Work Text:
It's only a quarter past seven, so Dean's not expecting anyone else for another hour or so. When he hears the familiar squeal of workshop door followed by footsteps he waits a beat, listening carefully, even though his hand slides toward the top drawer of his desk where a wrench waits to be introduced to someone's head, should the need arise.
"It's only me, boss," a voice calls out.
Dean breathes and his hand drops. In the early days both Danny and Walt had a couple of near misses until they established the habit of making their presence known. Dean let them assume this was a being blind thing, because how do you explain that you've spent a large part of your life even when you could see with people trying to kill you and yeah, old habits die hard?
"Hey, Danny," he replies, as the creak indicates Danny's now at his office door. "You're in early."
"Yeah. Been awake since four so figured I may as well come in."
Insomnia, Dean gets. "Something botherin' you?"
Danny sniffs and Dean visualises a shrug. "Nah... just couldn't sleep."
"Well make sure you knock off early, unless you're after the overtime?"
There's a pause. When Danny speaks his voice sounds hopeful. "Wouldn't turn it down."
Dean grins. "All for the pot, huh?"
"Uh… yeah," Danny replies. "Speaking of pots, I was just about to make some coffee. You want some?"
"Do I ever say no?"
While Danny leaves to enable both their caffeine addictions, Dean plays back the encounter in his mind. It's frustrating not to see people's expressions any more. When they were hunting, making sense of what people were saying and, maybe more importantly, what they weren't saying was crucial. There was a certain skill in being able to read people - something he prided himself on. Now that skill is infinitely more difficult without access to facial expressions and body language and it's hard not to want to yell at everyone 'just say what you mean, okay?'
What he can say with confidence is that Danny definitely isn’t his usual effervescent self even if, on the surface, he’s still saying all the right things. It’s the subtle cues Dean picks up on: laughter that comes a fraction of a second after everyone else's, excessive muffled curses from under the hood of the car he’s working on. Enough to clue Dean into the fact that there's something going on with his employee. He hasn’t asked directly, but he likes to think he’s approachable enough that the offer to talk is obvious.
The morning rumbles on and the workshop comes to life. They've got a customer arriving at ten to pick up her pride and joy which will involve a full run down of everything they’ve done to the old motor before the equally satisfying settling of the final bill. When Danny goes out to pick up some parts, Dean shouts Walt from the Firebird he’s working on and asks if he knows what’s going on with his other employee, but Walt's no help either. Sure, he’s noticed it too but he doesn’t know why Danny's withdrawn. Other matters then command his attention and Danny leaves for the day while he's on the phone to the wholesalers in Topeka so he doesn’t get to check in with him again before the day is over.
Dean shuts up the workshop just after six when Sam arrives to pick him up.
“Good day?” Sam asks him, knocking the radio low so they can converse more easily.
“Not bad,” he says, thinking of Danny for a moment longer before turning his thoughts to what they could make for dinner when they’re home.
OoOoO
The shout tears through the silence. There’s a split second whilst his body readies itself for action before Dean realises the noise has come from him. He groans tiredly, sagging back against the headboard as the adrenaline drains away. This is the third time this week he's been propelled from sleep by a nightmare. Almost immediately there's the sound of footsteps crossing the landing, but the now repetitious nature of this event means they don’t arrive with the same urgency that they did two nights ago.
He lifts his head at the sound of the door opening, feeling guilty and annoyed. With only minimal light from the lamp on the landing, there’s nothing for his eyes to make sense of, but he knows Sam's there all the same, hair wild, eyes worried. Dean scrubs his hand across the scruff on his jaw and leans back to rest against the headboard. Eyes closed again, he lets out a weary sigh.
"Sorry," he says before Sam can ask if he's okay.
"Hey, don't apologise," Sam answers, sounding slightly incredulous that Dean would even think he's owed some kind of mea culpa.
"Yeah, well, at least one of us should be getting some sleep. You've got that deposition tomorrow, haven't you?" Dean's hand reaches out and finds the button on the talking clock Sam bought him. Two fifteen am, the voice intones. He sighs. "Make that today."
"Dean, it doesn't matter okay? Hell, we've both functioned off way less sleep in the past."
Yeah, Sam has a point, but still.
"So... D'you wanna talk about it?"
Dean sighs again. "Not really."
"Same dream?"
"Yeah."
He's had this recurring dream for the past few months; difference is now Sam's already in the picture about the contents, because part of giving up their old life also included giving up the manly bullshit around saying things were fine when they really weren’t. After the first repetition of the dream, he’d laid it all out to Sam; about the emptiness following Lucifer's defeat, when he'd been locked in a blank landscape whilst unconscious. He'd told Sam how initially he'd felt at peace, but soon the emptiness had become cold and disturbing, hostile for reasons he couldn't put words to. He'd told Sam about his fears that he was back in Hell, how he'd known that after everything he’d been through during his first trip downstairs, he'd never last this time. He’d allowed himself to be vulnerable in front of Sam. He’d told Sam how he’d felt trapped and helpless and absolutely fucking terrified. No wonder it still haunts his dreams.
Sam's read up a lot on PTSD treatments over the years so whether this was a technique he’d learned about or just pure instinct, but he'd let Dean talk and then, when he was done, encouraged him to focus on the ending. That first time, when he'd sat sweating and shaking, almost lost to his terror again, Sam had taken his hand and with his finger spelled out his name - those three letters that had appeared like a beacon in the emptiness to guide him home.
