Play It Again, Sam - 2/10
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EIGHTEEN MONTHS LATER
The first thing Sam feels when he wakes up is a pinch in the crook of his left arm. The second thing is a cotton mouth and then an empty stomach. He blinks his eyes open carefully, worried he’s going to see Lucifer, ready to do unspeakable things to him, angry that his plans for destroying the world got thwarted when Sam jumped into the hole. Instead, Sam sees the familiar surroundings of the panic room.
But he’s not strapped down this time.
The pinch turns out to be an IV (apparently Sam’s been here a while), which he pulls out with a hiss. Pressing his thumb against the tiny hole it left, he staggers to his feet. He feels a little like a colt, just trying to stand for the first time. Okay, he’s been here a long while.
Eventually he manages to stumble up the stairs. He hears the rich timbre of Dean’s voice coming from the study and hastens toward it.
And there’s Dean. He’s so beautiful, even with his back turned to Sam, even in the ugly blue shirt he’s clearly been wearing for several days. The last time Sam saw him, Dean was covered in blood and bruises, and now he’s in the middle of Bobby’s living room, he’s fine, and Sam’s there, too, somehow, impossibly, and that’s all that matters.
“Dean.”
His voice is scratchy and comes out a lot quieter than he thought it would. Maybe he’s been screaming down in the cage. Or in the panic room.
It’s loud enough to catch his brother’s attention, and as Dean turns to him, Sam can read a mix of expressions on his face: there’s yes, finally, and oh, thank god, and just a hint of who is that. Then Sam rushes forward and throws his arms around Dean because Dean is alive and whole, and so is Sam, and after a second Dean squeezes back, and it’s the biggest, tightest hug they’ve shared since the last time they -
Eleven months, two weeks, and an unknown number of days -
* * * * *
It’s not hard to see that Bobby’s acting a little funny, but maybe that’s just to be expected when someone rises from the dead. Except Sam’s been in Bobby’s basement, so Bobby probably should have had time to get over it. Sam will ask Dean later, when Bobby goes to bed and they have time to talk properly, alone. There’s so much he wants to ask Dean.
* * * * *
It works out about as well as things always do: they’re scrambling off to the next big event, no time for talking. Sometimes Sam thinks fate (Dean) intentionally orchestrates things this way to keep him from learning certain truths (to keep Dean from having to face up to certain emotions).
So maybe they won’t get to have a late-night heart-to-heart on Bobby’s porch. That’s okay because it’s winter, and anyway the last porch talk was too special to be followed up with a sequel. (Why did he let himself remember that conversation? Fuck, now he’s just going to be thinking about missed opportunities.) They do have half a continent’s worth of a drive ahead, though, and Sam’s still curious. Especially since it turns out not to be eleven months and two weeks. It’s actually two years, four months, and three -
Rule number one of Sam’s miraculous resurrection: he’s not going to let himself count the days anymore.
He asks the first and most pressing thing on his mind: why were he and Dean holed up at Bobby’s house? What happened to the plan of finding Lisa and Ben? He wants an answer as much as he doesn’t want an answer. He knows (knew) that more than anything, Dean’s big dream was a normal life. They never talked about, not really, maybe just a few hints here and there, but never outright. But Sam wasn’t stupid. He knew. He could tell. But he also knew that Dean would never abandon him (two years, four months, a voice inside starts to say, but Sam silences it, that was different).
Sam had unspoken desires of his own. The greatest was that the completion of Stupid Frigging Plan 2.0 would culminate in (saving the world, yes, but also) Dean being free to have the life he never could have as long as Sam was around.
“I was with them for a year,” Dean admits.
Sam’s stunned. In some ways it’s worse than what he expected to hear. If Dean said he hadn’t even tried, Sam could have yelled at him, and they could have moved on. There would always be the possibility of what if for Dean, unfulfilled and unanswered, but okay. Cram it down and move on, that’s Dean’s way. But to know Dean did what Sam wanted him to do and it didn’t work out - it’s awful.
Sam wants to ask, Did you leave because you found out I was back? But he can’t. There’s no good answer that question. And, anyway, Dean’s doing that (wonderfully familiar, it’s good to be alive again) thing where he turns on the radio and stares hard out the windshield, his way of letting Sam know the conversation is over.
There’s a song about yesterday and today and new beginnings.
