More than the dirt it takes to bury them (part one) - Supernatural, Sam/Dean.
Most folks live and die without moving anything more than the dirt it takes to bury them. You get to change things.
-Zachariah, It's a Terrible Life
“I'm stronger than that now. Now I can kill.”
Sam curls his hand.
His head flares with pain, and it's hard to get his fingers to tighten around the air, almost like he's grabbing an invisible stress ball. But he keeps pushing, and when light flares in front of him, his hand finally manages to curl into a fist.
When the body slumps to the floor, blood trickles out of Sam's nose.
-
It's dark behind Sam's eyelids, and warm. The pillow crinkles against his cheek as he shifts around, and the blanket catches between his legs. He tastes pennies in his mouth, and he flicks his tongue around, trying to catch all of the blood-
The alarm goes off.
Sam squeezes his eyes tighter, grabs his cell phone by memory, and rubs his face, groaning.
When he opens his eyes, the apartment's as empty as it was when he first moved in. He'd never made it his own - he hadn't been in town long enough for decorating, and tech support wasn't going to put him on Cribs any time soon - but there was enough furniture to sell on Craigslist, and he'd donated everything else that wasn't his laptop or his iPod or clothes. He has more cash in his pocket than he'd had since he and Madison broke up, but again, not saying much.
Sam folds his blanket, tosses it on top of his two bags, and stumbles into the shower.
His last moments in the apartment are underwhelming. After he's clean, he packs everything down and turns in his keys to the front office. He's not attached enough for a more formal goodbye, and the person working doesn't give him a second look. Probably for the best.
By the time he makes it to the bus, it's after the morning rush, but it's still busy enough that he's standing in the aisle with his bags at his feet. Maybe he should've pushed Dean into picking him up; he has a car, after all. But then, Sam was the one who pushed him into turning in his resignation in the first place. And he'd turned down Dean's offer to spend the night after their farewell-to-Sandover beers. (Dean even drank one. A light beer, but it was still empty carbs.)
At least he's not on the bus long. When he reaches his stop and walks the couple of blocks to Dean's condo - old condo, now - Dean's standing out front in jeans and a leather jacket. Like the place he's leaving, they're slick: Sam would be willing to bet the jacket's worth more money than everything he'd scraped together by selling his possessions, and the jeans are some brand that's basically Italian for "rich". Still, it's more dressed down than Sam's seen him. The last three days, Dean had still been wearing his suits. Maybe because he wouldn't get to wear them anymore.
Dean watches a couple of movers take out his Bowflex machine, and he hands Sam a Starbucks cup. "Don't mind a no-foam latte, do you?" he asks.
Sam shakes his head and takes a sip. It's way better than the sludge Sandover had tried to pass as coffee, and it's hot. "Got much more to do?"
"This is it." Dean sighs quietly. "Gave the key to the guy renting out the place, and he's keeping the rest of the furnishings."
"So you didn't sleep on the floor last night?"
Dean snorts. "Please."
Sam laughs. He takes another mouthful of coffee and, after he swallows, he asks, "Who's taking the first leg?"
For a second, Dean's eyebrows furrow. Maybe he hadn't thought about the fact that he'd be riding in his car with another licensed driver. But when his expression clears, he replies, "I've got this for a while. Double-shot espresso never lets me down."
The movers slam the back of the truck closed, and while Dean finishes talking to them, Sam throws his stuff in the trunk of Dean's Prius. It's one of the smaller trunks he's seen, and Dean's taking a lot of crap that Sam suspects he doesn't need, but Sam manages to cram his bags in. Anything like food or hunting supplies will probably need to go in the back seat, but for now, they're covered.
Sam's legs have to twist in a weird position to fit in the space in front of the passenger's seat. And really, the whole thing's a little...narrow. But he's not falling out any time soon, and it's still way better than the bus. Judging by the way Dean climbs into his seat with a happy sigh, he'd likely agree.
"Ready?" Dean asks, with one last glance at his building.
"Ready."
Dean turns on the car - although it's hard to tell, with the engine as quiet as it is - and they ghost away, barely making a sound.
-
It doesn't take Sam any time at all to figure out that riding with Dean's going to be a pain in the ass. It isn't a surprise, even if he's not really a corporate douchebag, but it only takes Sam two hours to start clenching his jaw.
"We're not supply shopping in town," Dean says with a huff. "I still have my condo."
"That you're renting out."
"Either way. I want to come back someday."
Sam lets that one drop. Until Dean tosses over his smart phone and Sam frowns down at the GPS app.
"You can't read the directions?" Sam asks. The voice had been telling Dean which exits to take, and it had worked fine so far.
"I need you to search for a supply store. Probably not in whatever town we're hitting next-"
"Dayton, Dean."
"-but somewhere on the way."
