The Things We Carry With Us - Part 9 - The Morning After
Part 9 - The Morning After
It is morning. Sam knows it is morning because there is a grey light seeping in from between the partly open curtains. The heat is still cranked up, and his mouth feels like cotton, and his lips crack as he opens them to yawn. He feels worn out, like he’d run a marathon the day before. Dean followed him up the mountain and rescued him from the Yukki Onna. Had they destroyed her? Or would she still yet stalk the ravines and frozen river beds for unsuspecting hikers? He will have to do research, and that’s okay, it’s what he does.
As his eyes grit into focus, he realizes that Dean is awake. And watching him. He lies sideways, facing Sam, head on the pillow, skin pale against the white cotton. Eyes glittering. Watching. Maybe they are hopeful eyes, Sam is not sure.
Dean doesn’t say anything. And maybe he can’t. Sam knows that he can ask for what he wants, and that Dean will, at this point, give it to him. It feels like he is standing at a crossroads. Or, being that they are in the mountains, atop a high and craggy ridge, and one step in either direction would take them both quickly to a place from where there would be no return.
He wants Dean to decide. Dean needs to decide, otherwise, he’s doing this for Sam, as he usually does. And that, Sam does not want. Dean should want for Dean once in a while. But that doesn’t mean that Sam can’t let him know that he will be okay with whatever Dean wants.
Sam licks his lips. Or tries to. He is all out of spit, and his head is pounding, and he feels like crap all over. Except for the bit where Dean is looking at him. Waiting.
“It’s morning,” Sam says. “So we’ll go on like we always do.” He pauses to make sure Dean is listening. “No matter what.” He gives a little nod. Encouragement. Permission. Acceptance. Whatever Dean wants.
Dean is listening. In less than a breath he is moving, moving in, moving close. Breath and heat and moisture. Sam soaks up the kiss, drawing in the air from Dean’s lungs, letting his hands scoop around Dean’s shoulders, pulling him close. Warming the chill that Dean has gathered to him while waiting for Sam to awaken. He inches even closer till their hips are touching; Dean’s pubic hair is scratchy against his thigh, and he can smell Dean close now. Dean smells salty, and there is a warm perfume of laundry soap in the sheets and sleep-sweat from Dean’s skin, the oil from unwashed hair, slightly sweet, slightly dank. Sam wants to eat him alive.
“Gotta breathe, here,” says Dean, where his face is pressed hard to Sam. Sam realizes he is squeezing too tightly, and that is also bad. If Dean needs him there, wants him there, then he also needs to be able to breathe and move and be. Just be Dean. Sam doesn’t want to change him, not for all the new boots in the world.
Sam slips back, loosens his arms. He tips his head to look at Dean, his hair in his eyes, limp with sweat. Dean reaches up to push the hair back, like the Yukki Onna had done. Only this time, Sam feels warm at the trace of Dean’s finger. He is warm where Dean his touching him. He is warm all over.
“So,” Sam says. “It’s morning.” He stops, his face feels flushed, and he can’t really say it. Instead he moves his hand down, between their bodies, till he is touching Dean’s hip. Dean’s eyes are wide. Expectant. Trusting. Sam wants to be sure.
Sam makes himself be bold. “Can I-? Like before?”
Now the flush is on Dean’s face, matching Sam’s. Dean’s eyes flicker with a wanting want that he cannot give words to and maybe never could. Not for soft, butter-cream colored boots, let alone for his brother’s mouth on his cock. But in the pause, there is a nod. Only a slight one, but Sam takes that for a resounding yes.
He scoots down, running his hands along Dean’s ribs and his hips, down to Dean’s thighs. At the same time, he flings the covers back with an impatient elbow. He hears a little gasp as the cooler air hits Dean’s skin.
The second his tongue touches the tip of Dean’s cock, his mouth springs with moisture. Dean’s hips shift, and Sam rests his hands on them to still them.