* * * * *
The first night in a motel together is uncomfortable. Sam supposes that’s what happens when one of you dies and you spend a year and a half apart. Or maybe it’s because Dean is thinking, I used to sleep in a big, comfortable bed with someone, and now it’s a little crappy bed alone. Maybe Dean’s thinking, It’s not the same with Sam. Whatever the case, it’s helpful that they didn’t stop to find a place to crash until after one. Maybe they’ll just drop off.
But no. Once inside the bright room, Sam can’t sleep. He’s perched on the edge of the bed, tracing the ugly pattern of the comforter with his forefinger, mentally willing himself not to think about things like scabies and lice because he wants to think instead about how motel rooms used to be like home to him. Dean is in the bathroom with the door mostly closed but cracked. Sam’s not sure what that’s supposed to mean - that he’s available if Sam wants to talk while he gets ready, or that Sam can come in if he needs something? All in all, it’s an awkward arrangement.
Dean comes out of the bathroom, his face red from having been washed, and grinning like a loon. He’s been doing that a lot today, but Sam can see it’s sincere. Dean either doesn’t realize there’s a layer of not-quite over them or doesn’t care because he’s just so glad to have Sam back, the real Sam, Sam I Am, not Lucifer Sam, Sammifer.
“Your turn, Samburger.”
Sam rolls his eyes. It’s the third nickname Dean’s tried in the last hour. None of them have been particularly good (Sammich wasn’t so bad, but Sambrero?). Anyway, “Sammy” will do just fine. “Whatever you say, Beano Deano,” he counters as he heads into the bathroom.
“My farts smell like roses!” Dean calls.
Sam comes out a few minutes later in a Hanes t-shirt they picked up at a Walgreen’s earlier and a pair of blue flannel pajama pants that were with the stash of his old stuff Bobby had been keeping in his guest room (awesome, because most of his old clothes were ugly, but he’d hate to have to buy a whole new wardrobe). Dean is sitting pretty much the way Sam was earlier, and he’s holding the remote in one hand like it’s a peace offering.
“I wasn’t sure if you wanted to watch TV or not,” he explains.
Sam shrugs. He’s not really used to being asked, frankly. Before Dean would just make those kinds of decisions unilaterally. “Are you going to put on pajamas?”
Pre-apocalypse, like, a long time ago, they used to wear pajamas. Or sleep shirtless and in their underwear. Then shit hit the fan, and it just got easier to sleep in their clothes in case they needed to make a late-night getaway. Most of the time, Dean didn’t even get under the covers. He’d just conk out on top of the comforter with his boots still on, his leather jacket spread over him for warmth.
Speaking of…
“Hey, why aren’t you wearing Dad’s jacket?” Sam asks with worry. “Did I - did Lucifer ruin it? Back at the cemetery?”
Dean looks about as eager to answer that question as he was the one about Lisa and Ben. He hands over the remote, his way of reminding Sam there’s something else they could be doing right now instead of having this discussion. Sam accepts it but sets it down and awaits Dean’s response.
“He didn’t ruin it. It was a freaking bloody mess, but I got it cleaned up.”
Sam doesn’t say anything. He can sense there’s more coming.
“I didn’t really want to wear it anymore. After, you know…”
Sam understands. After all, he’s been marking time in before and after, too, although the markers are different for him. He nods for Dean to continue.
Dean shrugs. “I put it with some of other stuff in a box in Lisa’s basement. I guess it’s all still there. That watch, the silver one you quit wearing. Remember that damn thing?”
Sam nods again. Of course he does. Jess had given him that watch. For a long time it was the most expensive thing he owned, apart from his computer, and although he’d worn it for a while after he and Dean hit the road together, he’d eventually given it up in favor of something cheaper and less delicate. Something waterproof, so he wouldn’t have to worry about washing blood and grave dirt off it. But he’d never gotten rid of the Jess watch. It had been carried in one bag after another for a long time.
Dean could have left it at Bobby’s with the fugly flannel shirts and baggy jeans. But he didn’t.
“It’s late,” Dean declares. “You need sleep.”
“You told me I slept for a week.”
“You rose from the dead, Samson. Eight more hours can’t hurt.”
It is late, and Sam is tired. “That makes you Delilah,” he mutters as he crawls up the bed and under the covers.
* * * * *
Since Sam is newly resurrected (he died so that others may live), he doesn’t think too much about it about the music he heard that day. There are more compelling things to think about: dragons and how he got out of the cage and what he missed while he was gone.
