slow burn, watching the world turn (Dean and Sam) Gen, R
Title: slow burn, watching the world turn
Author: Brinny
Characters: Dean and Sam. (Brief appearances by Bobby, Ellen, Jo and a couple of OCs.)
Rating: R
Wordcount: 2,439
Warnings/Spoilers: Spoilers for "All Hell Breaks Loose" Pt. 1 & 2.
Disclaimer/Notes: All belongs to Kripke. Title taken from the Powderfinger song, "Sunsets", which also partly inspired the fic.
Dean counts things differently now. Things aren’t measured in days and nights and minutes and hours. He thinks about what he’s done and what he has left and what he’ll miss. In other words, his impending death has pretty much turned him into a fucking pussy.
43 sunsets.
Dean sits on the hood of the car, hands on his knees. Sam’s standing beside him with his fingers jammed into the pockets of his jacket and digging the toe of his sneaker into the dirt.
“It’s just so fucking pink,” Dean mutters.
Sam looks up, head tilted to the side. He shrugs and bends down to brush some of the mud off his shoe, and then lifts his eyes back up to Dean. “Yeah, most are.”
“Never really stopped and looked, you know?”
“Man, cut this shit out,” Sam says. He leans against the car door, elbows and knees bent at awkward angles. “It’s not like you’re dying or something.”
Dean catches the smirk on Sam’s face and laughs. They have to joke about it, it’s too real otherwise.
“Make a fucking sexy corpse, though,” Dean grins. He slides off the hood and punches Sam in the shoulder. “C’mon, got work to do.”
3,854 new miles put on the Impala.
Sam holds the map out in front of him, twisting it up, down and sideways. For a kid that played navigator his whole life, he’s never really gotten the hang of it.
“West, Sammy, we’re going west.” Dean leans over and pushes a beat up tape into the deck. He frowns, expecting Zeppelin and not Motörhead.
“I know where we’re going,” Sam says, mouth pinched. “This freakin’ map is wrong.”
Dean nods and fiddles with the radio knobs, adjusting the volume. “Yeah, that’s it. The map is wrong.”
Sam huffs, trying to refold the map. He gets the first couple of creases right, can’t figure out how to make it fit the rest of the way, and then just rolls down the window and sends the piece of paper skidding down the highway.
“Dude.” Dean turns to see the map flying somewhere behind them way off in the distance.
“What do you say we skip California?” Sam asks.
Dean gives a slight smile. The Sunshine State hasn’t exactly been their friend before. And maybe they could just let old lady Withers or whoever, haunt that old amusement park, just this once.
“Yeah, sure.”
“Oh, and by the way, real mature,” Sam snorts.
Dean’s lifts his eyebrows and he turns to look at Sam, teeth catching on his lip. “Hmm?”
“Putting ‘suck my’ in front of Fort Dick.” Sam shakes his head, but he’s starting to laugh a bit. “What are you, twelve?”
“That,” Dean says, finger stabbing the air. “Is sophisticated humor is what that is, Sam.”
13 blowjobs.
She’s kinda pretty. In that too much make-up and huge, fake tits, sort of way. She’s leaning over the bar, on her sixth shot of tequila and he’s ordering another couple of beers for him and Sam.
“Hey,” he grins. “What’s your name?”
She narrows her eyes, mascara and glitter clumped around her lashes. “Why?”
“So I can put you at the top of my To-Do List.” He grins wider, lips turning up suggestively.
“Laura,” she says, giggling. “You’re funny.”
Dean shrugs and hands the bartender a wrinkled ten, grabbing both beers. “Nice meeting you, Laura.”
Half an hour later, after she’s had four more shots and he’s downed another beer, she meets him in the bathroom. She pushes him against the dirty wall, unzips his jeans and wastes no time wrapping her lips around his cock. She sucks him off sloppily, smearing lipstick everywhere and fingernails cutting into his hips.
“Well,” he breathes, hand holding her head steady and trying not to tug too hard on her hair. “Can cross that one off, I guess.”
