Note: So the end of this story is pretty far off, but when it does end, this is basically what happens afterwards. In case any of you were wondering. :] I have loads of supernatural fanfiction that I don't upload over here, I keep it all on my Livejournal account. Because the uploading process here is a real chore, and if I uploaded every single thing I wrote for the spn fandom over here too, I'd always be uploading stuff. And my fanfiction list would be a mile long. So, sorry about that. xD But just wanted you guys to know that there is in fact stuff for this story being written, it's just not necessarily the next chapter.

The house feels like a grandmother's house. The wallpaper is muted and floral, and there's carpet floors in the bathrooms (weird colors too, like peach, or pale orange, or mint green), and all the light switches are on the corridor wall, outside the rooms they belong too. Sam had run his hands over all the walls of his staked out bedroom like a blind person trying to find it, and had thrown a silent tantrum, mouthing curses and senseless exclamations like, 'it has to be here, there's a light on the ceiling, there's gotta be a god damn light switch motherfucker'. Then the light turned on overhead, nearly blinding him for real, and Dean poked his head in through the doorway, muttering, 'I didn't drop you that many times as a baby, shit'.

There's no washer or dryer, just a large rusted sink outside, and a metal tub big enough for Sam to sit in with his knees hugged to his chest, and a washboard. The clothes lines are four in number, and long, taking up a quarter of the awkward sized backyard. There's a fence around the property but Sam doesn't know why. There's no neighbors for miles. All this acreage and nothing to do with it. Dean drove himself reckless through all the wild fields, crumpling beautiful flowers and shrubs and nearly ruining the impala's undercarriage, for hours.

Adam threw himself into dusting off the furniture and seeing if any of it could still be used. Then, as if carpentry was second nature he set about sanding and shaping the old wooden pieces, and sewing up gaping holes in the sofa cushions. Lenny laid about, 'getting lazy in his old age, stupid dog' Dean had said. Lenny was only two years old. Barely a teenager.

After a handful of weeks filled with silence, song birds chirping and cicadas thrumming, the three of them were sitting around the dining room table playing bullshit. Retirement didn't look good on them, and Dean was already itchin' to hunt. Sam admitted he missed the open road, but something about the house was keeping him put, and the wanderlust was like a weed he was too lazy to pull. Adam didn't appear to have any feelings towards the subject one way or another, but then again that's how he was about most everything. Lenny didn't get a say, he wedged himself between their six legs, snoring louder 'n sin, sending the table quaking under their callused elbows.

“This is pathetic,” Dean commented absently, “two fours.”

He laid down two cards on the ever mounting stack and Adam sighed, “Bullshit.”

“I am not picking up those cards.” Resolute, lazy, tired? The three of them stared at the card pile. Who was awake enough to pick at him for it?

“Dean just pick up the fucking cards,” Sam troubled him.

“Nngh,” was all the fight left in him as he dragged the heaping stack towards himself, idly straightening them out and adding them to his hand, which was now most of the deck.

“Four fives,” Adam quipped, laying down four cards, “what's pathetic?”

“Us, and you pick those up, that's not-”

Adam flipped the cards, revealing them all as fives before snapping them into neat order on the table and holding them out to Dean, “We put two decks together, Dean, there's eight of each.”

“Oh, that's just shit.”

Sam rolled his eyes, and then cringed when he felt the pinpricks in his leg telling him it was finally waking up, “So whaddyou wanna do, Dean?”

“Really? I wanna kill something.”

“Three sixes,” Sam set his cards down and offered, “there's plenty of buck if you head out the back of the house a mile or two.”

“You know what I mean, bitch, five sevens,” Dean all but slammed his cards down on the table.

“One of those is a two, Dean,” Adam pointed out numbly and Dean grumbled and pulled the two out, leaving the truthfully five sevens in the pile.

“One eight,” Adam mumbled, “well go find a case, Sam and I aren't gonna up and abandon the place while you're out.”

“Two nines.”

“Eight tens,” Dean mumbled as he was sifting through his hand, plucking out each ten he came across and then nudging them vaguely in the direction of the pile, “like I'm gonna go out hunting by myself and leave you two here to get fat and lazy.”

“Three elevens.”

“There's no elevens, idjit-”

“Fuck, I mean jacks, leamme 'lone.”

“Isn't retirement supposed to be about getting fat and lazy?”

“Don't say retirement, Sammy, makes me feel old.”

“Two queens,” Sam chuckled, “and you're thirty three, you are old.”

“Eight kings, fuck you, I'm not old.”

“Dean those were my last cards, you don't have to play, I won.”

“Bitch!”

Dean petulantly threw his cards to the ground. None of them were up for a hundred and four pickup. Lenny wheezed at them and rearranged himself, forcing all their legs awake and a cacophony of grumbling and swearing and hisses to fill the kitchen.

“This place feels like it should have an old lady living in it with lots of family and kids running around,” Adam noted.

Dean's face was twisted in discomfort at the slow trickle of feeling creeping into his legs, and his words came out bitter sharp, “So why we still stayin' here? Not like it's gonna have that with us around.”

“I dunno, maybe.”

“No way, cuddles, not 'less we pull a Brangelina and start collecting kids like knick knacks.”

Sam glared at him, “Dean, people don't collect kids like their objects.”

“Brangelina does.”

“And quit saying that.”

Dean said it again, just to be a jerk, and Adam closed in on himself saying, “What about kids like us.”

His brothers quieted and looked at him blankly.

“There've gotta be little orphan annies who lost their mommy and daddy to a demon or a vampire nest or whatever it was that went bump in the night, we could collect them.”

“Dean, you're a bad influence on the kid,” Sam accused raggedly, and Adam wanted to grumble that he was twenty three now and not a kid, but his face was determinedly absent of feeling. Attempting to express emotion at this point was too much effort.

“Good idea you've got there, Professor Xavier.”

Sam slouched in his seat and crossed his arms, “Kids aren't knick-knacks, Dean, what would we do with them?”

“Raise them, send 'em to school, you know, normal kid stuff,” Dean retorted, “and I raised you just fine, didn't I?”

The argument grew swiftly around him, and it took Adam a while to have the knee-jerk reaction he should have had originally. Delayed reflexes and all. What had he created?