A few days later, the music thing happens again, only this time it’s a little harder to ignore. Sam can’t really give an accurate description of what led up to it, since he was unconscious on the floor of an abandoned house at the time. But afterward, when he and Dean are in the car on their way out of Rhode Island, that’s when the radio decides to play games with them.
As they drive away from their ramshackle abode, Dean’s jaw is clenched tight, like he’s angry, and since Sam is the only other person around, it’s hard not to take it personally. He wonders vaguely if this is what Dean’s like with Ben, and if Ben understands that Dean’s not really angry, he’s frustrated and worried and doesn’t know how to channel those emotions in a healthy way. Or maybe Dean’s more open with Ben. The last two times Ben called, Dean didn’t duck out of their room, and neither did Sam. Although he wasn’t actively eavesdropping, he did hear Dean’s side of the conversation, and Dean sounded calm and patient and mature. Sam loved learning that the side of Dean that he believed existed for so long really does, but it also made him sad because he’s never not going to be convinced that he had something to do with Dean and Lisa’s pseudo-divorce. Especially since nobody except Castiel will tell him anything helpful, and even Cas doesn’t know why Sam asked Dean to start hunting together again.
It hurts his head to think about their messed up family. It hurts his head to think about anything, really.
“You trying to compete with me?” he manages to ask Dean weakly. “You keep grinding your teeth like that, we’ll be fighting over the aspirin.”
“Hang in there, Sammy,” Dean says, his harsh facial expression betrayed by the gentleness of his voice. “We just need to get some food in you. Maybe some caffeine. That helps headaches, right? Do you want to go a hospital? We could see a neurologist.”
Sam prefers the silent angry type to the mother hen. “Music,” he decides. “We need some music. And stop worrying about me, Dean. I’m going to be fine.”
“You’re not going to be fine,” Dean starts, but he stops mid-sentence. He and Sam stare at each other in disbelief at what’s come on the radio. “It’s just a coincidence, right?”
“Yeah,” Sam assures him. “They play this song all the time.”
“I hope it’s not foreshadowing anything.”
Sam’s head really is killing him, and he still feels a little singed around the edges. Nevertheless, he can’t resist expending some energy teasing Dean. “Foreshadowing? Really?”
“I can be intellectual,” Dean pouts. “Turn that fucking song off. Please.” He shakes his head. “Should have sent the fruit basket.”
Sam doesn’t know what that means, but it doesn’t seem important. In the silence he sees the opportunity to learn more about that missing year. It can’t hurt anymore, right?
“Tell me something about him - me.”
“Hmm?”
“Tell me what I - he - was like, running around without a soul.”
“No way,” Dean says firmly. “One brick loose and look what happened. We’re not gonna knock down the whole house of cards.”
“Bubble gum to stop a leaky dam. Don’t I have a right to know? Did I - did he - ever do anything to you?”
It would be easy to miss the careful arch of Dean’s eyebrow, but Sam’s looking for it, or any other sign. “What do you mean, ‘do anything’?”
Yeah, that pretty much answers the question. He contemplates probing for specifics, but he’s scared he’ll find out it was worse than Ruby-demon-blood-Lilith betrayal, and, fuck, he’s not sure he and Dean could survive that kind of thing again.
“He was a dickwad,” Dean says, as if that sums it all up, that’s all Sam needs to know. In a way, it is. “A soulless dickwad. He wasn’t you.”
* * * * *
Dean calls at seven to say he’ll be back around eleven. Sam orders salad and a pizza and eats a few bites before giving up. It’s not as much fun to eat if you don’t have to fight a human garbage disposal for every morsel. He watches the news because he’s still trying to catch up on everything he missed, and then twenty minutes of some really, really awful reality show that he can’t even begin to follow, and finally settles on a Criminal Minds marathon that makes him think humans might suck worse than demons.
At midnight Sam gives up on TV and starts goofing around on the internet with iTunes playing in the background. “Shuffle” turns out to be largely unsatisfactory, so with furrowed brow Sam sets about organizing their music library into, respectively, “Sam’s playlist” and “Dean’s playlist.” Dean will no doubt mock the unimaginative naming system but be grateful their music is appropriately separated. (Dad, Sam’s stuff is crossing the line! It’s touching my stuff!)
