fic: two for flinching and one for the road (1/1)
Title: Two for Flinching and One for the Road
Author: kimonkey7
Rating: PG-13 for mild language
Spoilers: A little season one, but nothing you'll really notice.
Disclaimer: For the love of God, if I owned them, you'd know by now.
Summary: Dean and Sam mark the Autumnal holiday with some booze and a bonfire.
A/N: Waaaaaay back in 2006, before I had figured out how to post a fic on my LJ and then link that post on a comm, I wrote this story for spn_halloween. Most of you probably read it at one time or another, but I'm reposting it today because I'm feeling pretty melancholy for our old boys these days, plus, it's Halloween. :)
They’ve been at the motel for four or five days, winding down from a particularly nasty gig, when the manager comes around.
It doesn’t surprise them. The place is the kind of pay-by-the-week joint they’d spent months living in when they were growing up, traveling and hunting with their dad. They’ve seen two or three kids with shiny, greasy hair and dull faces tossing rocks over the two-lane highway and digging holes with pointy sticks where they shouldn’t be digging.
“Alls we ask is, if you’re willin’, to get a coupla candy bars or some apples or somethin’. Keep your door open t’ let the kids know. Usually don’t get no more’an ten or fifteen. Got four stayin’ here now, and we get a few strays from town.” She glances out at the Impala, gleaming in the sun from the wax job Dean’s given her this morning. “I’d get candy, though, if I was you. Eggs is real hard to wash offa a car.”
Normally, Dean would have fumed over the threat to his baby, but he understands. He and Sam trick-or-treated their way around a motor lodge or two in their day.
“We gonna be here for Halloween?”
“Why? You feelin’ road-ready all of a sudden?”
Sam shrugs and flips the paperback he hasn’t really been reading onto the bed. “I could stick around a little longer.”
* * *
They don’t really do much; Sam half-ass reads, and Dean cleans their weapons and surfs the net for free porn and baseball stats. Dean pretends not to notice Sam’s still limping a little, and Sam doesn’t crack any more jokes about the bruise on Dean’s forehead that makes him look like a fashion-model Gorbachev.
That night, the local affiliate station runs a marathon of classic horror movies, and they order pizza and pick apart the storylines. When ‘Dracula Vs. The Mummy’ comes on, they turn down the sound, pick characters, and drunkenly improv a whole new movie where The Count and old Bandage Face are juvenile delinquents brought together by their love of show tunes.
At one point, Sam actually snorts a mouthful of beer out his nose.
* * *
On the morning of the 31st, Dean takes off early and comes back with coffee and SuperSONIC breakfast burritos and about fifty bucks worth of king-size candy bars and family size bags of Doritos from the quick-stop down the road. He unpacks the loot with a little smile on his face that infects Sam when he realizes the sheer volume his brother’s purchased.
“The manager said they only get ten or fifteen kids, Dean.”
“So they get lucky. I’m just insuring the Impala’s safety.”
But Sam knows that’s not true.
With an even wider grin, Dean thunks down a fifth of Jack and a 2-liter of Mountain Dew.
“Oh, no. No, no, no…” says Sam.
Dean is mock stern. “Yes, Sam. It’s tradition. You know that.”
“Dean. No way.”
“Yes way, Sammy. We’ve got four years of Halloweens to make up for.”
“I can’t drink that shit anymore, Dean. Not after the last time.”
Dean nods and rat-a-tats snickery laughter. “Oh, man. That was hilarious.”
“It wasn’t hilarious. I had to have my stomach pumped.”
“Yeah, but that nurse’s aide was hot.”
Sam knows there’s no way around it; he’ll be drinking tonight. For a family as non-traditional as theirs, they certainly adhere to a lot of rituals. He only hopes the kids around here suck at costumes as much as he and Dean had when they were young. When you’d seen the real thing, the masks at the store were a little too lame. Both of them usually just swapped clothes and dressed up as the other one - add pillow case cum booty sack.
