Working at the library was a comfort, a steady routine that he had always longed for in his youth. Every day he came in, joked with Waverly, helped the poor man in the history section that always found his interests on the top shelf but could never actually reach them, re-shelved whatever books needed it, and then repeated the process. He could do the motions in his sleep.
And wasn’t that the point? Complacency, settling, living a normal life. There was no need to be on his guard every second. No need to carry hidden knives and flasks of holy water with him. Not that he had stopped that bit, twenty something years of training made it a hard habit to break. It was the training, and not the small voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like his brother that scolded him if he even thought about not bringing protection with him. It was the training.
He had adjusted though. He had relaxed. He spent his days surrounded by books and his nights with a girl he had come to love. He was living his apple pie life.
So why was his mind so far from task today?
He had been on edge all day, his mind drifting several times throughout the morning. Which was fine, except for the fact that he had shelved the books incorrectly twice now. Twice. He needed to focus. Pay attention to the task at hand, Sammy.
He’s focused now, laser liked, in fact. Nothing is distracting him this time. He’s going to show the non-fiction section who’s boss.
Dean’s voice chimes in his head again, and Sam almost writes it off. Except.. that’s not his inner voice. It can’t be. It’s too loud, it’s too perfect. It’s too real. Sam barely catches the edges of the figure he can now see out of the corner of his eye, but it’s enough. He’d know him anywhere, would always. His chest pounded like a drum, heart warring between utter elation and incomprehensible fear.
“This isn’t real.” He manages to whisper, his eyes locked on the book gripped like a vice in his hand. His body refuses to move, to turn and face the man, no matter how much he wants to. Because this man is his big brother, but he is also his executioner, and Sam cannot bring himself to turn and see which one has come to meet him after all this time.
“Really, Sam? Some Mills and Boon shit is more important than saying hi to your favorite big brother?”
It’s deliberately over-casual -- though Dean absolutely will be mocking Sam later over having to handle novellas with freaking long-haired Fabio and a swooning damsel on the cover -- because the way Sam freezes, what he whispers, Dean’s got no idea where his head’s at, and it’s just instinct to try lighten the mood. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to cause a scene in the middle of a library.
It’s just-- Dean’s had to adjust to life without Sam before. About a month after he’d left for Stanford, Dad had ditched too, brought some gas-guzzler jeep and tossed Dean the keys to the Impala, and just took off. And he was already used to Dad being gone for ages, but Sam, it had taken him a long, long time to adjust to how quiet life was. No even breathing of sleep in the next bed, no drone of the dorky documentaries Sam liked to watch, no rustling of papers or pen scratches, no complaining about Dean’s loud music or gross food or other various shitty habits.
This past year has been so goddamn quiet.
So, fuck not making a scene. Dean’s already making a scene with his presence; the dried mud on his boots he’d trod into the carpet, the black eye and other bruises, the knife at his hip he’s not even trying to conceal. He’ll make more of a goddamn scene if he likes.
“Fuck’s sake. C’mere, douchebag.” Dean grabs a solid handful of shirt at Sam’s shoulder, uses it to haul him around and into a rib-creaking hug. “God damn it, Sammy,” he grumbles against Sam’s shoulder, somewhere between relieved and exhausted, “you ever vanish like that again, so help me, I’ll replace all your shampoo with Nair. All of it.”