Once “Sam’s playlist” is all tidy, with artists and album titles properly updated, Sam realizes he doesn’t actually want to listen to any of his own music.
And fuck if he doesn’t spend the next hour looking up videos on YouTube. It starts with “Fool in the Rain,” because they’ve never downloaded it for some reason, and Sam has a hard time keeping it and “The Rain Song” straight. (Led Zeppelin’s song titles are ridiculous and confusing.) After that Sam just keeps following the recommended links through AC/DC (most of which they do have), Metallica (exit light, Sam’s brain can’t help singing), and finally Van Halen. (Sam kind of prefers Van Hagar, but from passionate lectures he’s heard on the subject, he knows well enough to pretend complete admiration for David Lee Roth.)
Eventually Sam realizes it’s dumb to be listening on YouTube, since he’s not actually watching the videos. He’s got three other windows open, perusing websites for potential cases they can take up next. Also, if he’s going to the trouble of organizing Dean’s music, (which he quickly renames “Dean’s awesome playlist”), he might as well get some new stuff. It’s sort of a waste of money to download songs, but they’re not always in places where they can get good radio reception, and it’s not like they’re going to pay their credit card bills anyway. He scrolls through the Van Halen offerings, skips right over “Running With the Devil” because not funny, thanks, been there, done that, and then clicks to download the next song without looking at the title.
There’s a screaming guitar for a second (so, win in Dean’s book), then a time and place for everyone (lame), and then a punch to the gut with the stupid fucking chorus.
Sam is sitting in the middle of a motel room buying songs (flowers) for his brother, who could very well be in the middle of make-up sex with Lisa right now.
Sam is an idiot.
I want him to be happy, I want him to be happy. It’s a nice mantra, but it never really resonates. He does want Dean to be happy, of course, and the current situation is a tangled mess that has to be cleaned up at some point, the sooner the better. Sam’s just not sure what “cleaned up” really means, how any of them can get out of this without somebody (Sam) getting hurt.
The thing is, Sam likes Lisa. He didn’t get to know her very well that time they worked that case, but since then he’s talked to her on the phone a few times, and she’s really cool, especially given the fact that he rose from the dead and lured her boyfriend away. More than that, he likes the idea of her and Dean together. And Dean loves her. He’s never said it to Sam - probably never said it to her either, if Sam knows him as well as he thinks he does - but it’s clear. And he adores the kid. (The kid just thinks Sam’s weird.)
I want him to be happy. Whatever happens, as long as he’s happy.
Also, No matter what, we’ll always be brothers. That thought sticks in his ribs better than the other sentiments. Because at the end of the day, whatever Sam and Dean might have done together in the past (Dean whimpering and moaning, his body writhing underneath Sam’s, Please, Sammy, please), the fact that they are brothers is the one constant of the universe, the one thing that will never change, the one thing that can’t ever change. It’s unshakeable, it’s important, it means more than sex (So good, don’t stop, and once an I love you that shouldn’t have been said in that context because it made everything messy).
Brothers. Dean will always be Sam’s brother, even if he decides he needs to take a break from hunting with Sam to set things right with Lisa and Ben.
“I can’t stop loving you,” Van Halen mocks him. Also, the album cover is freaking Sam out.
Fuck Van Halen. Sam slams the laptop closed before the song is finished downloading. He hopes that means the next time he wants to use his computer the awful lovesick ballad won’t be there.
Two years, seven months, five days, and -
* * * * *
Dean finally gets back to the motel at two-thirty, smelling of whiskey and cigarettes. (Apparently he found one of the three bars left in the United States that still allows smoking.) He stumbles across the room, banging into one of the chairs, swearing, and then shushing himself. It’s pretty hard for Sam not to laugh, but Dean clearly thinks he’s asleep, so Sam’s going with it. If his brother were sober, he’d know that Sam wouldn’t sleep through a stumble-home; he’d stay up waiting to make sure Dean was okay as long as he could, and if he did nod off accidentally, he’d snap awake the minute the key turned in the lock.
Dean doesn’t fall into bed fully dressed the way he normally does when he’s drunk. Instead he stumbles around to the other side and collapses onto the three inches of empty space on Sam’s mattress, pinning Sam down by the blankets.
“Sammy?” When Dean starts pawing at his face, Sam can’t pretend to be asleep anymore. “Sammy, you awake?”
