The Cabin In The Woods (Sam/Dean) Part 3/3

[runedgirl]

Title: The Cabin In The Woods
Author: runedgirl
Artist:  sarasaurussex
Rating:  R
Warnings/Spoilers: Outsider pov

Summary: Essa has been coming to the cabin since she was a little girl; she’s made it her home for many years now, far away from prying eyes and camping vacationers. The men she knows as Sam and Dean have been coming to the cabin down the road that used to be Rufus Turner’s for almost that long, since they were shaggy-haired, lanky young men. Little by little, Essa understands.



They usually come to the cabin in the summer, but there are a few exceptions. One time they come up at the holidays, the day before Christmas. Essa did her visiting early that year, so she didn’t have to deal with the hassle of trying to get down the mountain through the snow and then back again. Her son came by to help put up the tree and chop some wood and then made the trek back to his own place in the city, so she can settle in every night and sip tea by the fireplace and admire the little blinking lights in blue and green that make the whole cabin sparkle.

The upstairs porch and its rocker are too covered with snow for her to use her lookout, but Essa hears the rumble of the Impala from her quiet living room and opens the front door to step out and watch the car’s headlights cut a swath through the dark woods as they head toward the Turner cabin. She’s pleasantly surprised that she’ll have some sort-of company for Christmas after all, and she wonders why, after all these years, they’ve decided to come in the winter.

Sam and Dean stop to have an impromptu snowball fight before they go inside. Essa can’t see them from her lower level, but she can hear the muted sounds of boots crunching through snow and then the shouts as someone’s snowball finds its mark, followed by laughter.

“Goddammit, now there’s snow in my fucking ear, Sam, you motherfucker!”

Essa grins at the colorful language; she was pretty good at that herself back in the day.

“Aww, poor baby. Here, let me help,” comes Sam’s cajoling voice, and then there’s the sounds of a struggle, so Essa is fairly certain Sam’s version of help was not in fact helpful.

“Sonofabitch!” Dean yells, and there’s the thump of large bodies slamming up against the car and what is probably more wrestling and more snow where nobody wants it.

It goes on for a while, Essa smiling as she listens, and then it’s abruptly quiet. She thinks they must have gone inside without her hearing the door open or close, and she turns to go back inside herself when suddenly she hears their voices again. Softer now, just barely audible through the trees in the quiet night.

“Sammy,” Dean says, and the way he says it gives Essa chills: so much emotion in that one word, that one name.

Quiet again, and then Sam’s voice. “I think we better get out of these wet clothes before we catch pneumonia.”

Dean huffs a laugh, and then their boots are crunching through the snow, car doors opening and closing and then the front door of the cabin squeaking open.

Essa sits back down with her cup of tea, wondering why she feels a little like she was spying on Sam and Dean when she shouldn’t have been.

They surprise the hell out of her the next morning when they knock at her door. In all the years they’ve been coming up here, it’s always been Essa who has hiked down to their cabin to say hello and welcome them back.

“Sam, Dean! Merry Christmas, do you—do you want to come in? I have some coffee in the pot, and I was making some muffins to bring down to you.”

She’s surprised again when they accept her offer, carefully kicking the snow off their boots before they come through the door. It’s still snowing a little; Dean reaches over to brush a few flakes from Sam’s long hair, and Sam smiles.

“We, uh, it’s just a little thing, but we thought… well, it’s Christmas.”

Sam holds out a little package wrapped in plain brown paper, with a dollar-store bow stuck on top.

Never in a million years did Essa expect a Christmas present from her sometimes neighbors, but life has a way of surprising you.

“That is the sweetest thing. Here, sit down, make yourself comfortable. I’ll get us some coffee. The muffins aren’t quite done, but oh, I think I have some cookies left over from when my son was here the other day. I made way too many, and then he refused to take them all, so now I’m left with more than I can eat…”

They’re both grinning when she comes back with mugs of coffee and a plate full of cookies.

She unwraps the box while they dig in. It’s a little book of recipes, some of them typed out and some copies of handwritten directions. One of them is for something called “Winchester Surprise.”

“It was our mom’s,” Dean says, ducking his head when Essa looks up to thank them. “She—we kept our own copies just in case one of us ever decides to learn how to cook, but you’re a great cook already, so we thought…”

“She wasn’t even a very good cook,” Sam adds, and they both smile like it’s a shared family secret.

Essa notes the verb tense. “When did you lose her?” she asks, and the brothers exchange a look.

“When we were kids,” Dean says finally, and shrugs. “Mostly.”

They are nothing if not an enigma; Essa is sort of used to that at this point. She doesn’t ask a lot of questions.

“If I make Winchester Surprise tonight, will you boys come for dinner? Believe it or not, I think I have the ingredients.”

