned, Margie and Daniel were sitting with their boys at the big table. The older couple had joined them at their insistence. Since they were strangers, they were treated as honored guests. Rosemary and Hugh Baldwin, of Lake Forest, Illinois (Chicagoland's richest suburb).
Up close, Dean was even more impressed with their class and style. The couple could not have been more gracious as they showed genuine interest in their hosts, asked informed questions, and listened. Like really listened. Treated everyone as equals.
Turned out they were retired doctors. Rosemary peered at Sam and offered to look him over before she and her husband left.
Sam blushed. Dean laughed.
"I'm married, not dead," Sam stage-whispered to his husband.
Dean socked him on the shoulder. No one had asked about their relationship, but the matching silver rings shown brightly, reflecting the love in the room.
Rosemary was a very attractive woman, albeit old enough to be the Winchester's mother. She blushed as well, and her husband tucked her into a one-armed hug.
Dee brought out the sopapillas and honey and served fresh coffee to the adults. Camilla brought out slices of homemade apple pie with sides of vanilla ice cream. She remembered.
"Carlos and Rafael can handle most of the customers," Camilla said to her granddaughter, referring to the cooks, and she motioned her to join the table. The grandmother sat as well.
Daniel gave the Baldwins the short version of the black dog, the curse, and the events that banished it, as if Supernatural events were commonplace and expected. The couple didn't blink.
When the curse was lifted, Daniel continued, it was as if it had been a dyke holding back a sea of good fortune, perhaps Fate's response to the demon dog's crimes. The artesian well gushed with clean water. The soil became fertile. Customers flocked to the diner. Everything the family did was a success. Esteban's death was tempered with the knowledge he was in Heaven, and all was well.
"We did our internships and residences at Cook County Hospital in Chicago, at the time one of the biggest in the world. It was said that if a doctor could sew a patient's head back on without undo surprise they probably spent time there. We both saw things that had no logical explanations. Didn't know what to call them then. Now we know," said Rosemary.
Her husband nodded in agreement.
"An honor to meet you," said Hugh, hoisting his coffee cup in a salute to the Winchesters.
The three children were wiggling in their seats. Obviously, something was up.
"Do you have something to say?" asked Margie of her brood, eyes twinkling.
All three popped up out of their seats and turned to the Hunters.
"I'm Samuel!"
"I'm John!"
Both boys bowed. And giggled.
"And, I'm Deanna," said Dee, and she curtsied towards the older Hunter. And giggled as well.
If the rest of the adults at the table noticed tears in the eyes of the infamous Winchesters, Hunters Extraordinaire, who had conquered Satan, killed Death, and brought the Old God to his knees, they said nothing.
In New Heaven, John and Esteban watched together, cold beers in their hands. Castiel had introduced them in anticipation of this moment.
So proud.
-----
Regretfully, the Baldwins left. Exchanged phone numbers and addresses. Best. Day. Ever. The Volvo hummed away in the night under a moonlit sky.
It has already been arranged that Dean and Sam were spending the night in the building designated as the guest house. By which I mean Camilla bullied them into obedience. Margie took the boys and Dee back to their house, part of the enclave, with the promise that the Winchesters would be available for questions in the morning over breakfast. Dean and Sam had more questions, of course, including the origins of the drawing on the menus.
Daniel and Camilla sat up with the Hunters. Talked about John (only the good memories) and a couple of G-rated cases to ensure they were kid-safe to share. The made-up story of their courtship and marriage, which they had told so many times it was starting to sound like the truth. Sam drifted off and was begetting little kitten snores, which the grandmother and Dean agreed, in whispers, were too cute.
Dean and Daniel got the younger Winchester to his feet, and walked him, semi-conscious, through the kitchen and the back door to the little adobe where they would be staying. Basically, a studio apartment, with a private bathroom with a shower and two queen-sized beds, a night stand, two chairs, a table, and wooden hooks by the front door instead of a closet.
The color photos on the wall, landscapes that evoked the mystical substratum of the region, turned out to be Margie's. It's how she dealt with the stress of her job as a visiting nurse slash EMT slash volunteer firefighter. Along with her husband's work as the top law enforcement officer in the county, one could get the feeling that this family held the community together, making everyone safe. Would not be far wrong.
Maybe that's why the Black Dog was so set on tormenting the family, knowing the positive impact they were destined to have in their corner of the world. And maybe it knew the Winchesters were coming after it.
Daniel kept Sam on his feet, more or less, while Dean stripped the coverlet, blankets, and top sheet from the bed farthest from the door. They laid the younger Hunter out on the bottom sheet. He muttered something that sounded like "thanks" and passed out again. Dean was grateful to have someone Sam's size as his wingman. Would have taken three times as long if he had to manhandle his favorite Sasquatch alone.