Then he lets his eyes flit up, to look at Dean through his eyelashes. “Going to lick you now,” he says. “Like before.”
In response, Dean tries to look away, but he can’t and Sam can see the little smirk around Dean’s mouth. On that rosy mouth that he’d kissed the day before for the first time. Sam looks down. Dean’s cock is standing up, leaking against his stomach. Sam works up some spit and takes his tongue and licks from the base of Dean’s cock, all the way up the shaft to the head. He twirls the tip of his tongue, and tastes the moisture there, which is mostly salty and very silky. Then he lowers his mouth, quickly, before the moisture can dry. And hears Dean sigh.
He sinks down, taking all of Dean in his mouth, leaving moisture behind, sucking up salt, and pressing his forehead against Dean’s belly, absorbing Dean’s smell. He swirls his tongue around as he pulls back up, and feels Dean tapping him on the shoulder.
In a second, he releases Dean with his mouth, still tasting the sparks on this tongue, the sweet bite of salt. Dean. What does Dean really want? Sam will give it to him. Anything.
“What?” Sam asks.
Dean’s eyes are lowered, lashing fanning across his skin. He’s being a little flirty, but there is a flush to his skin that Sam can’t quite interpret.
“Say it again,” Dean says.
Sam wrinkles his forehead and runs back the conversation in his mind. There were only a few words, and all of them with layers of meaning, spreading out code between them. He doesn’t want to ask which part. He wants to know.
He looks at Dean, at Dean’s cock, dark with blood, and stiff and straining. Dean is so very close, and Sam hasn’t barely touched him. Let alone licked him. Ah-
Sam hunkers down. He places one hand each on Dean’s thighs, and pushes them apart a little bit. Gently. But apart. He lowers his mouth till it is right above the base of Dean’s cock. He swipes it with his tongue leaving a sliver of moisture behind. Then he blows air across the spot.
Dean’s cock starts pulsing, even as Sam says it. “I’m going to lick you. Lick you. And then we’ll go on like we always do.”
Dean’s whole body jerks. A stream of milky come shoots up across Dean’s belly, and Sam’s hand is there, soothing and stroking Dean’s cock, his tongue licking and pressing as small quakes run up and down Dean’s thighs. Sam can feel them on either side of him. Then, as the orgasm slows, Sam lifts up on his knees, and swipes his tongue across Dean’s stomach, right across his belly button, and through the ribbon of come. He does it warm and slow, and feels the hard grunt from Dean’s chest. Feels the rumble of it with his mouth.
Sam feels the last pulse of Dean’s orgasm against his lips, and bends his neck to circle the head of Dean’s cock with his mouth, sucking up the last drops. Dean tastes sweet and sour and salty. Sam swallows what’s in his mouth, and wipes the rest away from his chin with the back of his hand. He sits back on his heels, still between Dean’s thighs. Dean’s eyes are closed, but gently, relaxed. His mouth is open and rosy; there is a flush of color on his cheeks.
Blindly, Dean’s hand reaches out and Sam takes it and puts it on his thigh. Sam’s hard himself, and he can feel the pulse of blood rushing south, but he wants Dean to know that what Dean wants is okay. And sometimes, Dean just likes to touch Sam, in no particular place. At least that’s the way it has always been, and Sam promised Dean this.
Dean’s fingers are warm on his thigh. The knuckles tighten as the fingertips curve in, as if Dean is trying to grab hold of Sam. A tighter hold. It tells Sam that Dean is okay with this, and wants Sam close.
His hand reaches up as if to pull Sam to him, but then it stills and Sam feels Dean’s fingers in his hair. The fingers try to push his hair back but Sam knows how that goes. But he doesn’t care. He has Dean now and hair is just hair.
“Come here now,” says Dean. His voice is clear, and his eyes open to look at Sam. “I cut it shorter on one side again, didn’t I.”
“Yes,” says Sam. “Like you always do.”