The grins she gets in return make Essa’s heart ache with too much emotion. How long has it been since Sam and Dean had their mother’s cooking? However long it is, there’s something extra painful there for them, and maybe she can heal that just a little.

They come over at seven and bring eggnog that is spiked way too much (thanks to Sam, Dean complains, but he drinks four glasses of it anyway). Sam and Dean eat three helpings each of Winchester Surprise, insisting that it tastes perfect even though Essa has to admit it’s an odd concoction to be a family favorite. She baked two kinds of pie for dessert because she knows how much Dean loves anything that’s a pie, and it’s entirely worth it for how big his green eyes get when she walks in with both of them.

By nine p.m. they’re all tipsy, and Essa has missed that feeling way too much. Dean is collapsed on Essa’s overstuffed sofa, his cheeks pink with the rum and the heat of the fire. Sam sits beside him, their hips and thighs pressed together as though the rest of the couch is taken up with invisible people.




Dean finishes his third slice of pie with a groan, and Sam twists to wipe a dollop of whipped cream from the side of his mouth, and Dean licks Sam’s fingertip and they both smile. Their eyes are dark, sparkling and playful, and for the first time Essa can see them clearly, the alcohol loosening the barriers that usually don’t let her.

Oh. It’s like that.

They tell her a story about the time Sam wanted a bike so bad and their dad refused to buy him one, so Dean stole one from a family in the next town that had “way too many” and tried to teach Sam to ride it even though he’d never really learned himself. Sam ended up with bloody knees from falling off, and Dean ended up with bloody hands and bloody knees from trying to catch him before he hit the pavement, and both of them got in trouble when Dad got home.

“But Sammy learned to ride a bike,” Dean finishes, sounding triumphant, like a big brother proud of his little brother, like they’re both those little kids again.

Sam scoffs but doesn’t mean it. He slaps Dean on the thigh, and it should be a rebuke but it turns into something different, Sam’s hand paused there, ghost of a movement up and down so Dean knows what it really means, decades of appreciation and gratitude wrapped up in that small gesture.

“Thanks,” Sam says, almost a whisper. “For not giving up on me, Dean.”

Essa thinks maybe they’ve forgotten she’s even there, their eyes caught on each other, expressions suffused with affection. Love.

“Now get me another slice of pie,” Dean orders a few seconds later, breaking the spell, and they turn away from each other, but their knees stay pressed tight and Sam’s hand stays on Dean’s thigh for a while longer.

They make quite a picture, Essa thinks, and wonders how many women—or men—have thought that same thing. Wonders if any were foolish enough to think there was ever enough room between the two of them to allow anyone else in.

The next day, Essa has a headache that makes her promise herself she’s never drinking spiked eggnog again, but she still goes out on her front porch to listen as the Impala drives away that afternoon. She waves, although she knows they can’t see. For a second, she entertains the notion that maybe they’re not brothers after all. She discards that idea almost immediately. It’s clear they are; it’s there in everything they do. She thinks of Garland again that afternoon, and all those times they did things people didn’t approve of.

The recipe book goes on her shelf, although she allows she probably won’t make Winchester Surprise again unless Sam and Dean are visiting.



That summer, Sam and Dean come to the cabin twice, staying for a few days each time. The first time, it’s Sam who seems like he’s been through a tough time. It’s always clear that Dean is the big brother, but he’s more protective than usual, solicitous as he brings Sam a beer or a cup of coffee. When it gets chilly in the evenings, he brings an old flannel blanket out to the porch and drapes it over Sam as he sits in the rocker.

“I’m okay, you know,” Sam says a few minutes later. It’s been so quiet, his voice startles both Dean and Essa from where she’s watching on her attic porch.

“Yeah, well, you weren’t. Not for a long time, Sam. You were ready to just sacrifice yourself, for godsakes—again! I mean, what would I have…”

Sam gets up and stands behind Dean then, crouching low and wrapping his arms around his brother from behind. The back of the rocker is between them, but Dean tilts his head back anyway, leaning into the impromptu hug.

“Can’t lose you,” Dean says, and it comes out gruff but clear as a bell.

“Never,” Sam answers.

Dean’s fingers cover Sam’s where they wrap around his chest. He lifts one of Sam’s hands to his mouth and plants a kiss there. It’s gentle, intimate.

Behind him, Sam smiles.

When they return near the end of the summer, Sam seems healed and healthy. They’re not kids anymore, but they run down the path like they are, coming back shirtless, wet from the lake, laughing and shoving at each other.

Dean cuts off toward the back of the cabin when they get there, and Essa hears him tell Sam he’s going to cut some wood in case it gets chilly at night. September is like that, can go either way.