That focus on the ending had been all it had taken. The dream still comes, but its hold over him has lessened just by talking it over. Now, it’s an inconvenience rather than anything else.
“You want a drink?” Sam asks.
“Nah, it’s okay.” He takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. Already the dream has faded to the recesses of his memory. “I’m gonna try and get back to sleep. You should too.”
“Okay,” Sam says after a moment, and that pause tells Dean he’s been given the once-over. “Night, Dean.”
“Night.”
He lies back down and closes his eyes, even though in the darkness of his room there's no visible difference when his eyes are wide open. He thinks of Sam bringing him back, into this life, this good life, where they’re finally at peace. He thinks of their friends and their home. Their work. Their future.
Nightmares.... well frankly they can go fuck themselves. He falls back asleep and if he dreams again, he doesn’t remember it in the morning.
OoOoO
Sam drops him off at the garage on his way to the office. The early start means sourcing breakfast locally, so once he’s inside his office, he searches out the phone on his desk, fingers tracing the buttons until he finds the fifth speed dial. He hits it and it rings twice before a cheery voice comes on the line.
“Good morning, Brennan's.”
“Well good morning to you, Marcie.” He and Sam were patrons of the diner in town before everything happened, so his mental representation of Marcie Brennan comes from memory rather than imagination. Good job really, since he's pretty sure he’d have been way off—like a twenty a day habit and ten years off.
“Dean!” the voice exclaims. “That brother of yours not making you breakfast again?”
“Unbelievable, ain’t it?” he says, pulling out the chair and sitting down in it heavily. It groans in protest and for a second he toys with making clear to the woman on the other end of the phone that the farting noise made by the cushion didn’t come from him. “I’ll be wastin' away.”
Marcie tuts indignantly, even though she’s well aware that Dean is the one in charge of the cooking in the Winchester household. “Just wait til I see him. So what'll you be havin', darlin'?”
“Uh, the usual, extra bacon.”
“Coffee?”
Mentally he goes through the steps of finding everything he needs in his office to make his own. Sam finally got his way and persuaded him to keep the coffee maker on a tray with all the other items needed to brew up, but clean cups, all ready to go, rarely feature on it.
“Uh yeah, coffee would be great.”
“You got it. One of us will run it over when it’s ready.”
He grins. “You’re too good to me, Marcie.”
His stomach growls obligingly as he replaces the handset. What he needs now is a distraction until his breakfast arrives.
Time to work.
His hand finds the dictaphone in its place on his desk. Despite Sam's regular grumblings about the slightly chaotic office space, they’ve worked out systems that accommodate his needs. Like this. Walt did the weekly stocktake yesterday with the results recorded on the dictaphone, allowing Dean to confirm if they have everything they need for the week's upcoming jobs.
He’s about halfway through the list when the phone starts to ring. Putting the dictaphone aside he picks up the handset on the third ring.
“Winchester Restorations.”
“Dean? It's Fred Lee.”
The vehicle auctioneer over in Wichita is a person he has no visual reference for, but since the discovery that he shares a favourite drink with Rufus Turner, Dean is obliged to picture him thusly, even though when he shared his theory, Sam had laughed for a solid minute before stating he was wrong on every front it was possible to be wrong on, aside from Fred and Rufus both being men. Immediately he’s curious as to why Fred is calling so early.
“Mornin', Fred. Everything okay?”
“Peachy,” the gruff voice replies, even though he’s actually being serious. That took Dean a while too—Fred sounds permanently sarcastic even though he isn’t being. “Am I right in rememberin' you were lookin' for a Plymouth?”
“A fifty-eight Fury, yeah.”
Fred sounds almost excited. “One came in yesterday.”
Dean sits forward suddenly, his chair creaking noisily. “You're shittin' me.”
“No, sir I am not.”
“I don’t suppose we can make the seller an offer before it goes on the block?” he asks hopefully.
“Believe me, I asked the question. Knew it'd be the first thing you’d ask me.”
“And?”
“Guy laughed.”
Dean nods dolefully even though Fred can’t see it. “Yeah, figured. So when's it selling?”
“Tuesday.”
“Well I appreciate the heads up. Guess we'll be seein' you Tuesday.”
He puts the phone down and sits for a minute, contemplating that out-of-the-blue news. Danny's gonna be stoked. He presses the button on his watch and it dutifully informs him that it’s four minutes past eight. No point trying to call; Danny's probably on his way in by now.
OoOoO
Turns out it’s Walt that makes it in first, arriving ten minutes after Dean's breakfast from the diner. The phone call's put him in such a good mood he offers Walt some of his pancakes—an offer that’s enthusiastically accepted by his employee.
“Thanks for doing the stocktake,” Dean says around a mouthful of bacon and grits.
“No problem.”
Walt falls into the ‘practically horizontal' category when it comes to temperaments; a stark contrast to Danny who can combust at the merest hint of a spark. Maybe it’s an age thing, after all, Walt's got a few years on even Dean himself, but the likelihood is Danny will be as ornery in his old age as he is now—if of course his blood pressure doesn’t get him first.
“Thought you might have been Danny coming in.”