Dean shoves one of the burritos into Sam’s hands. “You better start building a base, little brother. Happy Sam’s Heinie.”
* * *
In a misguided effort to impress their dad, Dean had written an exhaustive, 6th grade research paper on the history of Halloween entitled “Why We Celebrate Samhain”. John had burst out laughing when his son had read it aloud.
“SOW-ehn, Dean. Not ‘SAMhein’. It’s Celtic, son. It’s pronounced SOW-ehn.”
Sammy had joined in their dad’s frivolity, much to Dean’s chagrin. The holiday was Sam’s Heinie from that day forward. Much to Sam’s chagrin.
* * *
Dean passes most of the afternoon pouring over newspapers from surrounding states, and Sam spends about three hours downloading spooky sound files to play while the trick-or-treaters come around. When Sam, in totally proud über-geek mode, offers to give Dean a preview, Dean makes a face and says Ozzy’s scary enough.
“Oh, yeah, right. I forgot. Because he bit the head off a live dove, right?”
“Supposed live dove,” corrects Dean.
“Riiight.”
“It’s just an urban legend, anyway.”
“And we both know those are never true,” says Sam with his best bitchface.
“Stop being such a dillhole.”
* * *
Dean returns with dinner just as the sky is getting orange and purple: six hot dogs with the works, a couple of candied apples, and two Big Gulps.
“Dean, man. I said get something healthy for a change.”
“Onions and relish on the hallo-weenies, Sammy; there’s your veggies.”
“Christ.”
“Plus, you know, apples.”
Sam eyes the dusty plastic boxes that hold the shiny, dipped pommes. “Those are probably, like, a million years old.”
“But perfectly preserved inside a protective candy shell.”
“Dean, there’s no soda in the cups. Just ice.”
Dean smiles devilishly and yoinks the 64 oz. drink container from Sam’s hand. He splits half the fifth of the earlier-purchased Jack Daniels between the two cups and tops them off with a less generous helping of Mountain Dew. He hands Sam the sewer-water looking brew and offers up a ‘cheers’ before taking a healthy swallow through his own red plastic straw.
“You’re a sadistic bastard, you know that, right?”
Dean smiles through a grimace. “Drink up, little brother.”
* * *
It’s a really nice evening. One of those Mid-Western autumn nights that promises winter while still courting summer. They’ve dragged a bedspread off one of the twin mattresses and laid it on the hood of the Impala, so as not to scuff up the wax job. They’ve hauled their makeshift dinner onto the car with them, as well as the bags of treats Dean purchased that morning. Under them, the engine still ticks and fidgets from Dean’s food run, sending up warmth through steel and fabric; picnic, a la Dean.
Sam’s got a pretty good buzz going already. He’s declined to eat the hotdogs and refused to even acknowledge the candy apples. His entire dinner has consisted of half a pound of cool ranch-flavored Doritos. Dean’s had three hotdogs and, although his Big Gulp is a third empty, he doesn’t seem even slightly tipsy to Sam. And then Sam laughs for a good solid minute because, after he thinks it four times in his head, the word ‘tipsy’ doesn’t even make sense anymore.
Dean shoots him an exasperated look that melts into a smile a second or two later. “You feelin’ okay?”
“Yeah. I’m feelin’ pretty good, Dean.”
Dean nods and takes a long draw off his straw. “That’s what I like to hear.”
* * *
Dean’s got a Black Sabbath tape playing loud and proud on the cassette deck, all the windows rolled down. The Impala’s nosed in to face the room, and they’re expecting trick-or-treaters any minute now; the town’s emergency siren has already sounded to kick off the sanctioned candy gathering and it will sound again in three hours to signal the end.
They both catch the movement at the far edge of the parking lot. Two or three kids, they can’t be sure, but one of them has gone the Casper route, white sheet floating on the breeze with the high-pitched voices.
“Alright, Sammy. You know the rules. Bullshit gets a sip, chug if they get it right.”
