The key is small and light and still feels alien in Dean's palm. Its teeth run sharp along the tip of his thumb before slipping into the hole with a seamless slide. It fits perfectly, it turns around with a click. Dean takes it in with caution, expectant of everything but that: the steel snapping in half, the doorknob turning into serpents, an invisible barricade keeping him outside like a line of salt holds back a ghost. Either of those would serve Dean well for stirring the waters.

"What's wrong?" Sam's voice calls out from behind and his choice of words makes something grow in Dean's chest, something anxious and trying to force its way out like a giggle. Nothing is wrong, he wants to say, everything's peachy. That's kind of the point. "Dude, this stuff's heavy."

Dean forces the thing down with a swallow and produces a string of insults directed at himself and his stupid fright. Where did it even come from? He's been waiting for it for six months. This is what he wanted. A white picket fence, a red roof. Windows. Windows were kind of a deal-breaker here.

And it's not like anything inside could get to him, not with his super engagement ring. Unless it's a falling ceiling or a murderous coffee maker.

"Dean?" Cas's voice joins Sam's nagging and Dean knows he's just sealed his fate as a local drama queen.

Get your shit together, Winchester, he orders himself and presses the doorknob.

There's a coat of dust obscuring the dark wood on the floor and the fringed edge of the carpet peaking out from the living room. On the left, there's a bland, white wall that lets in the glow of evening sun through two windows.

"Move aside!" Sam bellows from behind, poking Dean's spine with a corner of the cardboard box.

There's an elbow in Dean's side after that and his face ends up flat against the wall.

"Huck you, Ham," he mutters into the chalky smell.

Heavy thump of the box is the only answer he gets.

"Sam." There's disapproval in Cas's voice and maybe just a little bit of amusement, unbecoming of a protective fiancé. His thigh rubs against Dean's butt in passing, like it's the closest thing to cheering he can offer with his hands full.

So, this part of the corridor might be a bit narrow, due to the wall that hardly seems useful. It's gonna be a pleasure to drive a hammer through it to open the living room. After years spent in the Bunker, he's gonna need some time to get used to living in such small space. But at least he won't have to play hide-and-seek with Cas anymore. Unless there's a strip version of it that Dean's not aware of.

"This wall could use a few pictures." Sam waves at the opposite side: white, cold and empty all the way to the staircase and up to the low ceiling.

Dean rolls his eyes. "Yeah, because that's the priority."

"What is the priority?"

It's the kittens of dust that clutch to his shoes like literal kittens rather than the solemn look on Sam's face that keep Dean's knee jerk answer from rolling off his tongue. That and the fact he's not even sure there's a proper bed in this dump worth christening. Fuck, these first few days in this place are gonna be a nightmare, they should have cleaned it up before dragging all their junk across half the country.

They knew the house was quite a fixer-upper - most of Bobby's safe houses were. No one on the run from demons, angels and other nasties will complain much about the cracked floors and leaky pipes, whistling inside the walls like the loneliest, timid ghosts, or the stairs that, by their looks, could offer a one way ticket to the basement with a crash landing.

In the long run it won't do. This is supposed to be home. And it will be. Slowly but surely they'll get it all working. And then there is the furniture that possibly remembers the founding fathers and paint that peels off the walls like a sunburn. And well, after all that is dealt with, maybe the wall could, in fact, use some pictures.

But for all that they'll need funds first. And for food, too.

"Finding jobs, f'course," he says. "Real jobs. Should be easy now that we have an address to put on the CVs."

"Yeah, that should help," Sam confirms. "You wanna go for construction again? Cars?"

Dean shrugs. "I'll take whatever I can get. I'm a quick learner. Cars would be ideal, though."

"I think we drove past a body shop," Sam supplies.

"Saw it too, first place I'm hitting."

Cas returns from the library just as Dean began to think he started unpacking and sorting books on the dusty shelves. There's a smudge of dust on his cheek. Dean licks his thumb and rubs at Cas's face, but the smudge only gets bigger. It doesn't really matter, soon they'll both get dirty in an all too literal sense.

"We'll find something nice for Cas, too, right, Cas? Or he'll take care of the house, feed the animals, milk the cows. We'll make ends meet."

"I'll what?" Cas squints. "What cows?"

Dean lifts his fists and starts moving them with a pull-and-squeeze motion. Sam covers his mouth to hide the laughing fit, but Cas only rolls his eyes at Dean's childish behavior.

"We'll have to get new window sills and doorsteps," he says, pointing out his own priorities. "These are too ragged to serve as good canvas for protection spells."

"I'll get on it first thing tomorrow." Dean nods. "Now, let's get all our stuff here."

With that, he marches out into the scorching sun on the dusty driveway to pick the rest of the boxes and bags from Sam's car.

With three pairs of hands on deck, it doesn't take them long to transport everything. Bounds of clothes, stacks of old books and new books and guns, smaller boxes of souvenirs and personal objects. Dean never knew he'd have so many things. He was never allowed to own that much stuff - an Impala can't fit too much load. But then they found the closest thing they had to home and the material memoirs just began to cling to them and pile up: mostly small things – favorite cups and favorite ancient artefacts, rusty nails and the goddamned gifts from every christmas, birthday and anniversary they weren't supposed to celebrate.

They put the boxes wherever there's a place for them, just to free Sam's car. Like teenagers afraid of getting caught while slothing, Dean and Cas steal each other's kisses hidden away in the cool of the shaded rooms.

When they're finally done, they sit on the stairs to the front porch, wiping sweat off their faces. Dean and Cas take slow seeps from their cold beers. Sam drinks soda, he still has to be good to drive, as soon as they catch their breath. Sam's leaving, again, to start another year at Stanford before summer comes to a close.

Dean and Cas, they've got stuff to do. Cleaning, renovation and all that jazz. It's a lot of work and it'll take some time, but together, they'll manage. Hopefully, they'll be done with everything before next summer, maybe even spring. They haven't set the date yet, but Cas insists on a wedding in the garden behind the house. Of course, he does.

Dean thumbs the silver band on his finger. The tiniest tingling sensation is still there and it doesn't seem to be going anywhere. It gets even stronger when Cas is nearby, Cas never told him why. Maybe the grace writhes to come back where it used to belong. Or maybe it mobilizes its power with one more person to protect.

For the first few weeks, the sensation was annoying and he'd even take the ring off to get rid of it. He's used to it by now, he'd probably feel weirder without it. Especially when the white noise of power accompanying him everywhere means he's safe. And when that white noise turns to a bumblebee-like buzzing, Dean knows he's home.