“Yeah,” Walt comments. “Surprised he ain’t here already, amount of overtime he’s been gettin' in.”
“Yeah.” Dean's fork clatters on the plate as he lays it down. Happy and sated, he leans back in his chair and grins. “He’s gonna be glad he has.”
“Oh?”
“Fred Lee called not that long ago. “They've got a Fury; it goes on the block on Tuesday.”
Walt gives an appreciative whistle. “Oh wow. So Danny doesn’t know yet?”
“Nope.”
Dean can feel Walt grinning as he says, “Can I watch when you tell him?”
“Sure. You can watch for the both of us.”
OoOoO
Walt's talking him through what he’s done on the Corvette that’s currently on the ramp when Danny comes in through the side door of the workshop. Technically he’s late, but Dean's not exactly a stickler for the rules; his employees are both good guys and they don’t take liberties so when he says, “Danny, nice that you could join us,” it’s only in jest.
There’s a mumbled apology and the sound of sneakers scuffing in the dirt. Dean frowns, certain the fact that he was joking should have been obvious.
“You okay, Danny?”
A sniff. “Yeah, boss.”
Dean nods, saying nothing but allowing his face to call bullshit for a moment before he remembers why they were waiting for Danny to arrive in the first place.
“Hey, anyway, I’ve got news. I got a call earlier on from Fred Lee. All I can say is next Tuesday you'd better bring The Pot, because it's finally got a date with destiny.”
“I don’t get you.”
Dean huffs, then tries again. “I’m saying, get ready to spend all that hard-earned cash.”
“What?”
Exasperated, Dean turns back to Walt, assuming that he’s not the only one here who's looking perplexed.
“Your dream machine,” he explains, using the phrase Danny's called the car by for as long as Dean's known him. “Fred's got one on the block on Tuesday. He called this morning specifically to tell me.”
With no way to see Danny's expression, Dean awaits the verbal reaction to this much-welcomed news. It’s slow coming and when it does, it's an underwhelmed single syllable.
“Great.”
Silence, and then the shuffling of sneakers returns, reducing in volume as Danny walks away. When the door clicks shut, Dean turns back to Walt and spreads his hands.
“Well yeah... you know I said you could watch for the both of us? You wanna tell me what I didn’t see, because I’ve definitely missed something.”
He hears Walt inhale before the breath is quickly released as a long sigh. “Yeah... I don’t think you missed anything.”
Dean swipes a hand across his jaw and lets out a sigh of his own. “Where’d he go?”
“Out back.”
He orients himself with the bodyshop wall and follows it out to area behind the building where they keep anything that doesn’t need to be under cover. It’s a clear day and the good lighting gives his remaining vision enough to work with to know that Danny is standing near the three cars that are parked out here, waiting for their turn on the ramp. For Dean, the cars are simply large dark blobs, but he’s able to navigate his way around them until he's close to the other dark shape that's movements indicate it's human.
“Wanna tell me what that was all about?” he asks.
“It's nothing. It doesn’t matter.” The dark shape shifts, blending into the car, which Danny is presumably leaning against.
“Doesn’t seem like it’s nothing.” Unexpectedly he thinks of Sam and 'before'—when they would distract and equivocate, anything to guard against sharing uncomfortable feelings. When 'okay' was the default state. Even at the time he knew it didn’t help, but they persisted in doing it anyway, like following a well-worn track that led nowhere useful. He thinks about the nightmares and how he told Sam about them the moment they started. Being open doesn’t come naturally yet, but they’re definitely getting better at it.
“What’s goin' on, Danny? I thought you'd be stoked about the car. You’ve got the money—”
“That’s it; I haven’t.”
This pulls Dean up short. Danny's been saving for a Plymouth for forever; by all accounts long before he came to work at Dean's garage. The last time they had any kind of conversation about it, he had a seriously healthy amount in 'The Pot' for both buying the car and any restoration work that it might need.
“You haven't? What the hell d'you do with it?”
Danny makes a frustrated noise and the dark shape turns, presumably to face Dean. It grows wider as Danny spreads his hands.
“I’ve still got it, okay, but it’s as good as spent.” Before Dean can ask him to explain he continues, his voice flatter than Dean's ever heard it before. “My dad is sick. He’s got insurance to cover his treatment and his prognosis is pretty good, but money was always pretty tight and if he can’t work things will only get tighter. So I just can’t justify droppin' that amount of money on a car. I know they don’t come around often, but it’s just... not a good time. Sorry.”
“Hey,” Dean says quickly. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for, man; trust me, I understand takin' care of family. If you need anything at all, just say okay?”
“Okay,” Danny replies softly, then after a moment, “Thanks, boss.”
OoOoO
Sam picks him up just after six. Dean tells him about Danny's dream car going to auction next week and Sam gets excited for a minute until Dean puts him in the picture about Danny's finances and the situation with his dad; how it’s not a definite that the money will even be needed, but he doesn’t want to spend it in case it is. Silence reigns for a few minutes. Sam glances across at his brother in time to catch the narrowed eyes and pursed lips of a man deep in contemplation. Without asking, he knows what Dean's thinking and the mental calculations he’s currently doing. Sam smiles to himself. Even though they’re not hunting anymore, Dean still manages to find people to help.