191 times he’s called Sam, Sammy.
Dean walks into the motel room, finding Sam still hunched over his laptop, oblivious to the outside world. He throws the paper bag onto the bed and it smacks Sam in the knee, but he doesn’t look up.
“Hey, loser,” Dean tries. “Food’s here.”
He pulls his burger out the bag and waves it under Sam’s nose. “Mmm, grease soaked cow carcass. C’mon, you know you want it.”
Sam barely flinches.
“Sammy!” Dean barks.
He looks up, hands braced on the top of the laptop. “Oh, hey, Dean. Get the food?”
Dean takes a pointed bite of the burger. “No, I forgot.” He smiles through chewed up bits of bun and beef and onions.
Sam grunts and reaches for the bag, pulling out his French fries first. “You’re such an asshole, Dean.”
“Right back ‘atcha Sammy boy.”
26 salt and burns.
The kid died when he was seven. Hit and run. Little Tommy McPherson has been walking the same stretch of highway and getting into strangers’ cars looking for his lost dog for about six years now. Over and over, stuck on a loop.
Sam drains the bottle of lighter fluid and Dean lights a book of matches. They stand side by side, faces illuminated through the shadows by the moonlight and flames, staring down at the bones that just seem too small.
“See you soon Tommy,” Dean says, tossing the matches to the grave below.
Sam watches the fire, jaw clenched tightly. “That’s not funny.”
“Oh, c’mon,” Dean grins. “It was a little funny.”
“I’m sick of it being a joke.” Sam shakes his head, his grip on the shovel growing harder. “We’re not getting closer to finding anything and, it’s just not funny. Okay, Dean? It was, but it’s not now. So, stop it.”
Dean nods. “Yeah, okay.”
3 apologies.
“This is stupid,” Dean groans.
Sam looks at him from the other seat, head tipped to side and just waiting to explain again why it’s actually not stupid at all. Dean gives another groan, kills the engine and gets out of car, Sam following a few steps behind.
“It’s good to make amends,” Sam says, hand on Dean’s back.
“Dude,” he mutters. “Inner peace and touchy-feely shit? So not my deal, man.”
“You’ll feel better, trust me. I did.”
They walk into the bar, Dean trying hard not to sneer, when he sees her face. She looks back at him and her eyebrows go up in surprise, disappearing behind a new fringe of bangs.
“Hi,” she says. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, antsy with anticipation.
“Hey,” Dean smiles. “Can I get a beer?”
She flings the dishtowel over her shoulder and returns the smile. “Yeah, sure.”
Pressing the cool bottle, already slick with condensation, into his hand, Dean nods his thanks and stands there awkwardly, waiting for somebody to say something. She just keeps on smiling, hands tucked into the back pockets of her jeans and her and Sam start looking at each other funny.
“Look, Jo,” Dean starts, palming the beer and picking at the label. “Just came by to say I’m sorry.”
“Wow,” she purses her lips. “Never would have thought it. Monkeys flying outta my ass, maybe, but Dean Winchester apologizing? Well, fuck me.”
Dean nods again, smirking. “Hey, that could be my dying wish.”
“Not gonna happen,” Jo tells him. She jerks her head towards the end of the bar. “Best I can do is some stale nuts.”
“If you wait until after I croak to hop on top, it’ll be like the same thing.” He waits for them to laugh and then rolls his eyes when they don’t. “You know, ‘cause my balls would be all and, you know what? Never mind, not funny if you have to explain it.”
Jo’s eyes flick back to Sam and they both laugh.
21 kisses.
Dean’s a good kisser. He once got a chick to write it down on a cocktail napkin and sign it, just because he thought it’d be good to have proof, should the occasion arise.
This is kind of different though.
He and Sam saved this family from this nasty poltergeist down in Arizona and damn if that eight-year-old girl, Daisy, wasn’t so grateful that she pressed her sticky lips to his cheek before they left.