Now Dean reaches up and pulls on Sam’s arm and Sam lets himself be guided. To lie next to Dean, the length of their bodies full out and touching. Sam pulls up the sheet to belay any chill, and knows that his hardon is pressing against Dean’s thigh.
Dean frowns for a minute. Sam strokes his chest. He can wait. Wants to wait.
“Sleep now,” Sam says.
“Then I’ll take care of you,” says Dean, letting his eyes close. “Like I always do.”
Sam lets his weight sink down. His headache is gone, and his muscles and bones feel limp and lazy. This is what warmth and love is delivered in skin and touches and the glitter of green eyes. And a promise. Dean always keeps his promises.
*
They are going down the canyon, headed east. Dean drives as fast as he dares as the tires slip on the roads; the roads are plowed but there are mountains of snow on either side, and the road is ribboned with ice. Sam has the image of the Impala as a black dot amidst the endless terrain of piled snow and rock and when Dean swings around a curve, Sam clenches the edge of his seat and doesn’t urge caution as he normally does. He wants to get out of the mountains as much as Dean does; there is going on as they always do, and then there is getting the hell out of Dodge.
He waits until they hit the flat terrain of the high plains outside of Denver, and are heading straight east along the dry, relatively ice-free highway. The sky is a bright grey and white and while it is still cold, there is only a smattering of snow on the ground that races past Sam’s window. The wind is behind them and he is warm in his down coat, unzipped and cushiony against his back.
He flashes a glance at Dean, then lets himself look; Dean is a little bleary eyed from lack of coffee, since they skipped breakfast to get out of town, and his hair is rumpled on account of he didn’t take a shower either. But he is beautiful, as always.
Dean must feel him looking. “Yeah?” he asks.
Sam swallows. Going on as they always do doesn’t usually mean sharing and caring, but Sam needs to say this. “Back in the mountains, in the cave?”
He waits as he makes sure he’s got Dean’s full attention because he only wants to say this one time. “I thought you weren’t coming.” He takes a breath and then opens his mouth wider to clarify exactly what he means, but Dean beats him to it.
They are barreling down the highway at a cool 75 MPH, so Dean doesn’t take his eyes from the road. Sam sees Dean clench and unclench his hands around the wheel. Then, very clearly, as if he too only wants to say this one time, he says, “You are the only constant thing in my life, how could I possibly leave you behind?”
Dean makes a thick sound in his throat, and Sam, instead of replying, turns his attention back to the road. Dean loves him, but he doesn’t like to be stared at when he makes chick-flick declarations like this. Instead, Sam thinks of lost scissors and found brothers and how Dean let him in, let Sam touch him, and how that makes Sam feel more loved than anything Dean has ever done for him from the Sam list.
Sam swallows everything else he wants to say. “Where are we going?”
“I dunno,” says Dean. He is relaxing into the drive now, expecting Sam to take up the research.
Sam obliges Dean. He digs his lap top from the back seat and boots it up on battery power. He hooks up the wi-fi and steals a signal from some hotel that will never even feel it. Luckily the high plains make it easy to get good reception. As the tires race along the pavement and Dean hums under his breath, Sam scrolls websites full of weird and looks at online newspapers while his stomach growls.
The down coat is getting warm, so Sam shifts the laptop while he takes the coat off. He plops it in the back seat and thinks that maybe it would be okay to donate the coat to Goodwill, and then thinks that he should wait for a private moment and call Steve and have him ship those boots to wherever he and Dean are headed. Maybe he’ll even order a pair for himself, just to make sure Dean accepts the present.
As he settles the laptop once more, the Impala lurches over a bump and Sam’s fingers become still on the keys. He scans the article twice to make sure.
“Yeah?” asks Dean, flicking him a glance.
“Black dog,” says Sam, with some pleasure. Dean loves hunting black dogs. “Says here this town imported a church from Wales and rebuilt it stone by stone. The older residents say that’s when the black dog sightings started, and people are getting freaked out.”
