Fic: there's a place by the highway we can park the car
For de_nugis, for being generally awesome and specifically one of my favorite people here on lj:
The next day the beach was deserted. A cold front had moved in during the night, throwing kelp up past the high tide line and leaving the sand pocked with the marks of the rain Sam had spent half the night awake and listening to. Next to him, Dean bent down to grab something, and as he brushed it off, Sam could see that it was a fragment of shell shaped like a blade.
“Man, they must have some crazy seafood joints out here in California.” Dean held the shell up. It was a good eight inches along the curve, sharp-edged and crusted with white patches. “Whatever lives in this thing’s gotta be the size of a fucking boot.”
Sam shrugged. “Abalone, maybe. You don’t see them that much anymore, but they used to be pretty common.”
“Huh.” Dean held the shell up, gazing at it for a long moment, then turned and spun it into the water.
It disappeared into a wave without a splash, the cold gray water maybe welcoming it back, Sam thought, the sailor home from the sea, and then shuddered.
Home.
He wondered sometimes how he’d feel if this coastline were home, the curve of the bay snugged up against dark mountains the place he dreamed about; if any of the small towns they’d passed through had been, their fast food joints and white-spired churches what he saw when he closed his eyes. But it wasn’t, and they weren’t, and with the case done, the bad guys ganked and his brother glancing away from the sweep of the rocks and the sea to assure himself that no one had parked too close to his beloved Impala, Sam was ready to go, too.
With a last glance at the sky, he turned toward Dean and dropped a hand onto his shoulder. “Come on, let’s go find some breakfast.”
“Yeah, okay,” Dean said, but he didn’t move until Sam tightened his fingers, stepping close enough that Sam could hear the sound of his breathing over rhythmic thudding of the waves against the beach. When he looked down, Dean’s eyes were wide and green in the hazy light. “I got a question for you before we go, though.”
Without breaking Dean’s gaze, Sam lifted his hand and shoved it into the pocket of his jeans. “What?” he asked, not really wanting to know.
“Are you in or not?” Dean said. “Because this -“ he waved a hand toward the highway past the parking lot, and somehow Sam knew it wasn’t the SUVs with the surfboards strapped to their roofs he was talking about - “this is all I got. If it ain’t enough for you -“
His voice trailed off, and Sam chewed at the inside of his lip. The truth was it wasn’t enough; somewhere between the first clap of thunder and the storm fading away he’d figured that out. But listening to Dean muttering through his dreams in the bed next to his, he also figured out that he needed to get both of them out of the family business. Otherwise, any life Sam built wasn’t going to be any more real than those months with Amelia had been, picnics, fuck.
Sam clenched his fist hard enough to pop the knuckles. “Yeah, man, I’m good. We’re good,” he added, shoving at Dean with his shoulder, fist still tight in the pocket of his jeans. “Let’s get in the car, find another hunt. I’m good, Dean, seriously.”
When they got to the curb that separated the beach from the tiny parking lot, Sam paused to stamp the sand off his boots. Dean watched him for a moment, then crossed over to where they’d left the car. Its roof was gleaming with sea spray, and as Sam watched, he popped the trunk and pulled out a towel, carefully wiping the salt off the car’s paint job. Now wasn’t the time to bring it up, but he had a feeling Dean, for all his insistence on fighting the good fight, was going to be just as ready as Sam was to retire, get a nice warm garage for the Impala and maybe adopt a fastback for her to raise.
Grinning at the thought, Sam strolled across the parking and stepped into his brother’s personal space. Dean looked up from where he was wiping down the rear left wheel well and lifted an eyebrow. “You got another one of those?” Sam asked, his voice carefully neutral. “You missed a spot on the other side.”
Without answering, Dean ripped the towel in half and gave a piece to Sam. “Knock yourself out,” he said. “I’m sure she could use the attention.”
Soon enough, Sam thought, and crossing the beach off his list of places they could end up, bent down to make sure the car’s finish was free of salt. Damn stuff could eat a car alive, he knew, and that would sort of miss the point.