“Thanks,” she says, half in a whisper. “You’re my hero. So much cooler than Superman.”
Dean nods, grin tugging at his mouth. “Man of Steel ain’t got nothing on me.”
They wave as they climb into the car, everyone with happy, relieved smiles. Sam slams the door shut and starts up the engine and as soon as they pull back onto the highway, Dean turns to him and smirks wide.
“Hear that? I’m cooler than Supes.”
Sam laughs. “Yeah, I heard.”
“If I’m cooler than Superman, then how lame are you?” Dean asks. “You must be, like, Robin level of lame.”
“Yeah, Dean,” he deadpans. “I’m, like, Robin level of lame.”
97 beers.
Dean throws his legs up on the chair beside him, boots and denim squeaking a bit over the cracked vinyl. Sam’s across the table, reading a book and furiously making notes in the margins and any scrap of paper he can find.
“How’s it going?” Dean asks. He’s talking over the rim of his beer bottle and his voice echoes a bit.
“Better if you’d shut up,” Sam mumbles.
“Hey, Bobby,” Dean calls out. “What time is it?”
Bobby comes into the room with another pile of dusty books and worn and creased leather journals. He dumps them on the table next to Sam, who gives a quick smile and nod in appreciation.
“Bobby?” Dean says again, lips popping of the mouth of the bottle. “Time?”
Bobby takes off his cap, gives a short scratch of his head, and then fishes around in his pocket for his watch. He pulls out something that’s tied to a shoestring and runs his thumb over the scratched face. “’Bout quarter-to-ten, why?”
Dean grins. “Well, Sammy was getting pissy. Thought it might be past his bedtime.” He takes another sip of his beer. “Looks like I was right.”
“Why am I even trying to save your sorry ass?” Sam mutters, slamming the book closed. “Jesus, Dean. For once, just take it seriously.”
Dean puts the bottle back on the table and leans forward on his elbows. “Hey, I am. I really appreciate it, Sam. Don’t deserve it, but I appreciate it.”
Sam shrugs, huffing, and opens the book back up. He flips a few pages and writes something down on a nearby notepad, underlining it twice. “You deserve it. You’re my brother,” he says, quietly.
114 loads of rock salt.
“Dean,” Sam says, a bit on the side of panicked. “Dean, shotgun!”
Dean’s already tossing him the gun before he even finishes spitting out the sentence and Sam catches and pulls the trigger in one jerky motion. A swirly sort of mist and fragments of bullet shells and rock salt hang in the air, ghost of the dead girl with the creepy eyes, gone. At least for now.
“So,” Sam pants. “That was close.”
“Yeah.”
“Sorry you called her a bitch, now?” he asks, lips pushed forward and brow creased.
Dean shakes his head and smiles. “Nah, not really.”
54 Metallica songs, not including repeats.
“Whiplash, fourth line.”
“A feeling of a hammerhead, you need it oh so bad,” Dean says. He grins and thumps his palm on the steering wheel. “Gimme another one.”
“Uh.” Sam rifles though the shoebox, fingers flicking over mixed tapes and candy bar wrappers. “Uh, Enter Sandman, first line.”
“Sam, that’s too easy.”
Sam plucks a cassette tape from the box and reads off the title. “…And Justice for All, eleventh line.”
“I can't believe the things you say,” Dean rattles off.
“How am I supposed to even know if you’re right?” Sam asks.
Dean gives him a look. “Dude, I’m totally right.”
Sam sighs, smiling a bit, and tries to remember some other random Metallica song. “Okay, how about, the last line of Battery?”
“Battery is the last line of Battery, Sam,” Dean says. “Put some fucking effort into it.”
“You’re a freak.”
Dean lifts his eyebrows and expectantly thumps the steering wheel again.
“Wherever I May Roam. Fifteenth.”
“And I'll redefine anywhere.”
1 journal entry.