(Black Dog)
“Sounds like our kind of gig,” says Dean. The sun is coming through the clouds so he takes his hands from the wheel long enough to pull his jacket over his head, and tosses it to Sam. Sam pitches it into the back seat, where it flumps on top of the down coat and slithers off the seat.
“Where is it?” Dean asks. His hands are at the 10 and 2; he looks ready to turn left or right or put his foot on the gas till they’re a thousand miles away, whatever Sam says.
“It’s about a two day drive,” says Sam. “We keep heading east.” He shuts the laptop down and puts it away to pull out the paper map, which he unfolds across his knees. He traces the highways with his finger, even though it would have been easier to google it; he likes the feel of the paper in his hands.
“Kokomo, Indiana.” He nods at Dean, smiling. Then he waits for it, and watches as Dean shifts in his heat, lets himself absorb the curve of Dean’s jaw with impunity.
“Why does that sound familiar?” Dean asks, and Sam knows that Dean is going over all of their recent cases, one by one.
When Dean shakes his head, Sam smiles. “Jack’s Grill,” he says. “It’s in the same town as Jack’s Grill.”
Dean swallows and makes a gasping noise, and flicks a grin at Sam. “We’ll stop for a food here pretty quick,” says Dean, “’cause I can hear your stomach from here, but oh, fuck me, those hash browns-you found us a gig there on purpose, didn’t you.”
“Sort of,” says Sam. “Mostly it’s because of the black dog.” He doesn’t say any more now either; Sam knows that all that mushy I-did-it-for-you stuff when said out loud makes Dean’s skin crawl. So he just smiles and pats his tummy. There is food, and then there is Jack’s Grill.
And then there is Dean in the seat next to him, smiling and warm as the sun pours blue and gold through the windshield as they head east. Then, as Dean reaches for the button on the cassette player to turn on some Metallica tune, Sam realizes that now, now is when they are going to go on like they always do. Only differently.
The End
(Destination Anywhere by radishface )
~
Master Fic Post
Long Author's Notes
It is morning. Sam knows it is morning because there is a grey light seeping in from between the partly open curtains. The heat is still cranked up, and his mouth feels like cotton, and his lips crack as he opens them to yawn. He feels worn out, like he’d run a marathon the day before. Dean followed him up the mountain and rescued him from the Yukki Onna. Had they destroyed her? Or would she still yet stalk the ravines and frozen river beds for unsuspecting hikers? He will have to do research, and that’s okay, it’s what he does.
As his eyes grit into focus, he realizes that Dean is awake. And watching him. He lies sideways, facing Sam, head on the pillow, skin pale against the white cotton. Eyes glittering. Watching. Maybe they are hopeful eyes, Sam is not sure.
Dean doesn’t say anything. And maybe he can’t. Sam knows that he can ask for what he wants, and that Dean will, at this point, give it to him. It feels like he is standing at a crossroads. Or, being that they are in the mountains, atop a high and craggy ridge, and one step in either direction would take them both quickly to a place from where there would be no return.
He wants Dean to decide. Dean needs to decide, otherwise, he’s doing this for Sam, as he usually does. And that, Sam does not want. Dean should want for Dean once in a while. But that doesn’t mean that Sam can’t let him know that he will be okay with whatever Dean wants.
Sam licks his lips. Or tries to. He is all out of spit, and his head is pounding, and he feels like crap all over. Except for the bit where Dean is looking at him. Waiting.
“It’s morning,” Sam says. “So we’ll go on like we always do.” He pauses to make sure Dean is listening. “No matter what.” He gives a little nod. Encouragement. Permission. Acceptance. Whatever Dean wants.