The sheriff had assisted enough drunks in and out of their clothing to actually be of real help to Dean. He understood the topology of humans and clothing and the difficulties of coping with floppy, uncooperative limbs.
The men removed a layer of flannel by gently rolling Sam from one side to another, fishing his long arms out of the sleeves. They unlaced the tall Hunter's heavy boots and pulled them off along with his heavy-duty socks. (What all Marine wear, his father taught him.) Then, mindful of his injuries, Daniel held Sam's limp body upright while Dean took off his t-shirt, and laid him back carefully. Then the sheriff leaned over him and immobilized him carefully by holding him under his arms while the older Hunter shimmied him out of his jeans, leaving him in his black boxer briefs.
While Dean checked Sam's bandages and the progress of his bruises, Daniel was struck by two things. First, the mostly naked body of the Hunter was truly a work of art.
Daniel worked out three times a week at a makeshift gym he and his deputies cobbled together behind the court house, to keep fit and work off the stress of the day. Was secretly proud of his muscles and stature; made it much easier to deal with suspects intimidated by a 6' 5" law enforcement officer.
But Sam, who he remembered as the sweet-faced little boy Sammy just growing out of his baby fat, was at another level. Muscles shaped by years of combat, long runs, and those lingering doses of demon blood. Made Daniel think of a beautiful weapon, like the Bowie knife Sammy carried that fateful night.
Second, the network of scars on his body looked like someone who had miraculously survived a bout with a woodchipper. And an encounter with a Mexican jaguar, the kind that have been haunting the borderlands shared with Arizona and New Mexico for years. And a grenade. And a car crash. And more than one duel with the legendary swordsman Zorro. And lost every time.
Wondered what Dean was hiding under his layers of clothing.
Daniel watched as Dean tenderly ran his hands over Sam's body, checking for hot spots that might indicate infections and making sure the bandages over his ribs were secure.
Dean tucked Sam in and kissed him on the forehead. Figured he would be warm enough and didn't want to wake him up to squeeze him into his summer version of pajamas: a soft t-shirt from the Stanford athletic department and a pair of running shorts.
The two men went out to the Impala. Baby, as usual, was waiting patiently for her best boy(s) to return. Daniel had imagined during encounter with the Black Dog that the Baby was a Supernatural creature, wise and awake. The fact that it was true made the little kid inside him somersault with happiness.
Dean, showing off a little, asked Baby to open her trunk and say hello to the tall sheriff. She liked to show off as well, so she honked once and blinked her lights three times. When Dean reminded her of the Black Dog, she gunned her engine in a throaty growl, a neat trick since Dean had not turned her on.
Dean pulled out their duffel bags from inside the trunk. Daniel held out his hands and lifted them with no effort. Okay, maybe he was showing off a bit, too.
Hands deep inside the trunk's collection of weapons and whatnots, Dean closed his eyes, searching by touch. He huffed and pulled out a plastic zip bag. Opened his eyes and smiled in satisfaction.
Inside was a small chamois bag, one with the heirloom silver relics that Camilla had pressed into John's hand 25 years ago.
"Here, give this to your mom after we leave. Gotta tell you, it's probably gonna make her cry."
Dean closed the Impala's trunk and patted it, wishing her a good night. She snorted; sounded a little like a baby elephant.
He grabbed one of the bags out of Daniel's hand, and the two men walked back to the little guest house in companionable silence.
Dean opened the door, placed one duffel inside gently, so as not to wake his sleeping beauty. Daniel handed him the second one. Dean took it, set it down next to the first one, and held out his hand, to say goodnight and thanks.
Daniel ignored his hand and embraced him in another giant hug, but this time it was more like he was cradling Dean in his arms. Conscious for the first time of the scars the older man might be carrying.
"Thank you, hermano," he whispered in Dean's ear. Overcome by emotion Daniel walked away and heard the door softly close behind him.
-----
The next morning Camilla was up at dawn, as was her custom, coordinating with her three breakfast shift cooks.
Sophia was an elderly Italian-American woman, a retired school teacher from Boston who had stopped by for breakfast on her way to San Diego to live with her son's family and never left. Came to work in florescent pink t-shirts and shorts, emblazoned with the logos of her favorite Boston professional sports teams. Whipped up quiches and quick breads and pancakes and muffins.
She baked an army's worthy of cake donuts once a week on Monday mornings; glazed and decorated with nuts and confections. Usually they sold out by 8 am; a dozen trucks and cars would be lined up at a time, idling on the road in front of the diner, with the drivers dashing in and out. Daniel never gave them grief, although technically it was against the law.