“No pro’lem. I got it,” says Sam, slurring only slightly.
As the kids get closer, they can see there are four of them: the ghost, a pirate, a zombie, and possibly a hobo. The small group makes their way from room to room and, when they reach Dean and Sam’s, they’re a little cautious.
“Right here, guys,” says Dean, drawing their attention from the room’s open door.
The kids turn and eye the brothers suspiciously. The tallest of the group, the hobo/drifter, speaks up. “You guys got candy?”
“You know the magic words?” asks Dean.
“Trick or treat?” mumbles the ghost from under the sheet.
Dean smiles a genuine grin and grabs for the bag of goodies between him and Sam. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”
The kids’ eyes widen when they see the deluxe provisions come out of the plastic sack.
“Dang!” says the zombie, which makes both Sam and Dean chuckle a little.
“Thanks, mister!” says the pirate.
“You’re welcome,” says Dean, dropping a Snickers bar into the kid’s orange plastic pumpkin container.
“Happy Halloween!” says Sam, a little too loudly.
After the kids move on, Dean says, “Okay, that’s three sips and a chug, right?”
“What, for the hobo?”
Dean smirks. “For the zombie, dude. Kid had it down.”
“Homeless hobo guy looked like you after a long night, man. Seemed pretty realistic to me.”
“Okay. You chug twice, then, smartass.”
* * *
There’s mostly sipping and two reluctant chugs - a not totally lame-ass werewolf (excellent use of what Dean surmises is barber hair) and a force-chug for the girl in the pink nightgown with a glitter-dusted tiara and magic wand.
“Oh, you are so chugging for the princess, Samantha,” says Dean, all glassy-eyed and smiling.
“Screw you and the Impala you rode in on,” says Sam around a hiccup.
“I mean, the mincing walk, the tippy-toes, the pink…”
“Ha, ha.”
“Drink, motherfucker.”
And Sam does.
* * *
“What are you supposed to be?” says the kid eyeing Dean.
The town’s warning siren blared fifteen minutes ago, but Sam and Dean are still on the Impala’s hood, enjoying the stars and the chill in the air.
“What are you supposed to be?” counters Dean.
The kid is maybe twelve, thirteen. He’s in nothing but a too-big sweat shirt and a pair of dirty jeans, but he’s hauling a pillowcase full of candy, just like the younger kid with him. The smaller boy, maybe seven or eight, is sporting a baseball cap and an orange jumpsuit covered with peeling stickers and soup can labels.
“I’m his big brother,” says the kid, cocking his head and pointing at the boy with him, “I don’t have to be anything else.”
“Damn straight,” says Dean, dumping the remainder of the candy and chips between the kids’ pillowcases.
“I’m Dale Earnhardt, Jr.,” says the younger boy, smiling sleepily.
“Whozat?” asks Sam.
Dean and the older kid both shake their heads and utter a scathing, ‘Idiot.’
“What?”
“Thanks,” both kids call, as they walk away.
“Double chugs,” says Dean.
“Who the fuck is Dale Earnhardt, Jr.?”
* * *
Dean checks his watch. “Almost midnight, Sammy.”
“So?” Sam’s picking his way through a Snickers bar he’d ferreted away earlier. He’s got the nougat layer chewed off and is working on the chocolate removal, saving the peanuts and caramel for last.
“What do you mean, ‘so’?”
“Oh, come on, dude. You don’t still do that.”
“Dude. Every year.”
“Dude, you’re kidding.”
“Does it look like I’m kidding?”
Neither of the twin Deans Sam’s currently seeing looks particularly jocular. And the over-stuffed duffel on the bed is no joke. In fact, it’s a little sobering. Damn it. “Aw, Christ.”
“Christ’s got nothin’ to do with it.”
“Dean…”
“Saddle up, Sammy. It’s cleansing and purging time. We gotta pay our respects.”
