Fic: Every hand's a winner and every hand's a loser (episode coda for 15.10, "The Heroes' Journey")
A brief fix-it coda for 15.10, because never have I seen an episode more in need of a fix-it.
They end up borrowing a 4X4 Jeep Cherokee from Donna. The Impala wasn't made for snowy roads, let alone frozen tundra, they don't have enough credit to rent a car (fucking Chuck), and Sam refuses to take a stolen car through an international checkpoint. Which is ridiculous. It's Canada, not the Soviet Union; no one's even going to look. But Dean's not gonna argue. Sam's kind of messed up right now. Has been, since he shot God, since he spent a day and a half under Chuck's loving ministrations, since Eileen left. Since Garth pronounced them no longer God's heroes. Obsessively researching Alaska, spewing random facts about Utqiagvik and tundra, to distract himself from the shitstorm they stumbled into.
(Barrow is now known as Utqiagvik. Thanks, Sam.)
The thing is. The thing is that "between Barrow and Kotzebue" sounded like they'd be driving down a road from one small village to another, looking for you'll know it when you see it. But on further review, there's about a hundred million acres of frozen tundra between Barrow and Kotzebue. And no roads. Even Mapquest cheerfully suggests you can't get there from here. And Dean's supposed to be the man with the plan, but he can't wrap his head around a hunt whose lore is limited to you'll know it when you see it. He's having problems with get to Alaska and start exploring a hundred million acres of frozen tundra. Maybe that's why Sam is furiously researching Alaska itself. Because he's got to research something.
(And no, Dean is not interested in yet another verse of Sam explaining that the entire state of Alaska is not frozen tundra, and much of the area they're looking at is actually transitional boreal forest, thank you very much.)
Anyway. Scraping up some cash sounds like a good first step. So that's why Dean's lurking in the shadows a block away from a pool hall in Bozeman, Montana, counting his meager winnings. Of course he didn't count it in the pool hall, or even in the parking lot. He's not stupid. You never count your money when you're sitting at the table. Words of wisdom are words of wisdom, even when they come from Kenny Rogers.
Hustling pool was easier when he was younger. A guy in his 20s saunters in, cocksure, too pretty for his own good? (And that's not ego talking, he's heard it often enough, seen it in the eyes of potential marks who murmured that they were sure we'd be able to come to an agreement when it looked like he might not have enough cash to cover a bet, and damn he loved taking their money.) Yeah, everybody wants to take that guy down, and Dean always gave an Oscar-worthy performance in that role. But when you're old enough to look like you might know what you're doing, and maybe looking so down on your luck that no one wants to win the little bit of cash you've got in your raggedy pocket… it's just harder, is all. Especially without his wingman, since Sam declared himself unfit for the job and went off to plunder a couple of local stores for supplies instead.
Dean did okay, though. Even after putting aside half for his stake the next night, he's got enough for a couple of tanks of gas and a night in a hotel. Maybe four or five tanks, if Sam agrees to sleep in the Jeep. It's cold, but they've got decent sleeping bags and a big vehicle. It wouldn't be the worst night they've spent in a car.
They've actually… spent a lot of bad nights in cars. And abandoned houses. And worse. It sparks something in the back of Dean's mind.
That train of thought is interrupted by the arrival of the borrowed Jeep. It's late - well, technically, early - but they need to put some miles between them and the scene of the crime. Maybe he can catch a catnap while Sam gets them out of town. Dean moves to get in the passenger seat, but Sam hops out. Doesn't even trust himself driving right now, for fuck's sake. He even keeps a hand hovering over the Jeep, in case he needs the support if he stumbles, and it makes Dean see red.
"How'd you do," Dean asks, when Sam settles into the passenger seat.
"Not bad. Nonperishables, hot packs, but mostly medical supplies. Got some antibiotics, pain meds, bandages, stuff for stitches and splints"
"Thought you were gonna get some camping supplies?"
