like a boomerang

Summary: Darcy Granger's life gets a little bit more interesting, and Dean Winchester celebrates his twenty-ninth birthday in an unexpected way.

Disclaimer: I ask and ask if I can have the boys, but Kripke says no. And gets annoying things like restraining orders! D: D:

Author's Note: It was Dean's birthday--I had to write SOMETHING for him! Read and review? Pretty please?

Kindness, like a boomerang, always returns. Author Unknown

--

The snow outside swirls wildly in the howling wind, whiting out the cold, January night in a way that makes Darcy Granger nervous. Damn, she has to drive in that?

Glancing down at her watch, she bounces anxiously on the balls of her feet. Jim had said that if there were no customers by 7:30, she was free to close up. 6:43. Only forty-five more minutes.

Dad'll probably kill her for not coming home sooner, but what is she supposed to do? She's the only one who works on Thursdays, and Jim's six-year-old daughter is in the hospital again—not like Darcy could ask anyone else to drive out in this weather to cover her. For the fourth time, her cell phone vibrates in her pocket and she winces. If she ignores it again, Dad really will kill her.

"Yeah?" she answers tightly, bracing herself.

"I don't care what the hell that manager of yours said," Dad spits into the phone. "Get your ass home now."

"I can't, Dad. Jenna's in the hospital, and I'm the only—"

"Do you see the weather out there? The roads are solid ice, and it's only gonna get worse. I can't even get the Jeep to start, or I'd come get you myself."

"Just forty-five more minutes." The deadly silence on the other end tells Darcy that's not cutting it. "Ok, forty, Dad. But I really can't leave before that; Java Junkie needs the money."

"What money?" Dad snorts. "How many customers have you had tonight?"

The answer, in truth, is none, but Darcy isn't about to tell him that.

"Four," she invents wildly. "In fact, I really shouldn't even be on my phone—"

"Darcy," Dad sighs. "Just come home—"

At that precise moment, the door of Java Junkie bangs open, and two tall men enter in a flurry of snow, heavy stomping, and chattering teeth.

"Gotta go," Darcy says triumphantly. "Customers!"

"Young lady, if you hang up this phone, I will be—"

"Bye, Dad!" Before he can get out another word, Darcy hits the END button, then holds it down to turn off her ancient Motorola Razor. Hopefully, Dad won't remember the number of the coffee shop and call non-stop until she's forced to pick up. She wouldn't put it past him, quite frankly. "Hey!" she calls to the two guys, shoving her phone into the pocket of her jeans. "What's it like out there?"

"Ever seen The Day After Tomorrow?" quips the taller of the two as he lopes forward, still brushing snow from his shaggy hair. Darcy winces.

"Shit. I have to drive in that."

"Not a good idea," says the shorter one, also stepping forward, rubbing his hands together to generate a little warmth. "It's approaching the Killer Ice stage. Remember the way it, like, devours the Statue of Liberty?" He unzips his leather jacket, and she glimpses a silver amulet of some sort dangling from his neck when he unwinds his scarf.

"Great." Darcy sighs miserably, hits a button on the register, and adds, "So, what can I get ya?"

"Coffee," says Freakishly Tall Guy at once. "Grande latte."

"Just regular old black coffee for me," says Leather Jacket Guy (Darcy's not in a creative mood, ok? It's the goddamn Day After Tomorrow and she wants to go home before the Killer Ice starts devouring stuff).

"Decaf?"

"Nah." He beams at her, and sweet Jesus, the boy is pretty. If he were like five years younger, she'd probably risk flirting with him. "Regular."

"What size?"

"Hit me with that bad boy right there." He points to the double-venti Styrofoam cup on display that nobody ever orders, possibly for fear of O.D.ing on caffeine.

"You've gotta be kidding me," Freakishly Tall Guy snorts. "Dean, you'll be up all night."

"Well that's appropriate, considering we have to drive all night if we wanna make it to Georgia by tomorrow morning. 16 straight hours, maybe fifteen and a half if we play our cards right," says the guy called Dean. Darcy tries not to do a double take as she punches a few more buttons on the register. They're driving to GeorgiaIn this weather?

"Uh, if that's all, it's gonna be $7.56," Darcy says, looking from one to the other. Dean starts to reach into his jacket pocket but his friend stops him, shaking his head and pulling out a credit card.

It's probably just her imagination, but Darcy swears she spots a gun in the inner pocket of his heavy winter jacket. She eyes him warily as she accepts the card, suddenly a lot more anxious than earlier. Crap. She's 5'3, a hundred and ten pounds, and these guys are huge. They don't look scary, but…

As discreetly as possible, she reaches into her pocket and turns her cell back on. You know, just in case.

