drive-in, 1/2topaz119February 8 2009, 20:09:02 UTC
It's colder than shit outside--duh, Pennsylvania in the winter--but as soon as they pass the dilapidated sign, TONIGHT ONLY -- SEE GEORGE ROMERO'S NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD -- THE ORIGINAL -- ONLY MILES FROM WHERE IT WAS SHOT, Sam knows there's no way they're not circling back after dark, whether they're actually speaking to each other or not. Romero at a drive-in? It's a given.
Dean drops him off at the little laundry place and disappears to go see if he can meet up with some old contact of Dad's. Sam's just as happy to dodge the crazy, even if it does mean he's stuck trying to wash every single piece of clothing they own. He runs them through the wash three times, and ends up tossing a couple of shirts in the trash can anyway.
Once Sam gets everything in a dryer, he runs across the street and gets a sandwich from the tiny, two-pump gas station/grocery store on the corner, and on the way back, stops in at the liquor store and buys a flask of Jameson. That, plus some coffee will go a long way toward keeping them from freezing during the movie, or at least making sure they don't notice how cold they are.
He folds everything and sorts them, packing them neatly back into the duffels. There's still no sign of Dean, and Sam could call, but it's not an emergency so he just settles himself on the bench near the front of the storefront. The sun slants low through the plate glass window and the heat from all the dryers keeps it more than warm enough inside. Sam stretches out his legs and tips his head back against the wall, not quite dozing, but definitely zoning out to the hum of the machines and the static-filled murmur of Laverne and Shirley reruns on the TV bolted to the back corner of the room.
Sam hears the growl of the Impala even through the fogginess in his brain--Dean doesn't really need to lean on the horn like he does--and it doesn't take him all that long to stumble to his feet and collect the duffels, but Dean's still tapping the steering wheel impatiently by the time he gets everything into the back seat and himself into the front. He half-expects a crack or two from Dean, something along the lines of all squeaky clean, princess? but Dean only pulls away from the curb and heads toward their motel, not saying anything, in fact, until they're back in the room, clothes and computer and assorted crap from the back seat scattered around.
"There's a diner across the street." Dean has his car keys in hand. "You'll be good, right?" It takes Sam an embarrassingly long time to understand what Dean's saying. He nods, more out of some kind of reflex than anything, but he doesn't quite manage to get his face under control. "It's, whatever," Dean sighs. "Horror movies aren't your thing, right?"
Dean drops him off at the little laundry place and disappears to go see if he can meet up with some old contact of Dad's. Sam's just as happy to dodge the crazy, even if it does mean he's stuck trying to wash every single piece of clothing they own. He runs them through the wash three times, and ends up tossing a couple of shirts in the trash can anyway.
Once Sam gets everything in a dryer, he runs across the street and gets a sandwich from the tiny, two-pump gas station/grocery store on the corner, and on the way back, stops in at the liquor store and buys a flask of Jameson. That, plus some coffee will go a long way toward keeping them from freezing during the movie, or at least making sure they don't notice how cold they are.
He folds everything and sorts them, packing them neatly back into the duffels. There's still no sign of Dean, and Sam could call, but it's not an emergency so he just settles himself on the bench near the front of the storefront. The sun slants low through the plate glass window and the heat from all the dryers keeps it more than warm enough inside. Sam stretches out his legs and tips his head back against the wall, not quite dozing, but definitely zoning out to the hum of the machines and the static-filled murmur of Laverne and Shirley reruns on the TV bolted to the back corner of the room.
Sam hears the growl of the Impala even through the fogginess in his brain--Dean doesn't really need to lean on the horn like he does--and it doesn't take him all that long to stumble to his feet and collect the duffels, but Dean's still tapping the steering wheel impatiently by the time he gets everything into the back seat and himself into the front. He half-expects a crack or two from Dean, something along the lines of all squeaky clean, princess? but Dean only pulls away from the curb and heads toward their motel, not saying anything, in fact, until they're back in the room, clothes and computer and assorted crap from the back seat scattered around.
"There's a diner across the street." Dean has his car keys in hand. "You'll be good, right?" It takes Sam an embarrassingly long time to understand what Dean's saying. He nods, more out of some kind of reflex than anything, but he doesn't quite manage to get his face under control. "It's, whatever," Dean sighs. "Horror movies aren't your thing, right?"
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