Essa watches Dean at the woodpile as he swings the ax, quickly and efficiently splitting the logs. She has to take more than a few sips of cold tea as she takes in the play of muscle in his broad shoulders and strong arms as he works, the sheen of sweat gathered at the small of his back.

Essa is so enthralled with watching Dean that she doesn’t notice Sam coming.

Neither does Dean. “Jesuschrist,” he swears when Sam comes up from behind and wraps his arms tightly around him, hands on the base of the ax to keep it steady. “Scared the shit outta me, Sam! You’re lucky I didn’t cut you in two!”

Dean’s pissed, but Sam just leans in further, his head hooked over his brother’s sweaty shoulder, huffing a dismissive laugh. “As if,” he says, and then Essa sees it clear as day as Sam presses his mouth to the meat of Dean’s shoulder and bites down.

“Fuck,” Dean swears, and it is clearly not a protest.




Sam works his way to the back of Dean’s neck and bites, his hands letting go of the ax and sliding instead down Dean’s sides, over his hips where his jeans have slid down low.

Dean drops the ax; Essa can hear the clatter as it hits a piece of wood and some dry leaves on the forest floor.

Sam spins Dean around suddenly and walks him backward until his butt hits the giant oak tree a few yards from the woodpile. Manhandles him, Essa’s brain supplies, and she takes a gulp of tea.

“Sammy,” she hears Dean say—or rather can read his lips as his mouth falls open and his hands come around Sam, one sliding up his brother’s spine and the other slipping beneath the waistband of Sam’s jeans, tugging them down so far that Essa can see half his ass, and damn, she should not be watching this.

Sam crowds in tighter, presses Dean to the thick trunk of the tree with his hips and pins him there, smothers Dean’s groan with his mouth as he kisses his brother.

Essa is frozen for longer than she should be, watching Dean’s hands clutch at Sam’s ass and Sam grind his crotch into Dean’s, rough with his hips and rough with his mouth but Dean is clearly eating it up; she can hear his wanton moans from her own porch.

Sam’s hands scrabble between them, clearly fumbling with snaps and zippers, and that’s when Essa makes herself stand up and move away, backing through the little sliding doors and closing them behind her. She hears Sam’s feral growl just before she shuts them, and Dean’s answering whimper.




Essa would like to say she feels bad about watching as long as she did, but a little voyeurism never hurt anyone. Garland taught her that too.




Essa’s son finally convinces her to move in with him and his family one October when the snow has come early and the electricity goes out for the fourth time in two weeks and she can see that he’s so worried about her it’s making his hair gray. Her grandsons are in college now, but they come home to greet her and help her unpack.

“Will you cook for us tonight, Gramma?”

She’s gratified that they want her to. If she has to leave her beloved cabin, at least there are some trade-offs. Having someone to cook for is one of them.

“How about this one—Winchester Surprise?”

Jeremy is holding the little notebook of recipes that Sam and Dean gave her years ago, one snowy Christmas. Essa smiles, remembering too much eggnog and the way the brothers smiled at each other as they shared some of their past with her. She felt like it was a rare thing, a privilege.

“I only know two people who actually like that recipe.” Essa laughs. “But if you want me to, sure, I’ll make it.”



“Can’t be any worse than what me and my roommates cook,” Jeremy laughs, and Essa allows that might be true.

Her son fusses over her, says she’s supposed to be taking it easy at her age, not slaving over a hot stove, but Essa enjoys it.

Jeremy and Ben make faces when they taste it but then shrug and eat it all. Essa watches them banter and torment each other and then settle in to play a friendly competitive video game, and she wonders how Sam and Dean are. It’s been quite a few years since she’s seen them, and now it’s not likely she’ll run into them again. She hopes, wherever they are, that they’re happy.

When spring comes, Essa convinces her son to relocate them all to the cabin for a while, and she settles in while the rest of them commute to work and school during the week. They sweep the porch and air the place out. Essa has to rest between stairs, but she insists on staying in her old bedroom on the second floor, throwing open the windows to the little porch. Jeremy pulls the rocker out there for her, pausing to check both its and the porch’s structural integrity before he helps her out and grabs her a glass of iced tea.

Essa loves her family, but being back at the cabin feels like home. She spends long stretches of time on the tiny second-floor porch, rocking and sipping iced tea and reading some of the books she left behind and hasn’t dug into in too long. The sounds of the woods are just the same, the scents familiar, the birds and the squirrels and the deer that she glimpses through the trees welcome reassurances that time and age haven’t changed everything.




Near the end of their two-week stay, she hears it. Can it be? It’s the last thing she expects, but as the rumble grows closer, she’s sure of it. It’s the Impala, miraculously still running. Her eyes aren’t as sharp as they used to be, but they still work and the trees aren’t thick with leaves yet, so she can see them clearly as they get out of the car. She’d know them anywhere, their builds and the way they move, and the way they always pause as they get out of the car and look up at the cabin like it holds some meaning for them that’s special. Unspoken.