Dean sits on Bobby’s porch. They seem to end up here a lot more lately. He has an open bottle of Wild Turkey by his feet, a cigarette in one hand, pen in the other, and a brand new journal open in his lap. The leather isn’t cracked and the pages are still bleached an impossible white.
He has exactly two sentences written down: “By this time next week, if we don’t find anything, I’ll be dead. Fucking sucks, right?”
He can’t seem to get past that one line, because that’s pretty much all that needs to be said. Nothing he writes is going to change it.
The door creaks behind him, and then the heavy sound of boots.
“Wondering where you went off to.” Ellen stands beside him and gives a small tap of her foot. She seems to end up here a lot more lately, too.
“Found me,” he says, bringing the bottle of bourbon to his lips.
She nods and brushes off the step before she sits, then wipes her hands down her jeans, leaving streaks of dirt across her thighs. “Startin’ a journal?”
“Yeah, Sam said it’d be good to get shit out on paper.” Dean shrugs and finishes off his cigarette, flinging it off the porch. “Seemed like a good idea, but a few drinks later and now it’s looking kinda pointless, you know?”
“Your daddy used to keep a journal,” she says.
“Yeah, I know.”
Ellen smiles faintly. “Course you do. He used to sit in the back table of the Roadhouse, glass of whiskey and that journal. Stay there until I kicked him out or offered him a room. Stubborn asshole.”
“Yeah,” Dean agrees softly.
“Got the same streak in you,” she tells him. “Not a bad trait to have. Sometimes it’s worth it to fight tooth and nail.”
Dean grins. “Balls to the wall.”
364 days, 363 nights, 21 minutes and 9 hours.
“Well, we tried, right?”
Sam looks up, eyes rimmed red from lack of sleep. “Still got time, Dean.”
“Yeah, of course. Totally got time.”
Sam has his laptop open and every note and torn piece of paper scattered around him on the bed. Dean caught him writing stuff on his arm once, so he wouldn’t forget.
“We’ll do it. We’ll figure it out,” Sam says.
Dean grins, too wide and too fake. “Sure we will.” He pauses. “Bitch.”
“Jerk.”
Author: Brinny
Characters: Dean and Sam. (Brief appearances by Bobby, Ellen, Jo and a couple of OCs.)
Rating: R
Wordcount: 2,439
Warnings/Spoilers: Spoilers for "All Hell Breaks Loose" Pt. 1 & 2.
Disclaimer/Notes: All belongs to Kripke. Title taken from the Powderfinger song, "Sunsets", which also partly inspired the fic.
Dean counts things differently now. Things aren’t measured in days and nights and minutes and hours. He thinks about what he’s done and what he has left and what he’ll miss. In other words, his impending death has pretty much turned him into a fucking pussy.
43 sunsets.
Dean sits on the hood of the car, hands on his knees. Sam’s standing beside him with his fingers jammed into the pockets of his jacket and digging the toe of his sneaker into the dirt.
“It’s just so fucking pink,” Dean mutters.
Sam looks up, head tilted to the side. He shrugs and bends down to brush some of the mud off his shoe, and then lifts his eyes back up to Dean. “Yeah, most are.”
“Never really stopped and looked, you know?”
“Man, cut this shit out,” Sam says. He leans against the car door, elbows and knees bent at awkward angles. “It’s not like you’re dying or something.”
Dean catches the smirk on Sam’s face and laughs. They have to joke about it, it’s too real otherwise.
“Make a fucking sexy corpse, though,” Dean grins. He slides off the hood and punches Sam in the shoulder. “C’mon, got work to do.”
3,854 new miles put on the Impala.
Sam holds the map out in front of him, twisting it up, down and sideways. For a kid that played navigator his whole life, he’s never really gotten the hang of it.
“West, Sammy, we’re going west.” Dean leans over and pushes a beat up tape into the deck. He frowns, expecting Zeppelin and not Motörhead.
“I know where we’re going,” Sam says, mouth pinched. “This freakin’ map is wrong.”