"Why?" Sam asks. "We can get most of the basics at a Wal-Mart on the way. Probably a good place to stop for bathroom and food, too."
Dean's hands clench on the steering wheel. "What."
"There's usually signs for Wal-Marts on the freeway. But I can look one up." Sam squints at the screen in his hand. He doesn't have the money for an Android-type smart phone - he didn't even with his job - but it can't be too hard to figure out.
"We are not," Dean says, laughing incredulously, "stopping at a Wal-Mart. Not even if you're about to pee all over my seat."
"So what, you'd rather I stick it out the window?"
"Or you wait for lunch like a normal person."
Sam rolls his eyes. "We're not made of money, Smith. I don't care how much you've got; it won't last forever. You'll have to learn to make do."
"I can make do," Dean says. "But no Wal-Mart."
"Whatever." Sam will wear him down.
-
Dean does let Sam out near a Wal-Mart when they stop for the night. It's kind of a compromise: Sam gets supplies while Dean finds a room. The reason it's not actually a compromise is that Sam didn't successfully convince Dean to let him drive while Dean slept in the car, so it's mostly Dean being pissy and Sam getting a breather before he punches him in the face. Which is another compromise altogether, probably.
After Sam finishes, Dean picks him up without a word and takes him to a Holiday Inn Express. The bed's great, and the shower isn't shabby, but Sam puts down the bags and says, "How much was this?"
Dean crosses his arms and scowls.
"How long do you want to do this for?" Sam waves his arms a little. "Because it's math, dude. We'll need to figure out a way to make money at some point, and I've got some ideas, but whatever I manage to pull together won't be enough to cover a place like this for a week, much less the months I'd like to be doing this." Sam nudges the Wal-Mart bags. "Let me know if I missed anything. I'm taking a shower."
It's not like he really needs another shower until tomorrow morning. But the room's paid up, and he'll take it.
-
Sam flops on the bed, and the woman on top of him draws her arm back. He should be exhausted, spent. But his skin aches, and he wants more.
"Ready to go?" he asks, drawing a finger over the woman's wrist, circling the red wound.
She grins down at him. "Think you can keep it in your pants while I clean up?"
"You want to take a shower?"
"Uh, yeah. Just because you like going after demons in your own filth doesn't mean I do."
Sam rolls his eyes. "There's just no point in cleaning up until after, you know?"
"Basic comfort's enough of a point." She kisses his shoulder and flops out of bed. "I'll toss you a washcloth, Romeo. You won't even have to move."
Sam laughs a little and turns over in bed so he can see the bedside clock, and...
...it's nighttime, and a figure's sprawled on the bed across, snoring with his mouth open. Sam can't see him, but it's Dean. Of course it's Dean. Right.
Sam blinks a couple times, fast at first, then longer as he tries to get his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Never mind that it was already dark and his eyes were closed. It's more like he was squinting into the golden light in the dream than giving his eyes a break.
He shivers a little - when he started sweating in his sleep, he kicked off the blankets even though it's chilly without them - and pulls the comforter close. Maybe he can get a couple hours before they hit the road again.
-
"Dude. Breakfast."
Sam blinks his eyes open and rubs his face. Dean's standing in front of him with a wrap in his hand, and Sam takes it. "You been up long?"
Dean waves his own wrap and sits in the chair across from Sam's bed. "Long enough to jog. And I was thinking."
"Did you get a medal?" Dean looks at Sam funny, but Sam grins back. "I meant, when you were thinking...never mind. What were you thinking about?"
"That thing you were talking about last night. The money thing."
Sam quirks an eyebrow and takes a bite of the wrap. Turkey and veggies, from the taste of things. But the tortilla tastes kind of like the cheap ones he was looking at when he went shopping at Wal-Mart, which meant Dean made it. "These are good."
"Thanks," Dean says. He takes another bite and closes his eyes like he'll never eat anything like this again. "But the money. It is going to get tight soon, and...well. If we need to do a budget, I can figure that out. Sound good?"
"Uh."
"Great." Dean finishes his wrap in two more bites and uses a hotel tissue to wipe his hands. "I get first shower."
It isn't until the water's running and Sam's staring at his wrap that he gets it. Dean was apologizing.
"You kind of suck, dude," he says to the quiet room around him, but he laughs quietly and digs into his food.
-
Dean's stretching by the time Sam makes it out of the shower and loads his stuff into the trunk.
"Running another marathon?" Sam asks.
"We'll be sitting in a car all day. Easy to get stiff." Dean bends down, and he grunts a little as he grabs the backs of his ankles. "So what's the deal with this job?"
Sam has the clippings in his laptop case, but he does his best to sum up. "Seems like a stereotypical haunted house story. Locals won't go near the place because they say it's had activity for years, but teenagers think it's a great make-out spot, so they break in and drink. Usually no big deal, but five kids have gone missing in the last six months, and two of those were last month."
