Hell's Greatest Weapon

Chapter 5: The Boot

From the few hours you had been in the bunker before having to leave to deal with other issues, you had noticed a few things:

1.     The men of letters, though you had only met the Greek chapter hundreds of years ago, were just as impressive as you had heard.  True, you had never tracked them down since they hardly served any more a threat to you than a common set of hunters, but they were still fascinating. Intelligent.  Organized.  The library of the bunker was fascinating and it had many books with content that you hadn’t seen for centuries; it raised a question as to how they came in contact with such information in the first place.

2.     Sam must not have been back for a considerable amount of time, given the low levels of fresh, non-freeze-dried food in the kitchen.  You made a mental note to pick up some food in order to gain yourself brownie points immediately after noticing this.

3.     Sam and Dean had actually nested. Nested.  It had been a great while since you’d last seen them and the last you had heard, Dean was living with a woman in Indiana but, according to Sam, that had only lasted around a year. Nesting.

So, since you were out of the bunker after the short business meeting with an old friend, you made a few stops, figuring that the least you could do to make their lives a bit easier was pick up some food, maybe some money, and stop at that small shop in Delaware Dean was always talking about, pick him up a burger.

Less than forty-five minutes after you left the bunker you were back, a sack of money over one shoulder and a bag of groceries in your hand.  Sam was sleeping, apparently, as the library and kitchen bits of the bunker were each void of Winchesters; taking the opportunity while it was still in your hands, you elected to clean up the kitchen and put the new, fresh food in the fridge, set Dean’s burger on the counter, and go do some laundry.

As you sat on top of the washer while it cleaned what dirty clothes you could scavenge—an unnecessary (but habitual) action because of the washer’s surprisingly balanced spin cycle—you couldn’t help but think back and miss the way things used to be.  It was understandable if neither of the Winchesters wanted a thing to do with you after this—you, in fact, anticipated being booted from their lives—but a large part of you was still holding on to the hope that they might give you another chance, let you plead what wimpy case you actually had and maybe understand.

The door to the laundry room whipped open to expose Sam, whose expression was of such vile grumpiness that you couldn’t help but laugh when he glared at you.  He pointed at the washer after taking a step into the room, his eyebrows still scrunched and his mouth still in a taut frown, and you simply nodded.

“I didn’t know where you were, I thought maybe I could help out until Dean wakes up.”

It took a few seconds before Sam nodded, and even more time before he put his hands in the pockets of his jeans.  He sighed, ran a hand through his hair, and slowly made his way over to the dryer, hardly having to pull himself up in order to be sitting on top of it.

“Death, Y/N?” Was all he said, but the fact that he couldn’t even make eye contact with you was enough to direct your mind, show you where this conversation was going to end.  There was a disappointed tone to his voice, not anger, which confirmed what you already knew and crushed the tiny light of hope you had managed to cling to.

“Yeah.”

Sam cleared his throat and readjusted on the washer, saying “What did he have to say?”

“That I was the worst hider he had ever met.” You said, lightheartedly, earning a small chuckle from Sam that was quick to diminish back into the forcedly neutral expression on his face.  After a brief moment of silence, you shook your head. “He’s not happy.  About Dean, I mean.”