When they’re home they make dinner together. Sam is sous-chef, acting as Dean's eyes as he prepares their meal. After they’ve eaten and the dishes are washed and put away, Sam gives over control of the TV to Dean while he goes to grab some files out of his briefcase. He returns to find Cool Hand Luke just starting and his brother grinning happily as he nurses a fresh beer.
“Don’t think we’ve seen this one,” Sam says dryly as he flops back down onto the couch, keeping tight hold of the files.
“I know,” Dean replies, not missing a beat. “I’ve heard it’s good though.”
Sam rolls his eyes but he’s laughing too. Dean's not a fan of audio description so he frequently opts for TV shows and movies that he knows well, enabling him to recreate the action from memory as he listens. Despite the teasing, it works for Sam too because it means he can focus on his work without feeling like he’s going to miss crucial plot points whilst he’s tuned out. Eventually he can feel his eyes growing tired and he takes that as his cue to go to bed, leaving Dean to listen to Paul Newman making his last stand.
Despite his tiredness, Sam still finds himself awake in the early hours, listening for sounds that Dean might be having a nightmare again. The house is still, but in order to settle his mind he steps out onto the landing, mindful of the floorboards that creak. He puts a hand on Dean's door and focuses on the sounds coming from within, but when he picks out a soft snore amongst the ambient sounds of the old house he finally allows himself to relax. Satisfied, he returns to his own bed and is asleep again within minutes.
OoOoO
Dean pulls Danny into the office late Friday afternoon. He gestures to the chair on the other side of his desk and listens for the soft whumph of the cushion as Danny drops into it.
“What's up, boss?” Danny sounds nervous; he's been distracted lately and he's obviously aware it shows.
“How's your dad doing?”
“Good thanks. Look, Dean, I know I’ve been off my game recently—”
“Whoah,” Dean says holding up his hands to stop him. “That ain't why I wanted to see you.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I wanted to see you about the car. I totally get you wanting to hold onto your money, but I don’t want you to miss this opportunity. I know how long you’ve been waiting, Danny. So I wanna help you out.”
There’s a pause before Danny responds and when he does it’s on the back of a weary sigh. “Dean, you can’t.”
“What if I want to?”
“No,” Danny says quickly. “Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate you offering, but it’s just...”
Danny doesn’t say what it's just and if it’s on his face, frustratingly, Dean can’t see it either. He tries again. “Well we've gotta go to the auction anyway on Tuesday; there are a few lots I’m interested in and I don’t wanna sit there watching other people bidding on it, knowin' it should be yours.”
‘I’m not gonna lie and say it won’t suck,” Danny admits. “But I don’t want you going to bat for me, Dean.”
Frustrated, Dean shakes his head. “At least tell me why.” He has to wait almost fifteen seconds for a reply as Danny presumably attempts to find the words that will explain without offending.
“I just... it’s just easier to rely on no one but yourself, you know? My grandpa had an expression: 'never a borrower nor a lender be'. Stops you getting in a mess. Stops you owin' anything to anyone.”
And yeah, Dean can see the logic of that. Maybe not necessarily about money, but he could think of a billion examples where he opted to go it alone, shutting others out, even Sam, so that he could be in complete control of a situation. So that it was all on him when it inevitably went sideways. It wasn’t always the wrong decision, but it was as lonely as fuck. Especially when it was Sam that he was pushing away.
“Yeah... Believe it or not but I get that. I did it too. A lot.”
“And?”
“And although some things worked out okay, I realise now that they probably would still have worked out okay if I’d let others help me. I don’t wanna sound like a old man giving you a lecture here but the ol' 'problem shared' isn’t actually a bad idea.”
“I know what you’re saying, but this is different. This is a car.”
“Hey!” Dean says, pointing a finger, “don’t ever let me hear you say that within ten feet of my baby, you hear me?”
Danny laughs, despite himself. “Yeah okay. But Dean? Promise me you won’t go to the auction on Tuesday and bid on that car.”
“What? Seriously—”
“Dean. Promise me.”
Cornered, Dean holds up his hands. “Okay, okay. I promise you I won’t go and bid on it.”
“Thanks.”
“Whatever,” Dean grumbles half-heartedly. “Now get outta here, okay? You’re cluttering up my office.”
OoOoO
At home as they’re cooking dinner he tells Sam about his attempt to help, and how Danny had rebuffed it, insisting he didn’t want any help because he was better going it alone.
“Mmm, that sounds familiar,” Sam muses dryly.
“Fuck you,” Dean grumbles, whacking Sam on the arm with the wooden spoon he’s just been handed. “Anyway, I already told him what a jerk I was and that accepting help is what smart people do.”
“What did he say to that?”
“He still said no; made me promise I wouldn’t go and bid on it.”
“So what you gonna do now?”
“Bid on it,” Dean says without missing a beat. “Or rather you are.”
“Dean, I already said I wouldn’t be able to drive you there; I’ve got appointments on Tuesday.”
“I know,” Dean says, pausing for a moment to sample the sauce he’s been stirring for the last couple of minutes. “Walt's driving me. You’re gonna be a phone bidder. Then he won’t even know we’ve bought it.”
His help no longer required, Sam goes to sit at the kitchen table. Resting his chin on his hand he watches Dean work for a moment. “Okay. But who says he'll change his mind even then?”