Dean nods and fiddles with the radio knobs, adjusting the volume. “Yeah, that’s it. The map is wrong.”
Sam huffs, trying to refold the map. He gets the first couple of creases right, can’t figure out how to make it fit the rest of the way, and then just rolls down the window and sends the piece of paper skidding down the highway.
“Dude.” Dean turns to see the map flying somewhere behind them way off in the distance.
“What do you say we skip California?” Sam asks.
Dean gives a slight smile. The Sunshine State hasn’t exactly been their friend before. And maybe they could just let old lady Withers or whoever, haunt that old amusement park, just this once.
“Yeah, sure.”
“Oh, and by the way, real mature,” Sam snorts.
Dean’s lifts his eyebrows and he turns to look at Sam, teeth catching on his lip. “Hmm?”
“Putting ‘suck my’ in front of Fort Dick.” Sam shakes his head, but he’s starting to laugh a bit. “What are you, twelve?”
“That,” Dean says, finger stabbing the air. “Is sophisticated humor is what that is, Sam.”
13 blowjobs.
She’s kinda pretty. In that too much make-up and huge, fake tits, sort of way. She’s leaning over the bar, on her sixth shot of tequila and he’s ordering another couple of beers for him and Sam.
“Hey,” he grins. “What’s your name?”
She narrows her eyes, mascara and glitter clumped around her lashes. “Why?”
“So I can put you at the top of my To-Do List.” He grins wider, lips turning up suggestively.
“Laura,” she says, giggling. “You’re funny.”
Dean shrugs and hands the bartender a wrinkled ten, grabbing both beers. “Nice meeting you, Laura.”
Half an hour later, after she’s had four more shots and he’s downed another beer, she meets him in the bathroom. She pushes him against the dirty wall, unzips his jeans and wastes no time wrapping her lips around his cock. She sucks him off sloppily, smearing lipstick everywhere and fingernails cutting into his hips.
“Well,” he breathes, hand holding her head steady and trying not to tug too hard on her hair. “Can cross that one off, I guess.”
191 times he’s called Sam, Sammy.
Dean walks into the motel room, finding Sam still hunched over his laptop, oblivious to the outside world. He throws the paper bag onto the bed and it smacks Sam in the knee, but he doesn’t look up.
“Hey, loser,” Dean tries. “Food’s here.”
He pulls his burger out the bag and waves it under Sam’s nose. “Mmm, grease soaked cow carcass. C’mon, you know you want it.”
Sam barely flinches.
“Sammy!” Dean barks.
He looks up, hands braced on the top of the laptop. “Oh, hey, Dean. Get the food?”
Dean takes a pointed bite of the burger. “No, I forgot.” He smiles through chewed up bits of bun and beef and onions.
Sam grunts and reaches for the bag, pulling out his French fries first. “You’re such an asshole, Dean.”
“Right back ‘atcha Sammy boy.”
26 salt and burns.
The kid died when he was seven. Hit and run. Little Tommy McPherson has been walking the same stretch of highway and getting into strangers’ cars looking for his lost dog for about six years now. Over and over, stuck on a loop.
Sam drains the bottle of lighter fluid and Dean lights a book of matches. They stand side by side, faces illuminated through the shadows by the moonlight and flames, staring down at the bones that just seem too small.
“See you soon Tommy,” Dean says, tossing the matches to the grave below.
Sam watches the fire, jaw clenched tightly. “That’s not funny.”
“Oh, c’mon,” Dean grins. “It was a little funny.”
“I’m sick of it being a joke.” Sam shakes his head, his grip on the shovel growing harder. “We’re not getting closer to finding anything and, it’s just not funny. Okay, Dean? It was, but it’s not now. So, stop it.”
Dean nods. “Yeah, okay.”
3 apologies.
“This is stupid,” Dean groans.
Sam looks at him from the other seat, head tipped to side and just waiting to explain again why it’s actually not stupid at all. Dean gives another groan, kills the engine and gets out of car, Sam following a few steps behind.