The next day the beach was deserted. A cold front had moved in during the night, throwing kelp up past the high tide line and leaving the sand pocked with the marks of the rain Sam had spent half the night awake and listening to. Next to him, Dean bent down to grab something, and as he brushed it off, Sam could see that it was a fragment of shell shaped like a blade.
“Man, they must have some crazy seafood joints out here in California.” Dean held the shell up. It was a good eight inches along the curve, sharp-edged and crusted with white patches. “Whatever lives in this thing’s gotta be the size of a fucking boot.”
Sam shrugged. “Abalone, maybe. You don’t see them that much anymore, but they used to be pretty common.”
“Huh.” Dean held the shell up, gazing at it for a long moment, then turned and spun it into the water.
It disappeared into a wave without a splash, the cold gray water maybe welcoming it back, Sam thought, the sailor home from the sea, and then shuddered.
Home.
He wondered sometimes how he’d feel if this coastline were home, the curve of the bay snugged up against dark mountains the place he dreamed about; if any of the small towns they’d passed through had been, their fast food joints and white-spired churches what he saw when he closed his eyes. But it wasn’t, and they weren’t, and with the case done, the bad guys ganked and his brother glancing away from the sweep of the rocks and the sea to assure himself that no one had parked too close to his beloved Impala, Sam was ready to go, too.
With a last glance at the sky, he turned toward Dean and dropped a hand onto his shoulder. “Come on, let’s go find some breakfast.”
“Yeah, okay,” Dean said, but he didn’t move until Sam tightened his fingers, stepping close enough that Sam could hear the sound of his breathing over rhythmic thudding of the waves against the beach. When he looked down, Dean’s eyes were wide and green in the hazy light. “I got a question for you before we go, though.”
Without breaking Dean’s gaze, Sam lifted his hand and shoved it into the pocket of his jeans. “What?” he asked, not really wanting to know.
“Are you in or not?” Dean said. “Because this -“ he waved a hand toward the highway past the parking lot, and somehow Sam knew it wasn’t the SUVs with the surfboards strapped to their roofs he was talking about - “this is all I got. If it ain’t enough for you -“
His voice trailed off, and Sam chewed at the inside of his lip. The truth was it wasn’t enough; somewhere between the first clap of thunder and the storm fading away he’d figured that out. But listening to Dean muttering through his dreams in the bed next to his, he also figured out that he needed to get both of them out of the family business. Otherwise, any life Sam built wasn’t going to be any more real than those months with Amelia had been, picnics, fuck.
Sam clenched his fist hard enough to pop the knuckles. “Yeah, man, I’m good. We’re good,” he added, shoving at Dean with his shoulder, fist still tight in the pocket of his jeans. “Let’s get in the car, find another hunt. I’m good, Dean, seriously.”
When they got to the curb that separated the beach from the tiny parking lot, Sam paused to stamp the sand off his boots. Dean watched him for a moment, then crossed over to where they’d left the car. Its roof was gleaming with sea spray, and as Sam watched, he popped the trunk and pulled out a towel, carefully wiping the salt off the car’s paint job. Now wasn’t the time to bring it up, but he had a feeling Dean, for all his insistence on fighting the good fight, was going to be just as ready as Sam was to retire, get a nice warm garage for the Impala and maybe adopt a fastback for her to raise.
Grinning at the thought, Sam strolled across the parking and stepped into his brother’s personal space. Dean looked up from where he was wiping down the rear left wheel well and lifted an eyebrow. “You got another one of those?” Sam asked, his voice carefully neutral. “You missed a spot on the other side.”
Without answering, Dean ripped the towel in half and gave a piece to Sam. “Knock yourself out,” he said. “I’m sure she could use the attention.”
Soon enough, Sam thought, and crossing the beach off his list of places they could end up, bent down to make sure the car’s finish was free of salt. Damn stuff could eat a car alive, he knew, and that would sort of miss the point.