Dean straightens, a little pale. "What if it's human? A whack-job with a hard-on for taking out kids?"
It's a good question. Sam sticks out his lip as he considers. "Guess we save who we can and call the cops?"
"But we can't really stop humans, can we?"
"Are you really worried about it?" Sam's tone's light, but he's serious. This isn't the kind of job where they can nitpick their every step, or they'll never get anything done.
Dean looks deep in thought for a minute. His eyes are shadowed, and for some reason, Sam thinks of his dream the night before. Demons, the woman had said, like it was nothing.
"No," Dean says eventually. "I'm actually not worried. I mean, about someone wanting to drink my blood? Maybe a little."
"No vampires then," Sam says.
He claps Dean on the shoulder, and just as he pulls back, Dean says, "Did you have dreams about vampires?"
Sam just grins. "Let's go."
“Oh, come on.” But Dean follows.
-
The nice thing about small towns is that there aren't a lot of motel options. The choice between the lacy, overly pink bed-and-breakfast and the run-down trucker stop by the freeway isn't really a choice at all, even for Dean, who'd heaved a heavy sigh when the Holiday Inn hadn't had turndown service.
"There's a whole...thing," Sam says, walking to the room that Dean had managed to snag. The parking lot's thick with trailers and bearded men who give Dean odd looks. And once-overs, but Sam suspects that's not what Dean wants to hear. "My parents went to a bed-and-breakfast, and the owners were asking about them all the time and inviting them to poker games and crap."
"I get it," Dean says. He's in a tan sweater and khakis, and he sneers a little at a trucker who frowns at him. Sam tenses for a second, but the trucker keeps walking. "We can't have Grandma Doily breathing down our necks. It's fine."
But he stops dead in the doorway, and Sam, keeping an eye out for anyone who might decide that Dean's just asking for an ass-kicking, runs into him. "What the hell?"
Dean clicks on the light, and Sam peeks around him.
It's a dump. No denying that. But there's no bugs on the floor or water stains on the ceiling, and he's pretty sure the weird smell in the air is cleaning chemicals and not something more sickening or threatening, so whatever.
"Come on," Sam says, pushing around him. He sets his bag next to a table and pulls out his laptop. "We need to figure out our plan of attack."
Dean finally steps inside and closes the door, but he looks at a loss. He pulls his loafers off the carpet, nose crinkled, and says, "It's sticky."
Sam bites the inside of his lip a little, then says, "Seems fine to me."
Dean looks up at the ceiling - maybe he's trying to pretend he's somewhere else - and lowers onto the nearest bed. He drops his hand beside him, and when he looks down again, he jumps to his feet, arching his neck like he's trying not to shudder. "The bed's stained."
"Just the comforter." Sam can't resist a quiet snicker. "Toss it on the floor. It's fine."
Dean glares at him. "Fine. That's your bed."
"Okay." Sam pulls the comforter off and stacks his backpack on top. "Can we figure out what we're doing already?"
Dean spreads his hands. He's still crinkling his nose like he smells something bad. "What's to figure? We go in, we gank the monster, we move on."
Sam resists the urge to roll his eyes. But just barely. "We need to figure out what kind of monster it is. We need to figure out what's keeping it tied to the area, and if it's got anyone right now."
"So what," Dean says, blinking. "We have to do research? I thought we got that covered."
Sam unzips his backpack and pulls papers out. "We got some ghost-burning stuff. But if what I saw online was right, there's all kinds of monsters, a lot of which look like ghosts."
Dean plops in a chair, shifts like he sat in something, and eventually stops and rubs his face. "I might need another Starbucks run for this."
-
Sam takes the library trip off Dean's hands. After all, if a dodgy motel made the guy cringe, a dingy old public space would probably give him a heart attack. And that was the best-case scenario. If Dean thought about how gross the keyboards were...well. Sam can deal with public exposure.
He sends Dean off to the center of town to ask questions. After all, he's a well-groomed white guy; as long as he doesn't hit on anyone, it shouldn't be a big deal.
Sam pauses in the library entrance as he gives that some thought. What kind of guy is Dean, anyway? He's good at killing ghosts, and he's kind of a prissy douche, but would he trust him around his sister? If he had a sister.
Well, it's too late now. He doesn't hear sirens, and his cell phone isn't buzzing in his pocket. Dean's a grown man who worked at Sandover's for a while without getting reported. That'll have to be enough.
When Sam sits at the computer, it's like being home again. Not in a good way. The library's even a little too hot, like it had been at the old office. All Sam needs is a crappy multiline phone to really complete the experience.
By the time he's found what he's needed, sweat's started beading on his forehead. He takes notes and brushes off the moisture with the back of his hand.