Dean is listening. In less than a breath he is moving, moving in, moving close. Breath and heat and moisture. Sam soaks up the kiss, drawing in the air from Dean’s lungs, letting his hands scoop around Dean’s shoulders, pulling him close. Warming the chill that Dean has gathered to him while waiting for Sam to awaken. He inches even closer till their hips are touching; Dean’s pubic hair is scratchy against his thigh, and he can smell Dean close now. Dean smells salty, and there is a warm perfume of laundry soap in the sheets and sleep-sweat from Dean’s skin, the oil from unwashed hair, slightly sweet, slightly dank. Sam wants to eat him alive.
“Gotta breathe, here,” says Dean, where his face is pressed hard to Sam. Sam realizes he is squeezing too tightly, and that is also bad. If Dean needs him there, wants him there, then he also needs to be able to breathe and move and be. Just be Dean. Sam doesn’t want to change him, not for all the new boots in the world.
Sam slips back, loosens his arms. He tips his head to look at Dean, his hair in his eyes, limp with sweat. Dean reaches up to push the hair back, like the Yukki Onna had done. Only this time, Sam feels warm at the trace of Dean’s finger. He is warm where Dean his touching him. He is warm all over.
“So,” Sam says. “It’s morning.” He stops, his face feels flushed, and he can’t really say it. Instead he moves his hand down, between their bodies, till he is touching Dean’s hip. Dean’s eyes are wide. Expectant. Trusting. Sam wants to be sure.
Sam makes himself be bold. “Can I-? Like before?”
Now the flush is on Dean’s face, matching Sam’s. Dean’s eyes flicker with a wanting want that he cannot give words to and maybe never could. Not for soft, butter-cream colored boots, let alone for his brother’s mouth on his cock. But in the pause, there is a nod. Only a slight one, but Sam takes that for a resounding yes.
He scoots down, running his hands along Dean’s ribs and his hips, down to Dean’s thighs. At the same time, he flings the covers back with an impatient elbow. He hears a little gasp as the cooler air hits Dean’s skin.
The second his tongue touches the tip of Dean’s cock, his mouth springs with moisture. Dean’s hips shift, and Sam rests his hands on them to still them.
Then he lets his eyes flit up, to look at Dean through his eyelashes. “Going to lick you now,” he says. “Like before.”
In response, Dean tries to look away, but he can’t and Sam can see the little smirk around Dean’s mouth. On that rosy mouth that he’d kissed the day before for the first time. Sam looks down. Dean’s cock is standing up, leaking against his stomach. Sam works up some spit and takes his tongue and licks from the base of Dean’s cock, all the way up the shaft to the head. He twirls the tip of his tongue, and tastes the moisture there, which is mostly salty and very silky. Then he lowers his mouth, quickly, before the moisture can dry. And hears Dean sigh.
He sinks down, taking all of Dean in his mouth, leaving moisture behind, sucking up salt, and pressing his forehead against Dean’s belly, absorbing Dean’s smell. He swirls his tongue around as he pulls back up, and feels Dean tapping him on the shoulder.
In a second, he releases Dean with his mouth, still tasting the sparks on this tongue, the sweet bite of salt. Dean. What does Dean really want? Sam will give it to him. Anything.
“What?” Sam asks.
Dean’s eyes are lowered, lashing fanning across his skin. He’s being a little flirty, but there is a flush to his skin that Sam can’t quite interpret.
“Say it again,” Dean says.
Sam wrinkles his forehead and runs back the conversation in his mind. There were only a few words, and all of them with layers of meaning, spreading out code between them. He doesn’t want to ask which part. He wants to know.
He looks at Dean, at Dean’s cock, dark with blood, and stiff and straining. Dean is so very close, and Sam hasn’t barely touched him. Let alone licked him. Ah-
Sam hunkers down. He places one hand each on Dean’s thighs, and pushes them apart a little bit. Gently. But apart. He lowers his mouth till it is right above the base of Dean’s cock. He swipes it with his tongue leaving a sliver of moisture behind. Then he blows air across the spot.
Dean’s cock starts pulsing, even as Sam says it. “I’m going to lick you. Lick you. And then we’ll go on like we always do.”