"Had problems at the REI." Sam pulls out his laptop and hunches over it.
"What kind of problems?"
Pause. "It's no big deal. We'll stop at a different one."
"Sam."
Sam sighs. "I couldn't get in, all right? There were security cameras and the lock, and I just…" He trails off and buries himself in his laptop, clearly miserable. Dean could suggest, again, that the mom and pop outfit they saw on their way into town would be easier to break into, but he knows Sam prefers raiding big chains. We're saving the world, Dean would say. Doesn't mean we have to be dicks about it, Sam would always retort.
(Are they even saving the world, right now? Or just their own asses?)
After a few quiet minutes, Sam speaks. "Did you know Will Rogers and Wiley Post were killed about 11 miles outside of Utqiagvik, trying to land their plane?" Because obscure Alaskan trivia is easier to think about than, well, everything else.
"No, I didn't know that," Dean responds, "because I've never even heard of Wiley Post."
"Early aviator. Charles Lindbergh type. The Utqiagvik airport was renamed after them."
"Naming an airport after two people who died in a plane crash? That's messed up, man."
"Oklahoma also has two separate airports named after the two of them. I think Will Rogers would probably appreciate the irony."
Oklahoma. The last time Dean was in Oklahoma, he was fleeing Texhoma with an old friend's blood still caked under his fingernails. He doesn't want to think about fucking Oklahoma. Instead, he slides back to that earlier thought, the one that pinged something. The fact that they spent so much of their life sleeping in really shitty places. That they weren't worried about mortgages and utility payments not because they were above all that, but because they never had the opportunity. That they haven't, in fact, been leading the charmed heroes' life, free from sweating the small stuff, that Garth described.
"Sam?" he says. "Do you feel like we've been living a charmed life?"
"No." Sam huffs a humorless little laugh and keeps pecking at his keyboard. "I mean, I didn't, for obvious reasons. But compared to now? I guess."
"Okay, but listen. I think I was right when I said we were cursed. The reason we're having problems now? It's not because Chuck was giving us something we never earned and he decided to stop. Everything we do, Sam? We fucking earned that. Blood, sweat, and tears, man. We trained and studied and practiced and earned every skill we have."
Sam looks up now, brow furrowed. "You think?"
"I do. I mean, how long did you practice lock-picking? Because I remember you asking Dad to buy you different kinds of locks to practice on. I remember listening to you clicking away in the back seat for miles. You did that, Sam. Chuck didn't give it to you."
"Okay…"
"And tripping over your own feet? Do you really think you can only walk a straight line because Chuck made it possible? He didn't make us special, Sam. We made us special. And he's trying to take that away from us."
Sam gasps. "Job. He's pulling a Job on us."
"Damn straight." Dean smacks the steering wheel. Chuck and his Biblical reboots. "And we are not gonna let him do that."
"But how do we stop it?"
That's the question, isn't it? Dean drives for a couple of miles, deep in thought. "I say we go to Alaska anyway," he decides. "Even if we didn't lose our own luck, this might be a way to pick up some extra mojo."
"But remember what Garth said. There's always a catch. You know he's right."
"So? If we decide it costs too much, we just don't play. We can do that."
"Can we?" Sam chuckles. "Because, historically, we're not actually very good at that."
"We are now. Starting right now, you and I are good at anything we want to be good at it. And Chuck can screw himself."
Dean spots the sign for the scenic turnoff just in time, jerking the wheel to the right. "You all right bedding down in the car tonight?"
"Not the worst place I've slept," Sam replies, smiling. No, it's not.
The bed of the Cherokee is long enough, with the back seat folded down, but it's pretty narrow. It's fine. Dean's going appreciate being pressed up against his furnace of a little brother tonight. He wriggles into his sleeping bag, turns his back to Sam, and says "Okay, geek boy. Put me to sleep. Tell me something about Kotzebue." He drifts off to the tune of sled dogs and average January temperatures.