“Maybe he won’t. And if he doesn’t, that’s fine. It's not like it'd be hard to sell on. But I think he will, even if it takes a while.”
“Why's that?”
Dean turns from the stove and after a moment's contemplation he shrugs. “Experience? As you so kindly pointed out, I might know a thing or two about thinking it’s better to go it alone. But I also know that people can tell you 'til they’re blue in the face and it won’t make a bit of difference if you’re not ready to hear it. But eventually you realise that leanin' on other people is okay, and when he does, I don’t want him to regret not letting me help sooner.”
At the table, Sam smiles. The money's not an issue; between the funds Charlie siphoned for them and their respective jobs they’ve enough to cover it. It's listening to Dean talk about his reasoning and seeing the personal growth it’s taken to get to this point.
“So do I have a maximum bid?” he asks eventually as Dean turns off the stove in readiness to start serving the food.
“Nah.” Dean grins. “Our good friend Dick Roman's paying, after all.”
OoOoO
Despite the certainty that they’re buying that damn car, Dean still acknowledges the flutter of nerves as they ride to the auctions at the ass-crack of dawn on Tuesday morning. They’re going for other things too; a customer has given him a budget and wants one of three possible vehicles going on the block today and there are a catalogue of parts that he'd like to get his hands on if possible.
Walt is in the driver's seat. They’ve left Danny holding down the fort at the shop even though he normally jumps at the chance to go to the auctions. His reluctance is understandable today; the last thing he wants to do is have to sit through the moment where his dream car is snapped up by somebody else. Before they set off, Dean tried one last time because it’d be a helluva lot easier to buy the fucking thing with Danny's blessing, but he was steadfast. Dean was not to bid on it and, because he’s not stupid, he exacted the promise that Walt wouldn’t either. Dean had ensured he looked suitably annoyed at that, allowing Danny to believe he'd outsmarted them once and for all.
Walt announces that the auction yard looks busy as they pull into the lot. Dean makes a noise of assent, whilst reminding himself that this means nothing. After much haranguing, Fred Lee had allowed his son to set up a website for the business, but bidding is still strictly in person or over the phone. As he put it to Dean so succinctly one day: Nate can do what the fuck he wants with the place when I’m in my box, but while I’m here I’m runnin' it my way.
They park up and cross the dusty parking lot together. The light is good today so Dean walks without assistance, but once they reach the yard where the vehicles to be auctioned sit in neat lines and the human traffic is heavier, he falls in beside Walt, ready to catch his elbow if he needs assistance.
“Can you see it anywhere?” he asks, knowing Walt will know exactly what he's referring to.
There's a pause before the other man says, “uh.. yeah, no. Oh—hold up, it’s there.”
Dean inhales deeply, relieved the seller didn’t have a last-minute change of heart. “Lead on.”
They pick their way between the rows of vehicles. There are a couple of other people looking over the Plymouth, judging by the voices that grow louder as they approach. As with everything these days, the car is a featureless dark blob and it’ll be Walt who'll need to pass judgement about whether this quest is over before it's begun. His impatience is starting to get the better of him when Walt gives a low whistle and says, “well, it's definitely a car. Or… it was at some point in its life.”
Dean makes a face, but Walt's chuckling so it’s impossible to maintain any real annoyance. He snorts and shakes his head. “Fuck it, we've dealt with worse.” Then: “We have dealt with worse, haven’t we?”
Walt laughs openly at that. “Yeah, we definitely have.”
Awesome. Game on, then.
OoOoO
The morning passes quickly. The parts auction is first and by the time Fred Lee's hammer bangs on the final lot, Dean's already feeling the beginnings of a headache. For the most part he forgets that his hearing wasn't fully restored when Hannah passed on Heaven's thanks for stopping Lucifer, but he notices it in environments like this, when picking out one voice amongst the din requires significant concentration. Without vision the challenge is magnified, hence the guaranteed headache.
He knocks his sunglasses up and massages his closed eyes as he waits for Walt to return from completing their purchases. So far, they’ve won everything they wanted; he can only hope their luck will hold when it comes to the car lots.
The sound of footsteps approaching greets his ears, then the bench seat dips with new weight.
“Water for you,” Walt announces.
Dean groans and takes the bottle from him, blessedly cold. “You read my mind. Don’t suppose you’ve any aspirin too?”
“Actually I do.”
Walt laughs at his presumably comical level of surprise. “Call it a heads up from Sam.”
“What?” His eyebrows change trajectory, pulling into a frown.
“He said whenever you get home from here you have a headache, but that you’re too stubborn to bring anything with you. So here.” There’s the familiar rattle of pills in a plastic tub, before the container is pressed into his hand. “Take your meds so I don’t have to answer to your brother.”
Dean allows himself a grumpy-sounding harumph even though he’s neither surprised nor annoyed about Sam's interference really. Obediently, he palms two of pills and swallows them down with some of the water. He tells himself that Walt isn’t smiling in amusement as he shoves the tub of remaining aspirin into his pocket.
Eventually the car auction begins. He listens as one by one Fred Lee describes the lots and starts the bidding. Sometimes they go with little fanfare—maybe one or two people half-heartedly going after the same vehicle and after a few of these in a row his mind has drifted elsewhere when Walt nudges him and says, “the Plymouth's up next.”