Dean’s whole body jerks. A stream of milky come shoots up across Dean’s belly, and Sam’s hand is there, soothing and stroking Dean’s cock, his tongue licking and pressing as small quakes run up and down Dean’s thighs. Sam can feel them on either side of him. Then, as the orgasm slows, Sam lifts up on his knees, and swipes his tongue across Dean’s stomach, right across his belly button, and through the ribbon of come. He does it warm and slow, and feels the hard grunt from Dean’s chest. Feels the rumble of it with his mouth.
Sam feels the last pulse of Dean’s orgasm against his lips, and bends his neck to circle the head of Dean’s cock with his mouth, sucking up the last drops. Dean tastes sweet and sour and salty. Sam swallows what’s in his mouth, and wipes the rest away from his chin with the back of his hand. He sits back on his heels, still between Dean’s thighs. Dean’s eyes are closed, but gently, relaxed. His mouth is open and rosy; there is a flush of color on his cheeks.
Blindly, Dean’s hand reaches out and Sam takes it and puts it on his thigh. Sam’s hard himself, and he can feel the pulse of blood rushing south, but he wants Dean to know that what Dean wants is okay. And sometimes, Dean just likes to touch Sam, in no particular place. At least that’s the way it has always been, and Sam promised Dean this.
Dean’s fingers are warm on his thigh. The knuckles tighten as the fingertips curve in, as if Dean is trying to grab hold of Sam. A tighter hold. It tells Sam that Dean is okay with this, and wants Sam close.
His hand reaches up as if to pull Sam to him, but then it stills and Sam feels Dean’s fingers in his hair. The fingers try to push his hair back but Sam knows how that goes. But he doesn’t care. He has Dean now and hair is just hair.
“Come here now,” says Dean. His voice is clear, and his eyes open to look at Sam. “I cut it shorter on one side again, didn’t I.”
“Yes,” says Sam. “Like you always do.”
Now Dean reaches up and pulls on Sam’s arm and Sam lets himself be guided. To lie next to Dean, the length of their bodies full out and touching. Sam pulls up the sheet to belay any chill, and knows that his hardon is pressing against Dean’s thigh.
Dean frowns for a minute. Sam strokes his chest. He can wait. Wants to wait.
“Sleep now,” Sam says.
“Then I’ll take care of you,” says Dean, letting his eyes close. “Like I always do.”
Sam lets his weight sink down. His headache is gone, and his muscles and bones feel limp and lazy. This is what warmth and love is delivered in skin and touches and the glitter of green eyes. And a promise. Dean always keeps his promises.
*
They are going down the canyon, headed east. Dean drives as fast as he dares as the tires slip on the roads; the roads are plowed but there are mountains of snow on either side, and the road is ribboned with ice. Sam has the image of the Impala as a black dot amidst the endless terrain of piled snow and rock and when Dean swings around a curve, Sam clenches the edge of his seat and doesn’t urge caution as he normally does. He wants to get out of the mountains as much as Dean does; there is going on as they always do, and then there is getting the hell out of Dodge.
He waits until they hit the flat terrain of the high plains outside of Denver, and are heading straight east along the dry, relatively ice-free highway. The sky is a bright grey and white and while it is still cold, there is only a smattering of snow on the ground that races past Sam’s window. The wind is behind them and he is warm in his down coat, unzipped and cushiony against his back.
He flashes a glance at Dean, then lets himself look; Dean is a little bleary eyed from lack of coffee, since they skipped breakfast to get out of town, and his hair is rumpled on account of he didn’t take a shower either. But he is beautiful, as always.
Dean must feel him looking. “Yeah?” he asks.
Sam swallows. Going on as they always do doesn’t usually mean sharing and caring, but Sam needs to say this. “Back in the mountains, in the cave?”
He waits as he makes sure he’s got Dean’s full attention because he only wants to say this one time. “I thought you weren’t coming.” He takes a breath and then opens his mouth wider to clarify exactly what he means, but Dean beats him to it.