Nothing happens, though. Freakishly Tall Guy (Samuel Faulkner, according to his credit card) signs the receipt as Dean gruffly thanks him, and then the two of them wander off to a nearby table while she makes the coffee.

"So, any leads, Sam?" Dean asks. Darcy hears him dragging one of the chairs out with a screech.

"We don't have to talk about this tonight," Sam replies. "Seriously, dude."

"Yeah, we do." Dean glances up, meeting Darcy's gaze for a brief second, and she instantly spins around, aware she's been unintentionally eavesdropping. As quickly as possible, she turns on the latte machine, which in and of itself is loud enough to drown out an atomic bomb, much less two people trying not to be overheard. As she vaguely assembles Sam's coffee ingredients, she wonders why he'd have a gun if he's not…like, a serial killer or something.

Maybe they're cops? Dean said something about leads. Darcy sneaks a peek at the slightly distorted reflection of the pair of them on the top of the latte machine. Sam's taken off his coat, and his long arms are folded across his chest as he seriously surveys Dean, who's drumming his fingers absentmindedly on the tabletop, leaning in to tell his friend…partner?...brother, maybe?...something or other.

Well, they sure as hell don't look like cops. And they don't strike her as creeps or like, criminals, or anything. Maybe they're FBI?

Dean runs a hand through his short spiky, hair, and his sleeve rides up a little, exposing a twisted, dangerous looking scar on his forearm, like some wild animal had clawed him.

God, Maura and Greg are going to be so jealous they missed this when Darcy tells them at school on Monday.

She puts the finishing touches on Sam's latte, pours Dean his ginormous vat of coffee, and then sweeps over to where they're sitting, coming up from the side. They're so absorbed in their conversation, that at first, they don't even notice Darcy.

"…be risking a lot," Sam saying in a low voice. "If it's not a demon, then—"

"I don't care what the hell it is," Dean snaps, voice a bit too loud. "If it's killing people, we should do something."

"Yes," Sam says patiently, "but if we don't know what it is, then we'll be unprepared and probably get ourselves killed. Didn't you promise me you were gonna stop being so reckless?" There's a pause in which Dean stares at the floor and Sam sighs wearily. "We need more time. I want a consult with Bobby before we—" Abruptly, he looks up, and Darcy pretends like she's just approached them, as though she hasn't heard a thing.

Demons?

"Here's your coffee!" she says brightly, handing over Sam's latte and setting Dean's in front of him. "Anything else, guys?"

"That'll do it, sweetheart." Dean eyes her up and down quite obviously, then flashes her that smile again. "For now, anyway." Darcy represses the urge to giggle like a thirteen-year-old, grinning and ducking her head. Oh yeah, he definitely knows he's pretty. "OW!" Dean glares indignantly at Sam, who appears to have kicked his friend viciously underneath the table, and is now shooting him an incredulous look.

"Just ignore him," Sam tells Darcy disgustedly. "We're all set, thanks."

"No problem," she manages, and hurries away before she bursts into laughter at the sight of Dean's pissed off expression.

"You are the worst little brother in the history of the world," she hears Dean informing Sam as she leaves. "What the hell?"

"Dude!" Sam lowers his voice, but sound carries in the small coffee shop. "She's, like, 15 or something."

"Eighteen next month, thank you very much!" Darcy calls casually over her shoulder.

"Oh." Sam winces as Dean guffaws. "Um, sorry."

"Don't worry." Darcy leans on the counter, smirking at the two guys. Brothers, it would appear. "He's too old for me anyway."

"Hey!" Dean looks even more affronted than before. "I'm not that old." Sam coughs loudly. It sounds suspiciously like, LIAR. "I'm not!"

"Twenty-nine today," Sam tells Darcy, nodding at Dean. "He's in denial." At once, his face falls, as though he's just said something verboten. Dean stares down into his cup of coffee, face carefully blank. Darcy blinks at the pair of them—in an instant, they went from laughing and joking to as somber and depressed as if they were at a funeral. Sam actually runs his a hand over his face, and mutters to Dean, "Sorry."

"Shut up." Dean tosses a packet of Spelnda at him, then lowers his voice. Darcy can still hear him as clearly as if he were standing beside her. "I'm not dead yet, ok?"

"Dean." Sam's gaze cuts over to Darcy pointedly.

Rolling her eyes, Darcy turns around, trying to find something to busy herself with. The brothers talk some more, this time so quietly she really can't hear them. She wonders about them some more—they're definitely more interesting than the others who frequent Java Junkie. They're good-looking, for one thing.