He leaves the first second he's able, and it still doesn't feel fast enough.
-
It turns out Dean is the kind of guy who hits on women. When Sam catches up with him in the City Center, Dean's got his cell phone out in front of a woman who's probably in her mid-twenties, and she's grinning as she reads off numbers.
"Seven...eight...two," Dean repeats back. "Got it. Thank you, Mandy."
"And thank you," Mandy says, slipping her phone back in her pocket. She slings her purse over her shoulder and walks away. Dean watches her go very openly.
Sam laughs a little incredulously. "Important case work, huh?"
Dean smirks. "I'll have you know, two of the numbers in my contacts are from people who were at the house at the time of the murder."
"Wow." Sam nods a little. "Was Mandy one of them?"
Dean smooths down his sweater. "She liked my loafers."
Sam rolls his eyes, but he can't help laughing, too. "Maybe we'll finish early," he says as they walk back to the Prius. "You can ask her to a bar or something."
Dean grins and unlocks the car, humming quietly.
-
He's stopped humming long before the house job is done.
The monster's not a ghost; it's something called a ghoul. Which is nothing like an angry spirit. Instead, it's a scavenger that takes on faces and usually eats corpses, and since the town had blocked off its cemetery, it looked thin and pale and half-dead.
Of course, it was still fast. Dean got thrown in what seemed like an old compost pile, and Sam had a decent-sized gash torn in his arm. By the time Sam tackled the ghoul and Dean took off its head, they were both hurting. And disgusting.
Dean limps into the motel bathroom without a word. He even strips off his clothes and leaves them on the floor, and Sam can't help staring at the folds of the clothes in the dim light. Dean's the guy who rolled his shirt into a suitcase the night before. Granted, his shirt hadn't smelled like rotten fruit yesterday, but still.
Sam shakes his head and grabs the first-aid kit Dean packed. Luckily, the wound on his arm's stopped bleeding and doesn't look like much. But there is a fresh cut on his arm, and Sam pushes at it with the tip of his finger. Blood smears, and the edge of the wound stings with pressure. Breath catches in Sam's throat...
...and then the water in the shower turns off.
Sam jerks his hand away like it's on fire and pulls out an antiseptic pad. He can't cover the cut fast enough.
-
Sam's up before Dean the next morning. Mostly because he never went to sleep.
It's not a big deal; he's never slept great on the road trips he's taken before, and it's not like the edges of his vision are blurring or he's faint. If anything, it's nice that he can get some work done. He doesn't go jogging, but he finds a drop-in gym near the edge of town and puts in a couple minutes of weights. He also swings by a laundromat and checks his laptop for the next potential job while his clothes spin. There's a couple prospects not too far away, and one of them definitely looks like a ghost. Ghost is good. He bookmarks a couple pages and packs up the clothes he washed before making it back to the motel.
"Hey." Dean's hair's freshly washed, and he's slipping on his loafers. "Thought we were hitting the road early."
"I was looking up more jobs." He grabs his backpack and puts the bag of clothes he washed next to it. "And I did a couple things."
"You seen my sweater?"
Sam smiles and pulls out the freshly folded clothes from the bag. It smells nice. Like home. "This is it, right?”
"You-" Dean snatches the clothes. "You washed these?"
Sam's smile fades a little. "Yeah?"
"Not dry clean?"
"The tags said-"
"I don't care what the tags say." Dean zips open his suitcase with a little force, rattling the table it's resting on.
Sam clenches his jaw. "You're welcome."
Dean pauses for a second before he puts the clothes in. Then he rests his hands on the table. "I don't mean to be a dick, but...if this is what we should be doing, shouldn't it be easier than this?"
"We're on the road," Sam says, like that's any kind of response.
But maybe it is. Dean taps his fingers for a minute, but he ends up zipping up his suitcase and lowering it to the floor.
"Let's go," Dean says. "Lots of miles to cover."
-
They get to the town by eight, and it feels like Sam's been on the road forever.
He barely waits before Dean gets them a room before he says, "I'm crashing out, dude."
"Already?" Dean frowns. "Shouldn't we get to work? Hit the books? Whatever?"
"We can do that in the morning." At Dean's crestfallen expression, Sam adds, "Or you can go to a bar. Scope out the feeling in town."
Dean nods slowly as he pulls the car into a parking spot in front of their room. "You don't even want dinner?"
Sam shakes his head and lets his eyes droop closed. "I can eat after I get up."
"If you're sure." Dean hands him a key. An honest-to-god piece of metal, not a card, like they've had the past couple nights. If Sam had had any doubts that they'd left civilization, that killed the last of them.
Sam doesn't bother bringing in his laptop or clothes. He barely opens his eyes long enough to get out of the car and into the room, and he's asleep almost before he hits the pillow of the bed nearest to the door.