They are barreling down the highway at a cool 75 MPH, so Dean doesn’t take his eyes from the road. Sam sees Dean clench and unclench his hands around the wheel. Then, very clearly, as if he too only wants to say this one time, he says, “You are the only constant thing in my life, how could I possibly leave you behind?”
Dean makes a thick sound in his throat, and Sam, instead of replying, turns his attention back to the road. Dean loves him, but he doesn’t like to be stared at when he makes chick-flick declarations like this. Instead, Sam thinks of lost scissors and found brothers and how Dean let him in, let Sam touch him, and how that makes Sam feel more loved than anything Dean has ever done for him from the Sam list.
Sam swallows everything else he wants to say. “Where are we going?”
“I dunno,” says Dean. He is relaxing into the drive now, expecting Sam to take up the research.
Sam obliges Dean. He digs his lap top from the back seat and boots it up on battery power. He hooks up the wi-fi and steals a signal from some hotel that will never even feel it. Luckily the high plains make it easy to get good reception. As the tires race along the pavement and Dean hums under his breath, Sam scrolls websites full of weird and looks at online newspapers while his stomach growls.
The down coat is getting warm, so Sam shifts the laptop while he takes the coat off. He plops it in the back seat and thinks that maybe it would be okay to donate the coat to Goodwill, and then thinks that he should wait for a private moment and call Steve and have him ship those boots to wherever he and Dean are headed. Maybe he’ll even order a pair for himself, just to make sure Dean accepts the present.
As he settles the laptop once more, the Impala lurches over a bump and Sam’s fingers become still on the keys. He scans the article twice to make sure.
“Yeah?” asks Dean, flicking him a glance.
“Black dog,” says Sam, with some pleasure. Dean loves hunting black dogs. “Says here this town imported a church from Wales and rebuilt it stone by stone. The older residents say that’s when the black dog sightings started, and people are getting freaked out.”
(Black Dog)
“Sounds like our kind of gig,” says Dean. The sun is coming through the clouds so he takes his hands from the wheel long enough to pull his jacket over his head, and tosses it to Sam. Sam pitches it into the back seat, where it flumps on top of the down coat and slithers off the seat.
“Where is it?” Dean asks. His hands are at the 10 and 2; he looks ready to turn left or right or put his foot on the gas till they’re a thousand miles away, whatever Sam says.
“It’s about a two day drive,” says Sam. “We keep heading east.” He shuts the laptop down and puts it away to pull out the paper map, which he unfolds across his knees. He traces the highways with his finger, even though it would have been easier to google it; he likes the feel of the paper in his hands.
“Kokomo, Indiana.” He nods at Dean, smiling. Then he waits for it, and watches as Dean shifts in his heat, lets himself absorb the curve of Dean’s jaw with impunity.
“Why does that sound familiar?” Dean asks, and Sam knows that Dean is going over all of their recent cases, one by one.
When Dean shakes his head, Sam smiles. “Jack’s Grill,” he says. “It’s in the same town as Jack’s Grill.”
Dean swallows and makes a gasping noise, and flicks a grin at Sam. “We’ll stop for a food here pretty quick,” says Dean, “’cause I can hear your stomach from here, but oh, fuck me, those hash browns-you found us a gig there on purpose, didn’t you.”
“Sort of,” says Sam. “Mostly it’s because of the black dog.” He doesn’t say any more now either; Sam knows that all that mushy I-did-it-for-you stuff when said out loud makes Dean’s skin crawl. So he just smiles and pats his tummy. There is food, and then there is Jack’s Grill.
And then there is Dean in the seat next to him, smiling and warm as the sun pours blue and gold through the windshield as they head east. Then, as Dean reaches for the button on the cassette player to turn on some Metallica tune, Sam realizes that now, now is when they are going to go on like they always do. Only differently.
The End
(Destination Anywhere by radishface )
~
Master Fic Post
Long Author's Notes