Sam shakes his head, which isn’t wise, considering how swimmy it is at the moment. “No, Dean. Come on. It’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid, Sam.”
“Dude. It doesn’t mean anything.”
Dean just stares at him; he’s not being indignant, he’s not cursing, not pleading. He just telling Sam with his eyes that, even though Sam thinks it’s stupid, it’s important to him. And that should make it important to Sam.
“Fine,” Sam says, relenting. He drags himself up from the chair, smearing chocolate across the tabletop. “But I don’t have anything-”
“I got ya covered,” says Dean. “Don’t worry about it.”
* * *
Dean’s not really in any condition to drive, but then, Sam’s not in the best of conditions for a midnight hike. Doesn’t matter, either way; they need to get far enough away from town that they’re not immediately discovered. Fire tends to draw attention.
Dean finds them a pretty clear, not-too-dry spot along the edge of a cornfield and a copse of trees. He digs out a shaky trench with his boot heel, while Sam sways and lists a little, hands crammed in the pocket of his hoodie.
“Sammy. Go find me some kindling.”
“Huh?”
“Go. Twigs. Burn-y stuff. Nothin’ green and nothin’ thicker than your wrist. I don’t wanna be here all night.”
Sam doesn’t move, just sort of looks at his big brother like he’s speaking Swedish.
“Sam! What’s the problem?”
“’M cold.”
“Yeah, well, get me the kindling and you won’t be.”
* * *
After Dean tents the smaller twigs and gets a smolder, everything from the duffel starts to come out.
Sam’s a little sweaty from the recon for the wood and he’s pulled off his hoodie and tossed it to the side on the ground. He’s watching Dean unpack everything and is surprised by the volume. Equally surprised to see some of his own stuff amidst Dean’s.
The forest green t-shirt is the first to go on, once the blaze starts to catch. Sam remembers it. Lempaugh, Tennessee. Dean had gotten pretty torn up by a rawhead in the backroom of an abandoned house. They were both pretty good at getting bloodstains out of clothes, but blood stains combined with actual mutilation of the clothing article meant a toss-out. Unless you were Dean Winchester - Secret Superstitious Pagan.
Every t-shirt, flannel, pair of jeans that Sam had deemed beyond saving, Dean had squirreled away. Anything stained with their blood. Anything that showed the risks they took. Everything that proved they’d made it out alive when maybe they shouldn’t have. All of it was dropped into the fire, one by one.
Along with the clothes, Dean was getting rid of knives that would no longer stay sharp, arrows with broken shafts, used up spells, details for ceremonies that had backfired or never worked right in the first place.
2,000 years ago, the Celts had burned grains and fruits and vegetables to thank the gods for that year’s harvest, ensuring another successful year. Dean Winchester burned the reminders of every time he’d cheated death. He offered up his spent blood as a thank you and a reminder. Not that he believed in God, necessarily. But you gotta say thank you at some point. You never knew who was listening.
Sam recognizes the shirt he’d worn in Chicago. The shadow devas. Before Dean can toss it on the pyre, Sam grabs it and tosses it into the small inferno on his own. As he watches the fire lick a little higher, consuming the garment like a gasoline soul, he catches his brother’s eye.
They nod slightly to one another, return their eyes to the flames.
Dean pulls the remainder of the fifth from the duffel, uncaps it and takes a swig. Passes it to Sam.
They are time traveling through the past year, letting go of every stumble and stitch, every failure and every miraculous victory. This night is total war on the past, burning to the ground every reminder of what’s transpired in the past twelve months. And it feels good. It feels good that they’ll leave a lot of the past 365 days in ashes in the middle of nowhere.
Sam’s glad Dean’s made him do this. Without meaning to, he inches his way next to his brother. Taking another swig of Jack, he throws his arm around Dean’s shoulders, and Dean doesn’t knock it away.
The bottle passes back and forth several more times, as the flames take on the patina of accomplishment and grace. And many miles to go before they rest.