But there's more to it than that, Darcy thinks, shaking her head. They're so real, so world-weary and hardened, and there's a desperately sad quality that lingers in the air around them, thick and heavy, laced with exhaustion and worry. And yet, there's danger to them, too—she doesn't quite understand it, but she knows it's something you don't mess with. In her short life, Darcy doesn't think she's met anyone like these strange brothers

She feels for them, whoever they are and whatever they do, feels for them in a way that makes her want to give them both gigantic hugs, lift some of their tiredness away. Bring them happiness, if just for a moment.

Darcy doesn't question it—she's always been intuitive, observant. Dad tells her she's either psychic or OCD, or possibly both, and as much as she likes to laugh it off, she knows that on some level, he's right. She shouldn't care, but she does, and that means she'll do something one way or another.

Darcy's eyes fall on the display case, and suddenly, she knows what she'll do. It's not that great, but it's something.

She assembles a take-away bag, one of Jim's killer twelve-dollar chocolate tortes, a birthday candle from the pack Jim keeps under the counter just in case, and a spare lighter she has in her purse that would get her disowned if Dad ever found it, so it's probably good Darcy's getting rid of it. She makes a mental note for the third time this week to quit smoking.

After shoving everything into the take-out bag, she grabs a napkin and a pen.

Happy birthday, she scrawls on the napkin. You better share this with your brother. He bought you that ridiculously huge coffee, after all. Darcy follows it up with a smiley face, signs her name, and then folds it like a note and puts his name on the front. Just in time, too, 'cause the Brothers Weird are already heading towards the door.

"Wait!" she calls after them. They turn in tandem, Sam halfway through shrugging into his coat. Darcy presses the thick paper bag into Dean's arms. "On the house," she says to them, smiling quietly. "Drive safe."

"Um." Dean is staring at her like she's grown a second head. "Thanks?"

"Night," she says, heading back to the counter.

"You heading out soon?" Dean calls after her. "It's probably only gonna get worse."

"Yeah."

"You drive safe, too," Sam says. She can feel them both watching her carefully; she doesn't know why, but they seem almost concerned for her.

"Thanks."

She waits until the door closes before turning back around, letting out a slow breath. What a night.

It's 7:20, but she doesn't care, she's closing. She wipes down the counter, sweeps, and washes out the coffee pot before turning out all the lights and locking up. Darcy doesn't bother to be especially thorough about it, so it takes her all of five minutes; she's tired and she'd like to get home and get Dad's tirade over with. She fumbles with her keys, racing out to her beat up Subaru, head ducked against the wind.

Darcy jerks open the back door of the car, grabs the ice scraper, and hurries to the front of the car. Damn, she hates driving in the winter.

Much to her surprise, the windshield is completely clean, save for a few flakes, and both side mirrors have been cleared off.

"Wha—?" Squinting in the dim light provided by the interior of her car (the door is still open), she spies an envelope tucked behind one of the wipers. Grabbing it, she practically throws herself in to the car, chucks the ice scraper into the back, and starts the ignition, turning on the heat full blast. Now warm and comfortable, her Paramore CD playing in the background, she examines the envelope, which has her name scribbled on the front. She opens it, and a fifty dollar bill falls out. Rolling her eyes, she pulls out the note that comes with it, which is scribbled on the back of a receipt for Java Junkie. Latte. Double-venti regular.

She rolls her eyes again.

Forgot your tip, it says on the back. Thanks for the cake. –Sam and Dean

Smiling to herself, Darcy shoves both the fifty and the note into her wallet. Whoever those guys were, she thinks to herself, I sure hope they know what the hell they're doing. Then she drives home, listens to her dad yell, remembers how boring her real life is, and takes the note out of her wallet, sticking it up on her mirror instead, to remind herself that sometimes things can get interesting in this nowhere little town she keeps swearing up and down she'll get out of next year.

It's not much, really. But it's enough.

--

Miles away, Impala parked safely on the shoulder of a deserted road, Sam Winchester lights the solitary candle on Dean's unexpected birthday cake and carefully passes it over, not even bothering to sing.

"Make a wish," he suggests, folding his arms and pretending to stare out the window at the snow. Dean closes his eyes for a split second, leans down, blows the candle out.

The Winchesters sit together in silence for a few moments, the smell of birthday candle filling the car, everything they can't say to each other floating between them, thick as the smoke. This is my last birthday. I'll miss you. It's been a helluva ride.

"Happy birthday, man," Sam says finally. Dean smiles slowly.

"Yeah," he replies. "Thanks."

It's not much. But the cake is good and a stranger had been surprisingly kind and they haven't seen real snow like this in a long time.

Just for now, it's enough.