Dean’s hair is grayer than the last time she saw him, but still fairly thick, and Sam’s is still long although also streaked with gray. Dean is limping a little, she notices, and Sam reaches for him, arm around his shoulders as they make their way up the stairs. Dean makes a half-hearted attempt to shrug his brother off, like Essa has seen him do many times before, but Sam holds on and prevails.

Essa listens for a while, but their door is closed and their cabin is silent. She smiles just knowing they’re okay, though. Together.

They come by the next day; she hears Jeremy answer the door and their familiar voices. She remembers when they were boys, Sam no older than Jeremy is now.

“Hang on, I’m comin’ down,” she calls, and Sam and Dean wait patiently while she makes her way slowly and carefully down the twisting stairs.

“She insists on staying in her old room,” Jeremy says, and Sam and Dean nod like that makes all the sense in the world.

They each hug her, and they smell the same. They’re still broad and firm, maybe slightly less so than decades ago, but still strong and sturdy.

“We just wanted to say hi,” Dean says. His eyes are still as green as ever, and his gray hair seems to make his freckles stand out even more.

“It’s so good to see you boys. And I’m glad you got to meet my family. I made them Winchester Surprise once, so they need to know who to blame.”

Everyone laughs at that. Essa invites them to stay for dinner, but they politely decline, though they say yes to a plate full of homemade cookies and some biscuits to go.

“You boys stay safe,” she says as they leave. They’ve never talked about what they do for a living, but Essa knows it’s something dangerous. Just like it was for Rufus and Bobby.

“We will,” Sam assures her. “We’re kinda retired now. Probably spend more time up here. Let the next generation do the heavy lifting.”

Dean rolls his eyes, so it’s clear this was more Sam’s decision than his. He rubs at his leg, the one she saw him limping on. For the first time, Essa notices an angry scar on the side of Dean’s face, running all the way down his neck. Whatever made that mark, it must have nearly killed him.

Sam follows her line of sight and nods. “At least for a while, we’re gonna stay up here. Take some time.”

“You should. You deserve it,” Essa agrees, and Sam looks grateful for her backup.

Dean grumbles, and Essa impulsively reaches out and takes him by the shoulders. He looks surprised; she’s still got some strength there.

“All that matters,” she says, looking between the two of them, “is that you’re together. Doesn’t matter where you are, doesn’t matter what you’re doing. All that’s ever mattered is that you’re together.”

To her surprise, she starts to tear up as she says it. To her even greater surprise, Dean does too.

He nods awkwardly and extracts himself from her, gesturing toward the door. “We’ll let you get back to your family,” he says, pulling Sam with him.

“Thanks, Essa,” Sam says, giving her a smile. “And you’re right.”

It feels like goodbye.

She sees them once more before she has to pack up to go back to the city. Her son promises they’ll come back in the summer, invite her daughter and those grandkids too, have some quality family time. She doesn’t know that won’t happen—that this will be her last time at the cabin. She sits out on the little upstairs porch early in the morning on their last day, before the rest of the family is up, watching the sun come up through the trees and paint them different colors before shining brightly through the branches. Listens to the birds announce the end of the darkness and wake each other with their songs. This is her favorite place in the world, and on that morning, Sam and Dean are part of it.

The door creaks open and Sam comes out first, his hair all over the place, tee shirt wrinkled, barefoot in sweat pants. He sits in one of the rockers that they always put out on their porch and looks up at the blue sky, content. Dean appears a minute later, hair in a similar state, barefoot and carrying two cups of coffee. She can see the steam rising from them as he hands one to Sam and settles into the second rocker holding the other. Dean has a pair of glasses on that he seems to have forgotten he’s wearing. He looks up too, then goes to take them off, a displeased expression on his face.

Sam reaches over and pushes the glasses back up his brother’s nose. “Don’t,” he says, smiling.

“Sammy,” Dean complains, and Essa thinks it’s funny that Sam has gray hair but Dean still calls him Sammy.

“They look sexy on you,” Sam insists, and Essa nods to herself. So things are still like that. She sips her tea and smiles.

Sam’s comment apparently works on Dean, who Essa is sure is rolling his eyes, but he leaves the glasses on. They sit quietly, side by side, rocking and sipping their coffees, watching the sun rise higher in the blue sky.

Essa watches them until her son comes to collect her, says it’s time to go. She thinks that soon it will be, and not just from the cabin.

She peers through the trees one last time, at the two familiar men, the two rockers slowly creaking back and forth in perfect rhythm.

It’s a good last memory of the mountain.




Fin