“Dean, are you okay?”
It’s a dumb question, but his brother is too far gone to call him out on it. Dean leans over to get a better look. His breath is hot and sour. “Sammy,” he says again, and Sam’s not sure what it means.
“Okay, okay.” He tries to sit up, but Dean’s gripping the shoulders of his t-shirt so tightly he can’t really move. “What’s going on?” He manages to wriggle his hands out from under the blanket and puts them atop Dean’s. “Hey, man, it’s okay.”
Dean doesn’t let go of his shirt. He shakes his head. He’s pretty close to tears. “Sammy.”
“Come on, Dean, let go,” Sam encourages, trying to remove Dean’s hands from his shirt. “You’ve had a lot to drink, man, let’s get you to bed.”
“No, ’simportant. Lisa -”
“Come on, Dean,” Sam interrupts, because the last thing in the world he wants to hear right now is a drunken confession about anything involving Lisa. He manages to sit up, but Dean is still holding onto his shirt to keep himself steady. “You can tell me in the morning.”
“No, I won’t,” Dean says, and they both know it’s true. Then Dean gets a little flustered. “Shit, I woke you up! You were sleeping.”
“It’s okay.”
“No, no, man, shh, you were sleeping.” Dean pats Sam on the chest, encouraging him to lie back down, and Sam obliges. “Shh,” Dean says again, and Sam wonders just how much he drank, because he’s seen his brother drink an entire bottle of whiskey when times got tough, and it never caused him to start shushing the one who’s supposed to be sleeping instead of the one who’s making all the racket. “I’m sorry, Sammy.” Dean pulls the blankets up, tucking him in like he’s a little kid.
Sam’s just about ready to declare the midnight confession over when Dean leans down once more, way too close to Sam’s face. In the gray light of the room Sam can see the tears clouding Dean’s eyes. “Sammy, I missed you. Every day. I never didn’t think about you.”
“I know, Dean.”
“No, I mean,” Dean swallows and smacks his lips. Once he’s finished tucking Sam in, Sam’s going to have get up to get him a glass of water. “I mean, before. And later. It wasn’t - it didn’t have you in it.”
Sam thinks he understands what Dean’s trying to say, slurred words and vague phrases aside. He’s touched that his brother thinks it’s so important to tell him. He’s also amused that Dean thinks after almost thirty years together Sam wouldn’t know. It goes both ways, after all.
Sam can still hear the stupid Van Halen song in his head. “I know,” he says gently. “I’m here now.”
“I left because of you.”
“What?” Sam’s heart nearly stops.
Dean had said he first left because Lisa suggested it and it was all okay, but Castiel said Dean really got thrown out because he was a vampire and almost killed Ben (which, whoa). Sam can tell Dean isn’t saying it was Sam’s fault Lisa threw him out, so he wants - needs - Dean to be perfectly clear. I left because of you could mean I left because you were a giant soulless fuck-up and once again needed me to clean up your mess or it could mean I left because I’m so dysfunctional that I prefer my brother’s company to this dream of a family life I’ve always had or it could mean I left because I’m in love with you and I’ll never be able to love anyone else as much as you. Number one will break Sam’s heart and make him feel worse about himself than he already does; two will suck, but at least they’ll be in it together, though Dean will feel guilty for a long, long time, and Sam’s heart will break over Dean’s heart breaking; three is, Sam realizes (he’s so selfish) the answer Sam wants to hear but knows (selfish but a realist) that he never will.
He scoots toward the headboard so he can sit up, to really pay attention, this is serious stuff, and this time Dean’s too wrapped up to stop him.
Dean wipes his left eye. “I left because of you,” he repeats.
“But the vampire thing -”
“No, no, man,” Dean shakes his head a little roughly. “You - you can’t know about that. The wall.”
“The wall’s fine, Dean. It’s fine.”
“No, no scratching, Death said. Just - I just - you and me, okay?” He puts his hands on each side of Sam’s face, asking Sam for something. A promise or an agreement of understanding, Sam’s not sure, so Sam answers the only way he can.
“Okay.”
Dean searches Sam’s eyes for a moment, and for a half-second Sam thinks Dean’s going to kiss him. He holds his breath in anticipation, but Dean just nods and moves over to his own bed, flopping down sideways with his back to Sam.
Sam fetches the glass of water. He knows that Dean will wake before him, hungover and thirsty and eager to avoid any morning-after awkwardness.