-
The door's open, and the brunette woman's talking to someone as Sam passes by. He doesn't smell pizza, but the delivery guy probably hasn't taken it out of the warming case yet.
And then he stops. Because it isn't a delivery guy.
"Hey, Sammy," Dean says.
But it can't be. Dean's been...Dean's not...
Sam tastes blood in his mouth as he launches himself forward and pulls his knife.
-
Something thumps loudly next to Sam's ear, and he twitches.
"What's wrong?" he says, words a little thick in his mouth.
"Nothing," Dean whispers. "Go back to sleep."
But Sam opens his eyes and sits up.
This motel room isn't quite as much of a dive as the one the night before. It definitely hit its prime ten years before Sam was born, and it's a little musty, but the blankets feel new, and the curtains do a great job blocking anything outside.
Even though the numbers on the clock read 2:38 - and it's definitely not afternoon - Dean's sitting at a table with a bunch of books.
"Where'd you get those?"
"Library was open," Dean says. "Figured I'd get a head start. Maybe we can take a day off if we get this wrapped up fast."
"It's not exactly a seven-days-a-week job." Sam smiles a little.
Dean shoots him a level look. "Go back to sleep."
Sam rubs his eyes, but he nods and lays back on the pillows. "You sleep, too."
"I will."
-
Waking up's hard. Gravity feels twice as strong as normal, and Sam's still sweating, like the air conditioner's broken. He manages to haul himself to the shower, even though he falls half-asleep inside. It's only the sound of the slamming door that brings him out of it, and he stops the water and starts toweling himself off.
"You in there, Sammy?"
"Yeah, Dean." His voice shakes, and he coughs to cover it up.
"I brought breakfast."
Sam nods even though Dean can't see and dries off. He wraps the towel around his waist and goes into the room, where Dean's waiting with...
"Donuts?" Sam asks.
Dean turns toward him with a smile, but it fades when he takes Sam in. "You look like crap, dude."
"Thanks." Sam limps toward the bed to get fresh clothes.
Dean shakes himself off. "But yeah, donuts. They were always my sick food when I was a kid, and with the chemicals they pump in, they've gotta be good for a couple days, right?"
Sam snorts a little. "Would you actually eat them if they did?"
"Probably not." Dean shudders. "But you can, if you feel like it. Or you can feed the birds. I don't care."
"Thanks, man."
Dean opens the box and holds it out to Sam, who takes a white-frosted one. He takes a bite and closes his eyes a little. It's still warm.
"You need to take the day off?" Dean asks.
"No," Sam says right away.
"It's not a big deal." Dean closes the box of donuts and puts them on the table next to his suitcase. "You don't have health insurance anymore, right? It's not like you can just run to the doctor."
Sam snorts. "You say that like I had insurance at my last job."
"You were supposed to."
"Wasn't there long enough for it to kick in."
Dean frowns. "I need you sharp when you're at my back."
"When I'm at your back." Sam's feeling draggy enough that he sits on the bed, but he's grinning. “You're taking point?”
"Damn straight. I have management experience. That puts me up front."
"But wouldn't that make you the general? Officers stay behind the grunts."
For a second, it looks like Dean's seriously considering the topic. He shrugs. "Okay, well. Even if you're in the front, I need you to survive long enough that I can get away."
"Good to know you have your priorities in order."
Dean claps him on the shoulder. "I didn't find out much from the books. I'm gonna check them again, make sure I didn't miss anything. You could nap or something."
"Sounds good." It really does. Judging by the way his skin hurts, he probably has a fever. "Of course, if I get the ghosts sick, maybe that'll take care of them."
Dean laughs incredulously. "Dude, they're already dead."
-
By the time Sam makes it to the afternoon, he's slept four hours, and he's definitely shaking now.
Dean's out when he wakes up, so Sam forces himself to walk to the local drugstore. He's flagging hardcore by the time he makes it, but the drugstore's actually a gas station hybrid, so Sam can buy cold medicine and coffee in one spot. Should be enough to get back to the motel, at least.
He slumps through the aisles, circles the row he needs twice before he actually stops, and sways in place while he tries to read labels. It's almost like the shadows move.
“Just get something,” he mutters. Once he dopes himself up, it'll be easier to think. Hopefully.
He grabs a bottle and slumps to the register. While digging his cash out of his pocket, he drops a couple quarters, and they roll under a chip stand braced against the front counter..
"Crap," he mutters. "Sorry about that."
"You okay, mister?" the cashier, a guy who looks like he was a trucker in another life, asks in a somewhat bright tone.
"Fine," Sam says, and he bends to clean up.
When he stands straight, he notices the trucker fixing his sleeve and wiping something red from his hands onto a napkin. Sam frowns for a second, but he shakes it off and hands the cash forward.