“Happy Halloween, Sammy.”
“You too, Dean.”
Author: kimonkey7
Rating: PG-13 for mild language
Spoilers: A little season one, but nothing you'll really notice.
Disclaimer: For the love of God, if I owned them, you'd know by now.
Summary: Dean and Sam mark the Autumnal holiday with some booze and a bonfire.
A/N: Waaaaaay back in 2006, before I had figured out how to post a fic on my LJ and then link that post on a comm, I wrote this story for spn_halloween. Most of you probably read it at one time or another, but I'm reposting it today because I'm feeling pretty melancholy for our old boys these days, plus, it's Halloween. :)
They’ve been at the motel for four or five days, winding down from a particularly nasty gig, when the manager comes around.
It doesn’t surprise them. The place is the kind of pay-by-the-week joint they’d spent months living in when they were growing up, traveling and hunting with their dad. They’ve seen two or three kids with shiny, greasy hair and dull faces tossing rocks over the two-lane highway and digging holes with pointy sticks where they shouldn’t be digging.
“Alls we ask is, if you’re willin’, to get a coupla candy bars or some apples or somethin’. Keep your door open t’ let the kids know. Usually don’t get no more’an ten or fifteen. Got four stayin’ here now, and we get a few strays from town.” She glances out at the Impala, gleaming in the sun from the wax job Dean’s given her this morning. “I’d get candy, though, if I was you. Eggs is real hard to wash offa a car.”
Normally, Dean would have fumed over the threat to his baby, but he understands. He and Sam trick-or-treated their way around a motor lodge or two in their day.
“We gonna be here for Halloween?”
“Why? You feelin’ road-ready all of a sudden?”
Sam shrugs and flips the paperback he hasn’t really been reading onto the bed. “I could stick around a little longer.”
* * *
They don’t really do much; Sam half-ass reads, and Dean cleans their weapons and surfs the net for free porn and baseball stats. Dean pretends not to notice Sam’s still limping a little, and Sam doesn’t crack any more jokes about the bruise on Dean’s forehead that makes him look like a fashion-model Gorbachev.
That night, the local affiliate station runs a marathon of classic horror movies, and they order pizza and pick apart the storylines. When ‘Dracula Vs. The Mummy’ comes on, they turn down the sound, pick characters, and drunkenly improv a whole new movie where The Count and old Bandage Face are juvenile delinquents brought together by their love of show tunes.
At one point, Sam actually snorts a mouthful of beer out his nose.
* * *
On the morning of the 31st, Dean takes off early and comes back with coffee and SuperSONIC breakfast burritos and about fifty bucks worth of king-size candy bars and family size bags of Doritos from the quick-stop down the road. He unpacks the loot with a little smile on his face that infects Sam when he realizes the sheer volume his brother’s purchased.
“The manager said they only get ten or fifteen kids, Dean.”
“So they get lucky. I’m just insuring the Impala’s safety.”
But Sam knows that’s not true.
With an even wider grin, Dean thunks down a fifth of Jack and a 2-liter of Mountain Dew.
“Oh, no. No, no, no…” says Sam.
Dean is mock stern. “Yes, Sam. It’s tradition. You know that.”
“Dean. No way.”
“Yes way, Sammy. We’ve got four years of Halloweens to make up for.”
“I can’t drink that shit anymore, Dean. Not after the last time.”
Dean nods and rat-a-tats snickery laughter. “Oh, man. That was hilarious.”
“It wasn’t hilarious. I had to have my stomach pumped.”
“Yeah, but that nurse’s aide was hot.”
Sam knows there’s no way around it; he’ll be drinking tonight. For a family as non-traditional as theirs, they certainly adhere to a lot of rituals. He only hopes the kids around here suck at costumes as much as he and Dean had when they were young. When you’d seen the real thing, the masks at the store were a little too lame. Both of them usually just swapped clothes and dressed up as the other one - add pillow case cum booty sack.