---
The title is, of course, from "The Gambler" by Kenny Rogers.
They end up borrowing a 4X4 Jeep Cherokee from Donna. The Impala wasn't made for snowy roads, let alone frozen tundra, they don't have enough credit to rent a car (fucking Chuck), and Sam refuses to take a stolen car through an international checkpoint. Which is ridiculous. It's Canada, not the Soviet Union; no one's even going to look. But Dean's not gonna argue. Sam's kind of messed up right now. Has been, since he shot God, since he spent a day and a half under Chuck's loving ministrations, since Eileen left. Since Garth pronounced them no longer God's heroes. Obsessively researching Alaska, spewing random facts about Utqiagvik and tundra, to distract himself from the shitstorm they stumbled into.
(Barrow is now known as Utqiagvik. Thanks, Sam.)
The thing is. The thing is that "between Barrow and Kotzebue" sounded like they'd be driving down a road from one small village to another, looking for you'll know it when you see it. But on further review, there's about a hundred million acres of frozen tundra between Barrow and Kotzebue. And no roads. Even Mapquest cheerfully suggests you can't get there from here. And Dean's supposed to be the man with the plan, but he can't wrap his head around a hunt whose lore is limited to you'll know it when you see it. He's having problems with get to Alaska and start exploring a hundred million acres of frozen tundra. Maybe that's why Sam is furiously researching Alaska itself. Because he's got to research something.
(And no, Dean is not interested in yet another verse of Sam explaining that the entire state of Alaska is not frozen tundra, and much of the area they're looking at is actually transitional boreal forest, thank you very much.)
Anyway. Scraping up some cash sounds like a good first step. So that's why Dean's lurking in the shadows a block away from a pool hall in Bozeman, Montana, counting his meager winnings. Of course he didn't count it in the pool hall, or even in the parking lot. He's not stupid. You never count your money when you're sitting at the table. Words of wisdom are words of wisdom, even when they come from Kenny Rogers.
Hustling pool was easier when he was younger. A guy in his 20s saunters in, cocksure, too pretty for his own good? (And that's not ego talking, he's heard it often enough, seen it in the eyes of potential marks who murmured that they were sure we'd be able to come to an agreement when it looked like he might not have enough cash to cover a bet, and damn he loved taking their money.) Yeah, everybody wants to take that guy down, and Dean always gave an Oscar-worthy performance in that role. But when you're old enough to look like you might know what you're doing, and maybe looking so down on your luck that no one wants to win the little bit of cash you've got in your raggedy pocket… it's just harder, is all. Especially without his wingman, since Sam declared himself unfit for the job and went off to plunder a couple of local stores for supplies instead.
Dean did okay, though. Even after putting aside half for his stake the next night, he's got enough for a couple of tanks of gas and a night in a hotel. Maybe four or five tanks, if Sam agrees to sleep in the Jeep. It's cold, but they've got decent sleeping bags and a big vehicle. It wouldn't be the worst night they've spent in a car.
They've actually… spent a lot of bad nights in cars. And abandoned houses. And worse. It sparks something in the back of Dean's mind.
That train of thought is interrupted by the arrival of the borrowed Jeep. It's late - well, technically, early - but they need to put some miles between them and the scene of the crime. Maybe he can catch a catnap while Sam gets them out of town. Dean moves to get in the passenger seat, but Sam hops out. Doesn't even trust himself driving right now, for fuck's sake. He even keeps a hand hovering over the Jeep, in case he needs the support if he stumbles, and it makes Dean see red.
"How'd you do," Dean asks, when Sam settles into the passenger seat.
"Not bad. Nonperishables, hot packs, but mostly medical supplies. Got some antibiotics, pain meds, bandages, stuff for stitches and splints"
"Thought you were gonna get some camping supplies?"
"Had problems at the REI." Sam pulls out his laptop and hunches over it.
"What kind of problems?"