* * * * *
The next morning Sam comes out of his shower to find Dean at his laptop, with his finger on the track pad, lost in thought. There’s another Van Halen song playing, asking, Why can't this be love?
Now that Dean’s sober, Sam wants to ask what the hell happened the night before. What happened with Lisa and Ben, what happened in the four hours Dean was MIA, what happened that caused him to come back to their motel room wasted like a high schooler whose parents went out of town and left the liquor cabinet unlocked.
“Dean’s awesome playlist,” Dean says without turning toward Sam.
“Uh, yeah?”
“Thanks, man. That’s really great. It is awesome.”
“You’re welcome,” Sam says sincerely as he sits down on the nearest bed to put his shoes on. “Got bored last night waiting for you.” He mentally smacks his forehead as soon as the words are out because it sounds like he was pining away for Dean or that he’s being passive-aggressive about the fact that Dean chose to go out without him - neither of which are true, neither of which does he want Dean to be thinking about. Fuck, fuck.
“Yeah, I’m sorry about that, man,” Dean says, shoving back from the table. Sam notices he doesn’t turn off the music, though. “I needed to clear my head. Thought I’d just grab one beer. I don’t know what happened.”
“Well,” Sam wills his voice to remain light, “keep it to one next time, dude. You went a little overboard, you know? I was worried about you.” He can’t look over at Dean right now, or else he’ll have a hard time not scowling at Dean. (He can be a little condescending sometimes, he doesn’t mean to be.) He wants Dean to pick up concerned from him, not judgey.
“I’m really sorry, little brother.” Dean sounds contrite, all right, not like back off but like I screwed up, Sammy, I’m sorry. “Next time you’ll come with me and keep tabs on me?”
“Yeah, Dean, of course.”
It’s only now that Dean looks over, and Sam can tell that, while there’s still some trouble brewing beneath the surface, creasing Dean’s lovely brow (it’s okay if Dean gets wrinkles, he ages like a fine wine), Dean is moderately relieved. He gives Sam a tiny yet earnest smile. “Let’s roll.”
“Okay.” Sam decides to press his luck. He swoops up the laptop and then snatches the keys from Dean’s hand. “But I’m driving.”
“No way!” Dean tries to grab for the keys, but Sam blocks him with the computer. “You wreck the car when you drive.”
“One time,” Sam reminds him, “and it was, like, six years ago!”
“Give me the keys, Sam,” Dean says gravely.
“Or what?”
“Or what?” Dean parrots, reaching again.
Sam decides to fight dirty and holds the keys over Dean’s head. Dean jumps once, twice, tugging on Sam’s arm as he does, but Soulless Dickwad bulked the body up, so it’s pretty much like a Pomeranian trying to budge a marble statue.
That thought makes Sam start laughing, which makes him lose focus, and Dean succeeds at snatching the keys back. “Just for that,” his brother says, but there’s no heat in his voice, “I’m going to blast Dean’s awesome playlist, and you don’t get any say.”
“Are you going to serenade me, too?” Sam teases.
And, yup, Dean does. They don’t actually have a way of playing Dean’s awesome playlist through the radio, since someone is hell-bent on only having radio and cassette functionality (this car is a classic, Sam, you don’t screw around with a classic). So instead Dean searches high and low on the dial until he finds several little gems he can perform. It’s not so bad when Dean does that head-nod-pointing-hand thing he always does along with “Living After Midnight.” But it’s a steep spiral downward after that when he over-emotes right along with “I Want to Know What Love Is.” It’s purely to torture, Sam knows, because Dean doesn’t even like the song, nobody likes it (well, some people might, but it’s a guilty pleasure, you wouldn’t sing it in front of anybody else). Probably the worst part is that Dean doesn’t actually know the words, so he’s singing them on a two-second delay.
“So many good bands went bad in the ’80s, huh?” Sam muses.
“I want you to show me,” Dean belts in response.
Sam doesn’t even understand how words can get out when his brother’s got his lips puckered into such a smug expression. He can’t help reaching over and squeezing Dean’s cheeks together until they turn into a total fish-face. He mocks kissy lips back, until Dean jerks away and turns the radio down.
“Bitch.”
They leave the radio off for the next thirty miles.
Sam spends the time pondering if the music meant anything. Probably not.
He’s pretty sure not.
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