Dean shoves one of the burritos into Sam’s hands. “You better start building a base, little brother. Happy Sam’s Heinie.”
* * *
In a misguided effort to impress their dad, Dean had written an exhaustive, 6th grade research paper on the history of Halloween entitled “Why We Celebrate Samhain”. John had burst out laughing when his son had read it aloud.
“SOW-ehn, Dean. Not ‘SAMhein’. It’s Celtic, son. It’s pronounced SOW-ehn.”
Sammy had joined in their dad’s frivolity, much to Dean’s chagrin. The holiday was Sam’s Heinie from that day forward. Much to Sam’s chagrin.
* * *
Dean passes most of the afternoon pouring over newspapers from surrounding states, and Sam spends about three hours downloading spooky sound files to play while the trick-or-treaters come around. When Sam, in totally proud über-geek mode, offers to give Dean a preview, Dean makes a face and says Ozzy’s scary enough.
“Oh, yeah, right. I forgot. Because he bit the head off a live dove, right?”
“Supposed live dove,” corrects Dean.
“Riiight.”
“It’s just an urban legend, anyway.”
“And we both know those are never true,” says Sam with his best bitchface.
“Stop being such a dillhole.”
* * *
Dean returns with dinner just as the sky is getting orange and purple: six hot dogs with the works, a couple of candied apples, and two Big Gulps.
“Dean, man. I said get something healthy for a change.”
“Onions and relish on the hallo-weenies, Sammy; there’s your veggies.”
“Christ.”
“Plus, you know, apples.”
Sam eyes the dusty plastic boxes that hold the shiny, dipped pommes. “Those are probably, like, a million years old.”
“But perfectly preserved inside a protective candy shell.”
“Dean, there’s no soda in the cups. Just ice.”
Dean smiles devilishly and yoinks the 64 oz. drink container from Sam’s hand. He splits half the fifth of the earlier-purchased Jack Daniels between the two cups and tops them off with a less generous helping of Mountain Dew. He hands Sam the sewer-water looking brew and offers up a ‘cheers’ before taking a healthy swallow through his own red plastic straw.
“You’re a sadistic bastard, you know that, right?”
Dean smiles through a grimace. “Drink up, little brother.”
* * *
It’s a really nice evening. One of those Mid-Western autumn nights that promises winter while still courting summer. They’ve dragged a bedspread off one of the twin mattresses and laid it on the hood of the Impala, so as not to scuff up the wax job. They’ve hauled their makeshift dinner onto the car with them, as well as the bags of treats Dean purchased that morning. Under them, the engine still ticks and fidgets from Dean’s food run, sending up warmth through steel and fabric; picnic, a la Dean.
Sam’s got a pretty good buzz going already. He’s declined to eat the hotdogs and refused to even acknowledge the candy apples. His entire dinner has consisted of half a pound of cool ranch-flavored Doritos. Dean’s had three hotdogs and, although his Big Gulp is a third empty, he doesn’t seem even slightly tipsy to Sam. And then Sam laughs for a good solid minute because, after he thinks it four times in his head, the word ‘tipsy’ doesn’t even make sense anymore.
Dean shoots him an exasperated look that melts into a smile a second or two later. “You feelin’ okay?”
“Yeah. I’m feelin’ pretty good, Dean.”
Dean nods and takes a long draw off his straw. “That’s what I like to hear.”
* * *
Dean’s got a Black Sabbath tape playing loud and proud on the cassette deck, all the windows rolled down. The Impala’s nosed in to face the room, and they’re expecting trick-or-treaters any minute now; the town’s emergency siren has already sounded to kick off the sanctioned candy gathering and it will sound again in three hours to signal the end.
They both catch the movement at the far edge of the parking lot. Two or three kids, they can’t be sure, but one of them has gone the Casper route, white sheet floating on the breeze with the high-pitched voices.
“Alright, Sammy. You know the rules. Bullshit gets a sip, chug if they get it right.”