"Have a good day," the cashier says, staring pointedly at Sam.
"You too," Sam says, taking a sip of his coffee. It tastes...well, like gas station coffee. At least it's strong.
He slips into the bathroom long enough to take a swig of medicine and starts walking back.
By the time he makes it back to the motel room, the Prius is back in its spot, and Dean's inside. More importantly, Sam feels a million times better than he did, to the point where his posture feels normal and he doesn't have to his shirt rolled up to keep from overheating..
"Hey," Dean says. "You went out?"
Sam nods. "Got cold medicine."
"You're looking better." Dean grins. "Which is good. We can tackle Casper tonight."
"You found him?"
"Yeah. And get this; his name's actually Casper." Dean laughs.
Sam can't help but join in.
-
The ghost's a lot easier to deal with than the ghoul was.
For one thing, Sam and Dean know the tricks already. They use salt to block the doors, they have iron pokers from the ghoul-infested house, and they've got lighters to burn the lock of Casper's hair that was stuck in one of the baseboards. Of course, it probably feels easier to Sam because he's not on death's door and because Dean did all the research, but he'll take it.
Of course, Dean's got a bit of a spring in his step, too. "We should celebrate, right?"
Sam's a little worried about money - his wallet's certainly getting light - but they saved a woman from getting killed by a ghost in her own home, and it's not even eight yet. It's hard to worry.
"I could go for a beer," Sam says.
They actually end up driving a couple hours toward a new, bigger town because Dean is set on getting to a place that has something resembling healthy food. That doesn't stop him from scowling when Sam tells him to park in front of a Biggerson's.
"You kidding? They drown everything in grease."
"It's also cheaper than every place you were looking at on your phone, and they have a lower-calorie menu." Sam pauses. "And you can eat smaller portions and drink a lot of water if it bothers you."
"Some celebration," Dean grumbles, but he follows Sam inside.
Sam can't remember the last time he's been to a Biggerson's, but there something...familiar about the whole thing. Probably because it's a chain; that's the point, after all. But it seems like an itch at the back of Sam's mind, like he's just missing something.
By the time Sam orders a burger and Dean begrudgingly orders the closest thing they have to a real salad, Dean notices Sam shifting on his side of the booth. "Still feeling okay?"
"Yeah, yeah," Sam says. And he does. He feels pumped, if anything.
He beams at the server when he brings their drinks - Dean sticks to water, but Sam has a full-caloried, on-tap beer that tastes full and delicious - and bounces his fingers on his leg.
"Guess you are feeling better," Dean says. His gaze drifts up and down Sam. Sam bites his lip.
"Lots," Sam says. It's only when he starts tracing his finger around the top of his glass that Dean looks away.
-
The really buzzed feeling lasts well into the next day. Sam doesn't sleep much, but he doesn't need to. He takes a long jog and does sit-ups by the bed, and by the time Dean's awake, he's already showered and dressed.
"You're driving," Dean says almost right away, tossing him the keys as he rolls out of bed.
Sam blinks. "Seriously?"
"I feel like staring at something not road for five minutes," Dean says. "Or ghosts. Or moldy research books. I've barely checked my stocks this week."
While Sam takes the wheel, Dean pokes around on his phone, occasionally humming along with whatever crappy pop station he finds or scoffing with a quiet "come on" when he reads something. After Sam asks him about his first investment, and Dean goes on about the value of gold for forty-five minutes, he lets the rest of the noises go without comment.
The car feels just as small in the driver's seat. And too...hardy, is the word that comes to mind. It takes them most of the day before they have to stop for gas, so the first few pit stops are purely food- and bathroom-related. It's easier on their wallets than other cars, at least.
Since the gas mileage does come out so well, Dean insists they wait for the best price on gas they can find. "It's freaking highway robbery, the way gas stations perch like vultures on the freeways. We'll get the best deal if we head into town." Never mind that driving off the freeway uses extra gas. It's an easy point to give Dean for a little peace.
Sam goes in when they stop - Dean never lets him fill the tank - and stares at the drinks and candy like they'll tell him where they should go next.
"Well, well. Hello, Sam."
A soccer mom's leering at him from the end of the aisle. The second he sees her, the skin on Sam's arm goes into goosebumps.
"Do I know you?" he asks.
She blinks, and her eyes go black. "You can't stay off the radar forever."
Sam's breath hitches as she raises a hand, and the snacks on the shelves around Sam push back with a gust. He puts up his arms to protect his head, but it won't be enough. The power's radiating strongly that he can feel it even without direct contact.
But the power glances off when it does hit, and he lowers his arms once it disappears. The black-eyed woman snarls.