Pause. "It's no big deal. We'll stop at a different one."
"Sam."
Sam sighs. "I couldn't get in, all right? There were security cameras and the lock, and I just…" He trails off and buries himself in his laptop, clearly miserable. Dean could suggest, again, that the mom and pop outfit they saw on their way into town would be easier to break into, but he knows Sam prefers raiding big chains. We're saving the world, Dean would say. Doesn't mean we have to be dicks about it, Sam would always retort.
(Are they even saving the world, right now? Or just their own asses?)
After a few quiet minutes, Sam speaks. "Did you know Will Rogers and Wiley Post were killed about 11 miles outside of Utqiagvik, trying to land their plane?" Because obscure Alaskan trivia is easier to think about than, well, everything else.
"No, I didn't know that," Dean responds, "because I've never even heard of Wiley Post."
"Early aviator. Charles Lindbergh type. The Utqiagvik airport was renamed after them."
"Naming an airport after two people who died in a plane crash? That's messed up, man."
"Oklahoma also has two separate airports named after the two of them. I think Will Rogers would probably appreciate the irony."
Oklahoma. The last time Dean was in Oklahoma, he was fleeing Texhoma with an old friend's blood still caked under his fingernails. He doesn't want to think about fucking Oklahoma. Instead, he slides back to that earlier thought, the one that pinged something. The fact that they spent so much of their life sleeping in really shitty places. That they weren't worried about mortgages and utility payments not because they were above all that, but because they never had the opportunity. That they haven't, in fact, been leading the charmed heroes' life, free from sweating the small stuff, that Garth described.
"Sam?" he says. "Do you feel like we've been living a charmed life?"
"No." Sam huffs a humorless little laugh and keeps pecking at his keyboard. "I mean, I didn't, for obvious reasons. But compared to now? I guess."
"Okay, but listen. I think I was right when I said we were cursed. The reason we're having problems now? It's not because Chuck was giving us something we never earned and he decided to stop. Everything we do, Sam? We fucking earned that. Blood, sweat, and tears, man. We trained and studied and practiced and earned every skill we have."
Sam looks up now, brow furrowed. "You think?"
"I do. I mean, how long did you practice lock-picking? Because I remember you asking Dad to buy you different kinds of locks to practice on. I remember listening to you clicking away in the back seat for miles. You did that, Sam. Chuck didn't give it to you."
"Okay…"
"And tripping over your own feet? Do you really think you can only walk a straight line because Chuck made it possible? He didn't make us special, Sam. We made us special. And he's trying to take that away from us."
Sam gasps. "Job. He's pulling a Job on us."
"Damn straight." Dean smacks the steering wheel. Chuck and his Biblical reboots. "And we are not gonna let him do that."
"But how do we stop it?"
That's the question, isn't it? Dean drives for a couple of miles, deep in thought. "I say we go to Alaska anyway," he decides. "Even if we didn't lose our own luck, this might be a way to pick up some extra mojo."
"But remember what Garth said. There's always a catch. You know he's right."
"So? If we decide it costs too much, we just don't play. We can do that."
"Can we?" Sam chuckles. "Because, historically, we're not actually very good at that."
"We are now. Starting right now, you and I are good at anything we want to be good at it. And Chuck can screw himself."
Dean spots the sign for the scenic turnoff just in time, jerking the wheel to the right. "You all right bedding down in the car tonight?"
"Not the worst place I've slept," Sam replies, smiling. No, it's not.
The bed of the Cherokee is long enough, with the back seat folded down, but it's pretty narrow. It's fine. Dean's going appreciate being pressed up against his furnace of a little brother tonight. He wriggles into his sleeping bag, turns his back to Sam, and says "Okay, geek boy. Put me to sleep. Tell me something about Kotzebue." He drifts off to the tune of sled dogs and average January temperatures.
---
The title is, of course, from "The Gambler" by Kenny Rogers.