Harvey showed up from Kansas City, another refuge from a big city, washed up on the diner's shore. Ex-Navy, skin as black as the cast iron skillets he wielded. The ultimate short-order cook who could juggle a half dozen orders and still turn out perfect egg dishes, on time, every time.
It was suspected that he and Sophia had a thing going on, but no one could prove it.
Third was the prep cook for the lunch rush, a Texican from Dallas named Bonnie Jo. People thought she was Camilla's older daughter. Learned to cook to support her true calling as a poet; not as much money in writing poetry as you might think. She gave her all from 5 am to 11 am to prepping veggies and cooking the dishes that could thrive under lamps or in a fridge, then went home to read and write. Wrote stories about the diner. Wrote an epic piece about the Black Dog adventure, but an editor told her it was too out there, even for fantasy fiction.
Camilla saw all was well; she felt blessed to have such a talented and friendly group of employees. Never assumed that it was her character that attracted quality people and shaped the team's bond.
She grabbed a tray and set it on one of the prep counters. Put together a quick continental-style breakfast for her guests: muffins, orange juice, and two insulated, gusto-sized travel cups of black coffee, with a small glass pitcher of cream, packets of sugar, a plate of wrapped butter patties, and silverware and napkins. Should hold them until they came into the diner for a real meal.
Hoped they had enough bacon in the cooler, if she remembered Dean's appetite. She remembered it correctly; would just have to put in another order after breakfast.
She balanced the tray on the palm of her hand, went through the kitchen's back exit, and briskly walked across the sandstone path to listen at the door of the little guest house. (When called upon, moms can hear their kids breathing through a foot of steel and concrete.) Silence. She noticed the iron sigil hanging from the window between the curtain and the glass. Less messy than salt lines.
The outdoor kitties that took care of the rodents that nibbled at the garden and the goats' feed would have devoured the muffins, so she dared not leave the tray outside. Had one of those mom moments when the desire to take care of her children–the motherless boys had been adopted in her heart the first time John introduced them-overcame commonsense.
She pulled out the master key she kept around her neck on a hemp lanyard that an eight-year-old Deanna had woven for her at summer camp.
Camilla paused. At worst, fleeting embarrassment if she caught them naked or in a moment of passion. Something to laugh about later.
Daniel had reported in after he helped Dean put Sam to bed. Told his mother about the scars and the care Dean took making sure his brother? husband? was okay. About how Dean laid the injured Hunter in the bed farthest from the door. How when the three boys had slept on the porch after putting down the demon dog, Dean always managed to place himself between little brother Sammy and anything that still might be lurking in the world.
Still holding the tray level with one hand, she inserted the master key, and turned it, then twisted the door knob and opened the door a crack.
The room was dim. Dean had obviously closed the curtains, but a little of the early dawn light was seeping in through the edges. She could see the shadow of the sigil hanging from the window.
When she peeked in, she expected to see the men stretched out on their respective beds. Instead, she saw the two bodies, half-dressed, tangled together on the bed nearest the door, arms and legs poking out from a mess of blankets and sheets from both beds.
Evidently Sam had gotten up at some point, looking for his lodestar, and that was that. He had curled himself around the older Hunter, despite his wounds. Ducked his head on Dean's chest underneath his chin and made himself small, anchoring himself with an arm flung across his Dean's chest.
Dean's Hunter alarm was still operative, and despite Camilla's ninja-abuelita skills, he opened his eyes and caught sight of her. Moved the hand that was wrapped around his brother's shoulder and made the universal sign for silence–one finger to his lips.
Camilla nodded, tiptoed into the room, and placed the tray on the table by the window, trying not to kick the duffel bags left on the floor. Backed out and gave a little wave. Dean waved, then let his hand drop back on bedmate's shoulder.
Sam whimpered in his sleep and tightened his grip on his lover. The best medicine.
She was reminded of the puppies her son had rescued just yesterday, safely sequestered in an old sewing basket in her grandsons' room.
She shut the door and locked it. Dropped the key back under her blouse.
Camilla smiled, glad that the men had found love, however they defined their relationship. She wasn't sure she bought the foster brothers story, but honestly, she didn't care. Along with their father the two young men saved her family, and by extension, her community.
And we were strangers, she thought to herself. They didn't know us, and they were ready to risk their lives and perhaps their immortal souls. She was humbled that she and her family were chosen for this gift.
Another kind of love, she decided, and went back into the diner kitchen. Took a clean apron from a hook, tied it on, and went into the dining room to turn the sign to "Open," unlock the front door, and welcome her early bird customers
Bless them all.