“It’s good to make amends,” Sam says, hand on Dean’s back.
“Dude,” he mutters. “Inner peace and touchy-feely shit? So not my deal, man.”
“You’ll feel better, trust me. I did.”
They walk into the bar, Dean trying hard not to sneer, when he sees her face. She looks back at him and her eyebrows go up in surprise, disappearing behind a new fringe of bangs.
“Hi,” she says. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, antsy with anticipation.
“Hey,” Dean smiles. “Can I get a beer?”
She flings the dishtowel over her shoulder and returns the smile. “Yeah, sure.”
Pressing the cool bottle, already slick with condensation, into his hand, Dean nods his thanks and stands there awkwardly, waiting for somebody to say something. She just keeps on smiling, hands tucked into the back pockets of her jeans and her and Sam start looking at each other funny.
“Look, Jo,” Dean starts, palming the beer and picking at the label. “Just came by to say I’m sorry.”
“Wow,” she purses her lips. “Never would have thought it. Monkeys flying outta my ass, maybe, but Dean Winchester apologizing? Well, fuck me.”
Dean nods again, smirking. “Hey, that could be my dying wish.”
“Not gonna happen,” Jo tells him. She jerks her head towards the end of the bar. “Best I can do is some stale nuts.”
“If you wait until after I croak to hop on top, it’ll be like the same thing.” He waits for them to laugh and then rolls his eyes when they don’t. “You know, ‘cause my balls would be all and, you know what? Never mind, not funny if you have to explain it.”
Jo’s eyes flick back to Sam and they both laugh.
21 kisses.
Dean’s a good kisser. He once got a chick to write it down on a cocktail napkin and sign it, just because he thought it’d be good to have proof, should the occasion arise.
This is kind of different though.
He and Sam saved this family from this nasty poltergeist down in Arizona and damn if that eight-year-old girl, Daisy, wasn’t so grateful that she pressed her sticky lips to his cheek before they left.
“Thanks,” she says, half in a whisper. “You’re my hero. So much cooler than Superman.”
Dean nods, grin tugging at his mouth. “Man of Steel ain’t got nothing on me.”
They wave as they climb into the car, everyone with happy, relieved smiles. Sam slams the door shut and starts up the engine and as soon as they pull back onto the highway, Dean turns to him and smirks wide.
“Hear that? I’m cooler than Supes.”
Sam laughs. “Yeah, I heard.”
“If I’m cooler than Superman, then how lame are you?” Dean asks. “You must be, like, Robin level of lame.”
“Yeah, Dean,” he deadpans. “I’m, like, Robin level of lame.”
97 beers.
Dean throws his legs up on the chair beside him, boots and denim squeaking a bit over the cracked vinyl. Sam’s across the table, reading a book and furiously making notes in the margins and any scrap of paper he can find.
“How’s it going?” Dean asks. He’s talking over the rim of his beer bottle and his voice echoes a bit.
“Better if you’d shut up,” Sam mumbles.
“Hey, Bobby,” Dean calls out. “What time is it?”
Bobby comes into the room with another pile of dusty books and worn and creased leather journals. He dumps them on the table next to Sam, who gives a quick smile and nod in appreciation.
“Bobby?” Dean says again, lips popping of the mouth of the bottle. “Time?”
Bobby takes off his cap, gives a short scratch of his head, and then fishes around in his pocket for his watch. He pulls out something that’s tied to a shoestring and runs his thumb over the scratched face. “’Bout quarter-to-ten, why?”
Dean grins. “Well, Sammy was getting pissy. Thought it might be past his bedtime.” He takes another sip of his beer. “Looks like I was right.”
“Why am I even trying to save your sorry ass?” Sam mutters, slamming the book closed. “Jesus, Dean. For once, just take it seriously.”
Dean puts the bottle back on the table and leans forward on his elbows. “Hey, I am. I really appreciate it, Sam. Don’t deserve it, but I appreciate it.”