Dean straightens in his seat, even though there’s little for either him or Walt to actually do. It doesn’t stop the sudden surge of adrenaline though, and he says a mental prayer for Sam to be ready, picturing him behind his desk, phone in hand.
“Okay,” Fred Lee's gruff voice booms into the microphone, “our next lot today is a 1958 Plymouth Fury. Just shy of one hundred and thirty thousand miles on the clock, it’s fair to say this old girl will need some work, but she's truly a diamond in the rough”—Dean catches Walt's snort beside him as there’s a small ripple of laughter around the building—“who'll start me off at four thousand?”
There’s that inevitable lull, a deliberate response from any interested parties to not seem too interested. Eventually, someone's hand must go up because Dean hears Fred say, “'bout damn time. Who'll give me four one?”
“Four two.”
“Four three.”
“Four four.”
The bidding starts to move more swiftly. Dean can pick out different voices making these early moves, increments of one hundred dollars each time. Eventually though, the bids start to slow.
“Talk to me,” he mutters, moving his head even though there’s nothing to see.
“One, maybe two others,” Walt replies as he scans the crowds himself. True enough, another hand must go up, because Fred then says, “Five two?”
There’s a bit more back and forth between the bidders who are present. Eventually Walt announces that one has withdrawn with a quick head shake.
“Five seven,” Fred announces. Nothing. The old guy's eyes will presumably be scanning the room for any other takers, like a bird of prey looking for its dinner in the long grass. The silence drags on and Dean feels his pulse speed up a little. For a brief moment he considers that Sam isn’t on the other end of the phone—maybe he forgot or got caught up with something in the office even though he assured Dean he had the time cleared to do it and Sam Winchester is as reliable as fucking clockwork. He opens his mouth, about to suggest to Walt that one of them will have to do it,—promise to Danny be damned—when a different voice announces into that void:
“I have a telephone bid of five eight.”
Dean collapses back into his seat. Beside him Walt lets out a long breath, presumably having assumed the worst too. He tunes out for a moment to picture Sam at his desk, losing the back and forth between the guy being instructed by the phone bidder—Sam, hopefully—and the remaining bidder in the room. When he drags his attention back to the voices, the amount hasn’t risen as sharply as he assumed it would. Not that it going higher is a problem, mind. As he told Sam, Dick Roman is paying. But the higher the final amount, the less likely Danny is to accept the help so the possibility of the bidding running out of steam this early is definitely a welcome development.
The increments are now in fifties, the pauses between noticeably longer when it’s back to the remaining bidder in the room. Eventually Fred Lee says, “Okay I’ve got the telephone bidder at six thousand one hundred and fifty dollars going once, twice…”
The deal is sealed with the bang of Fred's gavel. Dean jumps in his seat as Walt grabs his arm and shakes it.
“Holy shit.” Walt exhales, the breath part-laughter. Dean knows how he feels. He’s grinning himself as he thinks about Sam making payment for his purchase. Now there’s just the matter of winning a car for one of his customers and they can officially chalk the day up as awesome.
OoOoO
The truck, its occupants and its trailer rumble home several hours later. The Plymouth is strapped down in front of a Pontiac, a whole decade its junior. Dean had phoned the customer he'd been bidding for who’d whooped with delight at the news that they'd been successful on his preferred choice. He can only hope the other vehicle will be received as enthusiastically.
With only the blurred movement beyond the window to occupy him, Dean closes his eyes. Thanks to Sam, his headache has gone or is at least being valiantly held back by the aspirin. As Walt taps the wheel in time with the song on the radio, he allows his mind to drift to the conversation with Fred Lee shortly before they'd left. He'd commented on the surprisingly low price the Plymouth had gone for and almost missed the snort of amusement Fred had offered as a reply.
'Yeah well', the old guy had mumbled, 'mighta put a few folks off. The guy selling it screwed a friend of mine a few years back and well, payback's a bitch. Plus I wanted Danny to have it. He’s helped me out a few times when I’ve been short-handed and he’s a good kid.’
Head resting against the glass, Dean smiles to himself. For so many years he’d refused to believe that good shit could just happen. There was always someone behind the scenes when luck seemed to be on their side for once, usually with an ulterior motive or looking for a quid pro quo arrangement. Now? Now their fate just is what it is. No special favours from Heaven or deals with the devil. And though he doesn’t want to speak for Sam, he knows which way he prefers it.
OoOoO
Dusk is encroaching as they make the final turn into the yard. Dean had called half an hour earlier so they know Danny will still be in the shop. He agreed to hang on so they didn’t have to unlock everywhere when they got back. Sam should also be there having finished work, waiting to give Dean a ride home.
As they pull up to the gate, Walt honks the horn.
“Here he comes.” Walt’s voice has a slightly strained quality to it, like he's speaking out the side of his mouth, presumably so the approaching Danny can’t see that he’s being talked about. “Moment of truth.”
Dean laughs, but truth be told he’s sharing Walt's nerves because they’re both familiar with Danny's fiery temperament and there’s a good chance this gesture could backfire spectacularly. The gate's hinges squeal in protest then Walt drives the truck into the yard.
“Talk to me,” Dean mutters since he’s no way of knowing what Danny's face is doing as he takes in the two vehicles they’ve brought home with them.