"Guess you've had your spinach, Popeye." She stomps forward, and Sam nearly trips in his haste to step back. "But it won't save you."
A shovel swings through the air, and when it hits the woman's head, it cracks, bending. Sam winces, but the woman straightens and whips her head around to the man holding the shovel like a sword.
"Guess it wouldn't be Bonnie without Clyde," the woman hisses at Dean. Because of course it's Dean, pale and wide-eyed, blocking the front door.
"Sam," Dean says quietly, and his eyes flick toward a door in the back corner. But when Sam glances back, he sees a major lock on it, like it's a storeroom.
He shakes his head. "Run."
"No one's going anywhere," the woman says, and she starts to raise her hand in Dean's direction.
But something sparks in Sam, and he yells, "Run."
He curls his hand.
It isn't like it was in the dream. Whatever the woman is, she's not nearly as strong as what he'd struggled with before. Sam's hand shakes like he's grabbing onto the power the woman was shooting his way, and she lights up from the inside. She screams as she flashes before she drops to the floor, lights gone, a puddle of blood spreading underneath her.
Dean didn't run. He stands over the woman, shovel still in his hands, and gapes at Sam, jaw dropped.
"Go. Now," Sam says.
As they run out the door, Dean looks back at the dead woman every few seconds. Sam only looks forward.
-
"Who the hell did we piss off?"
Sam tears his eyes away from the speedometer. For the last couple hours, they've been driving twenty miles over the speed limit, dangerous with out-of-state plates like theirs, but considering how Dean's been leaning on the gas, twenty miles is downright conservative.
"I..." He swallows. "I think she was after me."
Dean shakes his head. "Bonnie and Clyde. She knew me, too."
"But...but her eyes."
Dean bounces his hand on the steering wheel a couple times, and when he nods like he decided something, he pulls over the car to the side of the road.
Sam looks from him to where they parked. "Dude. We need distance." He's been thinking about the cameras in the gas station ever since they left, and how fast the cops could find-
"Tell me why I shouldn't push you out of the car right now."
Sam jumps. "What?"
"Or leave your ass. Probably that one."
"I thought...” Sam takes a shaky breath. “Aren't we in this together?"
"Are we?" Dean sets his jaw. He still won't look over at Sam. "What did you pull back there?"
Sam blinks and stares down at his hand. He curls his fingers, but it doesn't feel like anything. Not like it felt back there. Not like...
Not like it felt in the dream.
"Demons," he whispers.
"What?"
When Sam picks up his head again, Dean's staring straight at him. And he looks like he's ready to punch a wall, but he's also listening.
"I've been...dreaming." Sam rubs the back of his neck. "Like I was back at Sandover."
"About me?"
"Not this time. But it feels like...it feels like you should be there." Sam shakes his head. He hadn't felt that loss until now, but it's there, like someone scooped out important organs from his chest. He rubs his chest a little, and says, "I was fighting demons."
"Demons." The word's not disbelieving, or confused. It sounds like Dean's trying it on his mouth again, and he leans back against his seat.
Sam nods.
"Demons," Dean says again. This time, it sounds wondering. "How the hell did I forget?"
"You remember something?"
Dean sags a little. "No. But it feels like I should."
As Dean jiggles his leg, Sam digs his fingers into his jeans. It isn't until Dean pulls the lever, taking the car out of park, that Sam relaxes his fingers and exhales hard.
"We should hole up somewhere," Dean says. "Figure out what's really going on."
Sam nods absently. Hiding somewhere won't change the fact that they have nothing to go on. Nothing but Sam's dreams.
He straightens. "I've got an idea."
-
The idea, appropriately enough, takes a motel room.
They pick something over the next state line that's really gross. When Sam pays in cash - he kept a part of his furniture money for an emergency just like this one - the seedy cashier hands him a key and doesn't give him a second look as he lists off where the condom vending machine is and what channels they can use to order porn. Sam gives him a tight-lipped smile and finds their room.
There's only one king-sized bed, and the room smells like something died in it, but Dean only crinkles his nose and says, "How long do you think this'll take?"
"An hour, maybe?" Sam's already pulling the nighttime cold medicine out of his bag that they'd picked up at a gas station. "To get started. I don't know how long it'll take me to dream. If I dream at all."
"And you really think this is our best bet?"
Sam measures out a cup of glowing red liquid. He winces. Cold medicine always tastes like ass. "You got any other leads right now?"
"Besides my gut feelings?" Dean shakes his head. "But I don't like it."
"Then put up salt or something. Give us some protection."
Dean rubs his hands together. "You'll be okay here?"
Sam tips the medicine into his mouth and shivers. Nasty. "Unless you smother me in my sleep."
He'd be lying if he didn't admit he relaxes when Dean rolls his eyes and says, "Get some shut-eye, Sleeping Beauty" and goes outside.