Sam shrugs, huffing, and opens the book back up. He flips a few pages and writes something down on a nearby notepad, underlining it twice. “You deserve it. You’re my brother,” he says, quietly.
114 loads of rock salt.
“Dean,” Sam says, a bit on the side of panicked. “Dean, shotgun!”
Dean’s already tossing him the gun before he even finishes spitting out the sentence and Sam catches and pulls the trigger in one jerky motion. A swirly sort of mist and fragments of bullet shells and rock salt hang in the air, ghost of the dead girl with the creepy eyes, gone. At least for now.
“So,” Sam pants. “That was close.”
“Yeah.”
“Sorry you called her a bitch, now?” he asks, lips pushed forward and brow creased.
Dean shakes his head and smiles. “Nah, not really.”
54 Metallica songs, not including repeats.
“Whiplash, fourth line.”
“A feeling of a hammerhead, you need it oh so bad,” Dean says. He grins and thumps his palm on the steering wheel. “Gimme another one.”
“Uh.” Sam rifles though the shoebox, fingers flicking over mixed tapes and candy bar wrappers. “Uh, Enter Sandman, first line.”
“Sam, that’s too easy.”
Sam plucks a cassette tape from the box and reads off the title. “…And Justice for All, eleventh line.”
“I can't believe the things you say,” Dean rattles off.
“How am I supposed to even know if you’re right?” Sam asks.
Dean gives him a look. “Dude, I’m totally right.”
Sam sighs, smiling a bit, and tries to remember some other random Metallica song. “Okay, how about, the last line of Battery?”
“Battery is the last line of Battery, Sam,” Dean says. “Put some fucking effort into it.”
“You’re a freak.”
Dean lifts his eyebrows and expectantly thumps the steering wheel again.
“Wherever I May Roam. Fifteenth.”
“And I'll redefine anywhere.”
1 journal entry.
Dean sits on Bobby’s porch. They seem to end up here a lot more lately. He has an open bottle of Wild Turkey by his feet, a cigarette in one hand, pen in the other, and a brand new journal open in his lap. The leather isn’t cracked and the pages are still bleached an impossible white.
He has exactly two sentences written down: “By this time next week, if we don’t find anything, I’ll be dead. Fucking sucks, right?”
He can’t seem to get past that one line, because that’s pretty much all that needs to be said. Nothing he writes is going to change it.
The door creaks behind him, and then the heavy sound of boots.
“Wondering where you went off to.” Ellen stands beside him and gives a small tap of her foot. She seems to end up here a lot more lately, too.
“Found me,” he says, bringing the bottle of bourbon to his lips.
She nods and brushes off the step before she sits, then wipes her hands down her jeans, leaving streaks of dirt across her thighs. “Startin’ a journal?”
“Yeah, Sam said it’d be good to get shit out on paper.” Dean shrugs and finishes off his cigarette, flinging it off the porch. “Seemed like a good idea, but a few drinks later and now it’s looking kinda pointless, you know?”
“Your daddy used to keep a journal,” she says.
“Yeah, I know.”
Ellen smiles faintly. “Course you do. He used to sit in the back table of the Roadhouse, glass of whiskey and that journal. Stay there until I kicked him out or offered him a room. Stubborn asshole.”
“Yeah,” Dean agrees softly.
“Got the same streak in you,” she tells him. “Not a bad trait to have. Sometimes it’s worth it to fight tooth and nail.”
Dean grins. “Balls to the wall.”
364 days, 363 nights, 21 minutes and 9 hours.
“Well, we tried, right?”
Sam looks up, eyes rimmed red from lack of sleep. “Still got time, Dean.”
“Yeah, of course. Totally got time.”
Sam has his laptop open and every note and torn piece of paper scattered around him on the bed. Dean caught him writing stuff on his arm once, so he wouldn’t forget.
“We’ll do it. We’ll figure it out,” Sam says.
Dean grins, too wide and too fake. “Sure we will.” He pauses. “Bitch.”
“Jerk.”