“No pro’lem. I got it,” says Sam, slurring only slightly.
As the kids get closer, they can see there are four of them: the ghost, a pirate, a zombie, and possibly a hobo. The small group makes their way from room to room and, when they reach Dean and Sam’s, they’re a little cautious.
“Right here, guys,” says Dean, drawing their attention from the room’s open door.
The kids turn and eye the brothers suspiciously. The tallest of the group, the hobo/drifter, speaks up. “You guys got candy?”
“You know the magic words?” asks Dean.
“Trick or treat?” mumbles the ghost from under the sheet.
Dean smiles a genuine grin and grabs for the bag of goodies between him and Sam. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”
The kids’ eyes widen when they see the deluxe provisions come out of the plastic sack.
“Dang!” says the zombie, which makes both Sam and Dean chuckle a little.
“Thanks, mister!” says the pirate.
“You’re welcome,” says Dean, dropping a Snickers bar into the kid’s orange plastic pumpkin container.
“Happy Halloween!” says Sam, a little too loudly.
After the kids move on, Dean says, “Okay, that’s three sips and a chug, right?”
“What, for the hobo?”
Dean smirks. “For the zombie, dude. Kid had it down.”
“Homeless hobo guy looked like you after a long night, man. Seemed pretty realistic to me.”
“Okay. You chug twice, then, smartass.”
* * *
There’s mostly sipping and two reluctant chugs - a not totally lame-ass werewolf (excellent use of what Dean surmises is barber hair) and a force-chug for the girl in the pink nightgown with a glitter-dusted tiara and magic wand.
“Oh, you are so chugging for the princess, Samantha,” says Dean, all glassy-eyed and smiling.
“Screw you and the Impala you rode in on,” says Sam around a hiccup.
“I mean, the mincing walk, the tippy-toes, the pink…”
“Ha, ha.”
“Drink, motherfucker.”
And Sam does.
* * *
“What are you supposed to be?” says the kid eyeing Dean.
The town’s warning siren blared fifteen minutes ago, but Sam and Dean are still on the Impala’s hood, enjoying the stars and the chill in the air.
“What are you supposed to be?” counters Dean.
The kid is maybe twelve, thirteen. He’s in nothing but a too-big sweat shirt and a pair of dirty jeans, but he’s hauling a pillowcase full of candy, just like the younger kid with him. The smaller boy, maybe seven or eight, is sporting a baseball cap and an orange jumpsuit covered with peeling stickers and soup can labels.
“I’m his big brother,” says the kid, cocking his head and pointing at the boy with him, “I don’t have to be anything else.”
“Damn straight,” says Dean, dumping the remainder of the candy and chips between the kids’ pillowcases.
“I’m Dale Earnhardt, Jr.,” says the younger boy, smiling sleepily.
“Whozat?” asks Sam.
Dean and the older kid both shake their heads and utter a scathing, ‘Idiot.’
“What?”
“Thanks,” both kids call, as they walk away.
“Double chugs,” says Dean.
“Who the fuck is Dale Earnhardt, Jr.?”
* * *
Dean checks his watch. “Almost midnight, Sammy.”
“So?” Sam’s picking his way through a Snickers bar he’d ferreted away earlier. He’s got the nougat layer chewed off and is working on the chocolate removal, saving the peanuts and caramel for last.
“What do you mean, ‘so’?”
“Oh, come on, dude. You don’t still do that.”
“Dude. Every year.”
“Dude, you’re kidding.”
“Does it look like I’m kidding?”
Neither of the twin Deans Sam’s currently seeing looks particularly jocular. And the over-stuffed duffel on the bed is no joke. In fact, it’s a little sobering. Damn it. “Aw, Christ.”
“Christ’s got nothin’ to do with it.”
“Dean…”
“Saddle up, Sammy. It’s cleansing and purging time. We gotta pay our respects.”
Sam shakes his head, which isn’t wise, considering how swimmy it is at the moment. “No, Dean. Come on. It’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid, Sam.”