Sam lays back on the bed. Sleeping Beauty, Bonnie, and Popeye. That's a lot of characters for one day.
-
Dean writhing on the ground, a blonde woman watching with a big smile. Sam's screaming, tears almost blurring Dean out of sight, and-
No. This isn't what he needs to see.
Dean hugging Sam. Sam in a shack, firelight bouncing on the walls. The smell of sulfur in the air. The cadence of badly-recited Latin. The taste of pennies on Sam's tongue.
Dark clouds.
That's familiar. Possibly useful. Sam focuses.
The smell of ozone. Rumbling in the sky. Ringing in the air as water bounces off metal.
It all freezes, and Sam walks through like a ghost.
Raindrops hanging in the air catching the filtered light with faint glimmers. Footsteps crunch gravel, and...
Sam pauses. Not feet. The sound's too even for feet.
Tires.
-
Sam's eyes open.
The room's dark, and the wood-paneled walls are barely visible with the closed drapes. He can only see vague shapes thanks to a flashing TV in the corner, but Dean's not watching. He's curled up on the bed next to Sam, fully dressed, but his chin's tilted forward a little, and his eyes are closed.
Something tightens in Sam's chest.
"Hey," he says quietly when he can manage, shaking Dean's arm.
Dean snorts and jerks awake. "Wha?"
"I know where we need to go."
Dean nods and grabs his coat. It's only when he stumbles to his feet that Sam notices the salt in front of the door.
-
They drive for days.
Sam loses count because he drives little and sleeps a lot. Whatever sickness he'd been fighting off before all this started is back, and he's sweating, keeping whatever cool thing against his cheek that he can find.
Dean's shooting him looks almost more than he watches the road. “Hang in there,” he says after he passes Sam the cold medicine the first day. “We'll figure it out.”
Sam nods and barely tastes the medicine on the way down.
He doesn't sleep. He doesn't feel much of anything.
-
“- problem, officer?”
Sam blinks. The world is the kind of blue it gets to be with clouds and a setting or rising sun, and as he shivers, he can't tell which it's supposed to be.
“-driving over the speed limit. Need to see your license and registration.”
Sam leans back as Dean goes for the glove compartment. Dean fishes out the papers, takes out the expensive-looking wallet from the jacket he has hanging from the chair, and leans over to hand what he has to the cop.
A chill up Sam's spine is his only warning.
The cop clamps one hand around Dean's arm, pinning him against the door, and another around his throat, squeezing. Sam's hands scramble on the door to push the lock, and when he pops the door, he's falling on his face.
“Let him go!” he yells, supporting his weight on the hood of the car as he stands..
Dean's watching him with a purple face and bulging eyes, his fingernails dragging across the cop's arm over and over as he tries to get free. The cop's bleeding very heavily. Sam doesn't need to look into his black eyes to know how he can still hold on.
The cop grins and turns to Sam, but the smile disappears before he can say anything. Sam's yanking and pulling before he even starts curling his fist, throwing all of whatever power he has behind it. He doesn't see the slowly building colors lighting up the cop like it did the woman in the gas station; it's one big orange explosion. The cop lets go of Dean just as he falls, and Dean collapses against the steering wheel, the horn honking beneath him.
Sam wants to follow them both and collapse. But some surge of adrenaline or psychic mojo keeps him strong enough to make his way to Dean's side, and he pushes him back against the seat.
“Dean!”
No answer. He presses his fingers to the inside of Dean's uninjured wrist. There's definitely a pulse. And those are definitely Dean's eyes fluttering open, and breaths wheezing out of his mouth.
“The...”
“Don't talk,” Sam says. “Can you move?”
Dean nods, winces as it tugs at the already-bruising skin around his throat, and rolls over into the passenger's seat, groaning every time he jostles something. Sam drags the still-breathing cop away from the car, picks up Dean's discarded license and papers, and climbs into the car.
“You have your phone?” Sam asks as he buckles in. “We need to find a hospital.”
“No.”
“Dean-”
“No.” It's a croak, but Dean's scowling like he means it. “Drive.”
And Sam does.
-
The adrenaline's gone within the hour.
It isn't sudden, like Sam's good one second and about to pass out the next. It's just that it gets harder to check his speed, or look for the exits they need, and eventually, to keep his head steady. It's when his hands start to shake and he changes lanes twice without meaning to that Dean gestures to the side of the road, and Sam's too busy parking to object.
“I'll drive,” Dean forces out when they're stopped.
“But what...what about...” It's all Sam can do to weakly gesture at Dean's throat.
“'M fine. Move.”
They manage, somehow. Sam isn't sure when he got to be in worse shape than a guy who nearly got choked to death a few minutes ago, but he's almost crawling to the backseat.
He passes out before the car starts moving again.
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