“Uh. He looks…”
“What? Excited? Pissed?”
“Not pissed exactly,” Walt says as he brings the truck to a stop and turns the engine off. “But definitely not excited.”
Dean nods. Deep breath. Time to head off the fireworks.
“You bought it,” Danny says before his feet have even hit the dirt. “You promised me you wouldn’t.”
“I didn’t,” he replies holding up his hands, “and Walt didn’t either. You made me promise and I kept my word.”
Danny huffs, the sound one of annoyance or frustration. “So what gives?”
“Sam bought it.”
The statement hangs there for a moment. Danny will be reviewing all conversations pertaining to the car and realising he didn’t cover all his bases. Dean braces himself, recalling his own anger when he was beaten by the small print. The response when it comes is neither fire nor fury. It's spoken quietly, preceded by a long sigh, which is somehow worse.
“For fuck's sake, Dean I really wish you hadn’t.”
The blurred shape of his unhappy employee recedes as he turns and heads back into the workshop. Fuck. A firm hand comes to rest on his arm. Sam. Always Sam.
“I’ll help Walt unload. You go talk to him.”
Dean almost argues that Sam should go; that as a lawyer he's the one with the talent for fancy words, after all, but no, this is his mess to clean up. He wanted to make sure Danny had the car. He understood best how hard it could be to let others help.
“Yeah.” He nods, dragging a hand down his face. “Wish me luck.”
The fading light makes navigating his way inside that bit harder, but he heads for the side door. The workshop is cooler and darker still as he steps inside and stops, listening for signs of movement.
“Danny?”
There’s a pause, then: “In here, boss.”
There’s a grudging quality to it. If it was anyone else Danny would ignore the shout and let them find him or just give up and leave, but Dean's disability means he'd look like an asshole if he did the same to his boss. The direction of his voice tells Dean he’s in the break room, which is a laughably fanciful description of a space that’s little more than an alcove with an old couch in it. Following the wall, Dean steps carefully until his fingers brush the battered leather of the couch's arm.
“I know this makes me look like an ungrateful asshole,” Danny says before Dean can offer anything himself. “But I told you why I didn’t want you to get it.”
Dean nods, lowering himself into the seat, safe in the knowledge that Danny is sitting at the other end and he won’t be about to squash him. “Yeah, I heard you and I get why you’re pissed. You set boundaries and I ignored them so if anyone's the asshole here, it’s me. But I also know some opportunities don’t come around that often and I didn’t want you to end up regretting anything later. Not when I was in a position to do something about it now.”
Danny puffs out a breath. When it’s Sam, or someone else he knew before, Dean imagines their faces alongside any auditory cues he’s getting. But with Danny he has no reference—beyond what Sam has described to him—making situations like this infinitely more frustrating. With Sam he'd know whether to push or hold back from the slope of his shoulders and the line of his jaw or the way his eyes would cut away when something Dean said resonated with him. But with Danny he’s got nothing.
“Believe me, I would have preferred to go today with your blessing, man. I knew you’d be pissed when we came back with the car, but I knew I’d rather deal with the fallout of that than you wishing you’d gotten it further down the line.”
“But I haven’t got the money,” Danny insists. “Not to buy it or to do work on it.”
“Not now, but one day maybe.”
“But 'maybe’ shouldn’t be good enough!”
Dean shakes his head, unable to prevent a smile. “I’ve gone off a lot less, trust me.”
Obviously Danny isn’t privy to his memories so his response is a disgruntled sound. As far as he’s concerned, Dean isn't listening. Or he’s making light of his feelings on the matter, which is somehow worse. Even without sight, Dean knows he’s losing him and he sighs, wishing he was better at shit like this. Like Sam would be.
“You know, if you’d told me a few years ago, I’d have agreed with you completely. Even though Sam’s always been around, I tried to keep him out of stuff, like, I’d want to solve it myself so I didn’t have to get him involved. Even if he wanted to or even if I knew he’d probably do a better job of fixing it than me.”
His thoughts drift, a kaleidoscope of memories. Times his stubbornness saved him and times it got him killed. Not many people with his level of experience, that’s for certain. But his trip through the past ends with his recurring dream and the undeniable conclusion that Sam was instrumental both in bringing him back following his encounter with Lucifer and every time he’s dreamt it since. They’re better together and finally they’ve reached a point in their lives where they both acknowledge it and are good with it.
“With Sam,” he continues, “I tried to keep him out of it because I wanted to keep him safe; I’m the big brother, I’m supposed to protect him even though he grew up to be fucking gigantor. But other people sometimes wanted to help too and I shut them out using your reasoning—if I didn’t let them help me, I wouldn’t owe them anything.” He looks down at his hands even though there’s nothing to see. “Don’t get me wrong, sometimes going it alone worked out just fine. But the problem was those times convinced me that going it alone was always the right thing to do, even though there were plenty other times when it wasn't. I just ignored those times because I didn’t want to believe there might be a better way. It’s all about self-protection, you know? It’s your armour.”
He doesn’t know if Danny's nodding but there’s a noise of assent, like even if they’re talking about different things, on some level this is making sense.