“Dude. It doesn’t mean anything.”
Dean just stares at him; he’s not being indignant, he’s not cursing, not pleading. He just telling Sam with his eyes that, even though Sam thinks it’s stupid, it’s important to him. And that should make it important to Sam.
“Fine,” Sam says, relenting. He drags himself up from the chair, smearing chocolate across the tabletop. “But I don’t have anything-”
“I got ya covered,” says Dean. “Don’t worry about it.”
* * *
Dean’s not really in any condition to drive, but then, Sam’s not in the best of conditions for a midnight hike. Doesn’t matter, either way; they need to get far enough away from town that they’re not immediately discovered. Fire tends to draw attention.
Dean finds them a pretty clear, not-too-dry spot along the edge of a cornfield and a copse of trees. He digs out a shaky trench with his boot heel, while Sam sways and lists a little, hands crammed in the pocket of his hoodie.
“Sammy. Go find me some kindling.”
“Huh?”
“Go. Twigs. Burn-y stuff. Nothin’ green and nothin’ thicker than your wrist. I don’t wanna be here all night.”
Sam doesn’t move, just sort of looks at his big brother like he’s speaking Swedish.
“Sam! What’s the problem?”
“’M cold.”
“Yeah, well, get me the kindling and you won’t be.”
* * *
After Dean tents the smaller twigs and gets a smolder, everything from the duffel starts to come out.
Sam’s a little sweaty from the recon for the wood and he’s pulled off his hoodie and tossed it to the side on the ground. He’s watching Dean unpack everything and is surprised by the volume. Equally surprised to see some of his own stuff amidst Dean’s.
The forest green t-shirt is the first to go on, once the blaze starts to catch. Sam remembers it. Lempaugh, Tennessee. Dean had gotten pretty torn up by a rawhead in the backroom of an abandoned house. They were both pretty good at getting bloodstains out of clothes, but blood stains combined with actual mutilation of the clothing article meant a toss-out. Unless you were Dean Winchester - Secret Superstitious Pagan.
Every t-shirt, flannel, pair of jeans that Sam had deemed beyond saving, Dean had squirreled away. Anything stained with their blood. Anything that showed the risks they took. Everything that proved they’d made it out alive when maybe they shouldn’t have. All of it was dropped into the fire, one by one.
Along with the clothes, Dean was getting rid of knives that would no longer stay sharp, arrows with broken shafts, used up spells, details for ceremonies that had backfired or never worked right in the first place.
2,000 years ago, the Celts had burned grains and fruits and vegetables to thank the gods for that year’s harvest, ensuring another successful year. Dean Winchester burned the reminders of every time he’d cheated death. He offered up his spent blood as a thank you and a reminder. Not that he believed in God, necessarily. But you gotta say thank you at some point. You never knew who was listening.
Sam recognizes the shirt he’d worn in Chicago. The shadow devas. Before Dean can toss it on the pyre, Sam grabs it and tosses it into the small inferno on his own. As he watches the fire lick a little higher, consuming the garment like a gasoline soul, he catches his brother’s eye.
They nod slightly to one another, return their eyes to the flames.
Dean pulls the remainder of the fifth from the duffel, uncaps it and takes a swig. Passes it to Sam.
They are time traveling through the past year, letting go of every stumble and stitch, every failure and every miraculous victory. This night is total war on the past, burning to the ground every reminder of what’s transpired in the past twelve months. And it feels good. It feels good that they’ll leave a lot of the past 365 days in ashes in the middle of nowhere.
Sam’s glad Dean’s made him do this. Without meaning to, he inches his way next to his brother. Taking another swig of Jack, he throws his arm around Dean’s shoulders, and Dean doesn’t knock it away.
The bottle passes back and forth several more times, as the flames take on the patina of accomplishment and grace. And many miles to go before they rest.
“Happy Halloween, Sammy.”
“You too, Dean.”