𝐃𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐕𝐀𝐍

𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘-𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄

Last fourth of July sucked.

Well...Dean couldn't really say that. It would hurt Sam's feelings. But really, it did suck. Like...worse than the Yankees losing to the Mets. They had all the Roman candles, all the...Dean didn't even know what they bought, really, but sucked on account of a few things:

1. Finding an unoccupied field to blow shit up is actually really hard.

2. Even if you find an unoccupied field, it isn't always unoccupied. Check for barns, or they will catch fire, and then you'll have to bail after lighting the first firework because the field was not, in fact, unoccupied, and the farmer is pissed and the livestock are everywhere.

3. No Katherine Louise.

But here she is, walking through Sophia's front door this fourth of July, looking particularly happy. She's smiling, which makes Dean smile, even though he knows it isn't because of him.

It's because of Charlie, who walked into the house right after her, smiling down at her as she beamed up at him, continuing some conversation they'd been engaged in before.

"Why didn't you guys tell me you were going for a run?" Sam demands from the kitchen.

"Have you ever heard of 'alone time,' Sam?" Sophia quips. "You can go for a run with them tomorrow."

Sam has that pouty look. "Well...well tomorrow's going to be a recovery run for them, because they were gone for, like, ever."

"You should've been awake," Katherine chirps. "Nobody runs between the hours of nine AM and six PM in this state. It's called heat stroke."

Sam makes a face at her. "How far did you go anyway?"

"Ten miles," Charlie replies.

"That's, like, half a marathon," Dean squawks. Then he takes on a speculative expression, eyes tracking Charlie all through the kitchen. "Does your family do holiday marathons, Charlie?"

"No," he scoffs, grabbing two glasses from the cupboard. Katherine makes herself at home face-down on the floor.

"Holidays exist for casseroles," she says.

"Delia makes the best cheesy potato casserole," Sophia wistfully sighs.

The front door opens and slams shut. "Nobody panic!" Chris shouts. "I got..." He holds up two fists of twelve packs. "The beer."

Dean points at him. "Now we're talkin'."

"Kit, could you maybe get up from the floor?" Charlie requests.

"I'm stretching," she replies.

"You're just laying there. You're a roadblock."

"If you can't see all almost-six Five Dollar Foot Longs of me then there's a problem."

"Good run?" Chris asks with a grin, stepping over Katherine's calves.

"That's a description," she mumbles into the floor. Charlie hauls her up by the elbows and she sighs. "My legs feel like Jell-o."

"Well un-Jell-o them," Sophia says. "We have too many Jell-o shots for you not to take them."

"So where exactly are we shooting off the arsenal in your backyard?" Sam asks, gaze fixed on the pyramid of explosives.

"There's a pasture right outside town that everyone goes to," Chris replies. "We donate whatever fireworks we want and the fire department blows them up in a controlled environment. It's a win-win."

Sam's head snaps to the side, and with a pale face and bugged eyes, he asks, "A pasture?"

Dean grins. "A pasture."