“The problem is, people stop asking and you might think that’s a good thing but it’s really not. Sam? Well I’m stuck with Sam, but I wouldn’t have blamed him if he’d gotten tired of my shit eventually. But other people, they get rebuffed and they say 'okay, fine'. And next time maybe they do offer help, but it’s more half-hearted. And then the time after that they don’t bother because they already know what the answer will be.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Because it is. Because then there comes a time when you really need help and when no one offers you’ve no choice but to ask for it. And believe me, you think acceptin' help is hard, it’s nothing compared to having to ask for it.”
When Danny doesn’t say anything, Dean thinks ‘fuck it' and let’s himself fall off the precipice he’s been teetering on the edge of—the edge that always looms at the thought of letting anyone in.
“Look, I get it, okay? My mindset was like yours, but on steroids. Sam, well he tried everything to get me to see that for years and I never listened. Now imagine what it’s like to think like that and wake up one day and find you need help with everything; not even big stuff—I’m talking like, finding your clothes and crossin' the road. That was my reality.”
“That… must have been tough.”
Dean considers the comment for a moment before nodding. Both Danny and Walt know that he wasn’t born blind, but neither of them have ever pushed for more detail. “Yeah, it was. Still is, sometimes. Maybe that feeling will never go away. Old habits die hard, you know? But part of what makes it easier is knowing that I’ve got people—good people—around me who I can call on. And I’m damn grateful for that.”
Another sigh. “But it’s just a car. Everything that’s happened with my dad has put it in perspective. There’s no way I could justify droppin' that amount of money on something that doesn’t matter.”
Dean contemplates jokingly arguing that point again because in his mind Baby will always be more than a car, but truthfully he'd scrap his beloved vehicle in a heartbeat if was Sam's life at stake.
“Yeah. I hear you. But like I said, it won’t always be that way. And when life's back on an even keel for you and your dad, it’ll be right here. And hey, maybe you’ll come to your senses and realise that the true classics are Chevrolets, and that's okay too, we'll just let it go back to the block.”
Danny makes a noise, the kind of sound typically accompanied by someone tugging at their hair or throwing up their hands. “You’re not gonna give up are you?”
“Nope.”
Silence follows. There are some noises from the yard—Sam, presumably, and Walt dealing with the spoils of a different kind of hunt. Eventually Danny laughs.
“I… I don’t really know what to say.”
“Well, you could say ‘ great job Dean for getting my dream vehicle for the criminally low price of six thousand, one hundred and fifty dollars’.”
“What?”
Dean grins, enjoying Danny’s obvious shock. His mental representation of the other man's expression is probably way off but he doesn’t care. “Turns out we weren’t the only ones interested in making you its new owner.” He then relays the story Fred Lee told him about scaring off would-be bidders because he wanted Danny to have it.
“Oh, and Danny?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m happy for you to do overtime and crap if you want to add to the pot for your family; I get that money's important but let me give you some advice too—so is time. Don’t miss out on being with them. And if taking time out means money worries you come to me, okay?” He holds out his hand and after a second or so Danny takes it.
“Thanks, boss.”
“Don’t mention it. Now get your ass home, okay?”
“Yeah, you too.”
OoOoO
With the workshop door locked, Dean pockets the keys and follows the well-memorised path out to the yard. Someone, Sam maybe or Walt, has flipped on the floodlights even though the darkness isn’t fully upon them yet, which allows him to make out the hulking shapes of the cars stored out here. With Danny placated, it finally hits him how exhausted he is. The early start, then the mix of adrenaline and elation during the auction means he’s more than ready for dinner, a well-deserved beer and the high probability of falling asleep on the couch ten minutes into whatever movie they’ve decided to put on. Without sight, everything is that bit more tiring, a reality he’s long since come to accept. Maybe it’s his age too now he’s in his forties.
“I’m here, Dean,” Sam announces, saving him having to figure out where his brother's gotten to. “Walt left a little while ago, said he'd see you in the morning.”
The Sam-shaped blob shifts a little as he approaches. “So how’d it go with Danny?”
“Yeah,” he replies, pondering the question for a second. “It was okay. Don’t get me wrong, he still wasn’t jumpin' for joy or anything, but he’s accepted that we did it because we wanted to help because the opportunity might not come around again. I’ve told him there’s no pressure. The car's gonna be here and when he's ready, it's his.”
“I’m glad you were able to convince him.”
“Yeah, me too. Told him I got it—that I’d been where he is thinkin' you’re better off relying on yourself. But then I realised the alternative ain’t so bad.” He chuckles to himself because Sam's got every right to give him the world's biggest 'I told you so'. “Said it took my pain-in-the-ass little brother years of saying the same thing to me before it finally got through my thick skull.”
The admission isn’t new, so Sam graciously waives his right to state the obvious. Instead he says, “sounds like you did a good job.”
“Now we’ve just gotta do the same for the car.”
"Yeah… I gotta tell you it's a wreck, Dean," Sam cautions, obviously having had the opportunity to look it over while he waited.
Dean shrugs, his hands reaching out to run across the car's quarter panel, his mind recreating the terrain beneath his fingertips and then visualising what it will become. Maybe it’s the day they’ve had but his optimism is nowhere near as dented as the bodywork by Sam's downbeat assessment.
"We've all been wrecks at some point," he says with a shrug as he turns towards Sam, his brother's outline illuminated by the yard's floodlights.
"But like I said to Danny, it's just a case of knowing the right people to build you back up again."
End