Ficmas: Post #3 (eclectic boogaloo)
For earthquakedream:
Jared/Jensen/Genevieve, wherein Genevieve tries to get all sexy seductress on them and fails, but there's still sexy times.
"You know," Jensen says, "the whole elaborate thingummy --"
"Charade," Jared supplies, and Jensen nods, pulls him in for a kiss in thanks.
"The whole charade," he resumes, when Jared pulls back, mouth pink and shining, "with the cooking and the smoke and the possible fatalities was pretty unnecessary." He smiles, teases two fingers through Genevieve's slick. "Pretty sure we would have gone out with you anyway."
Genevieve's blushing hotly across her cheekbones, but her hips are still shifting frenetically, arching towards Jensen's hand, and Jensen takes that to mean she isn't too uncomfortable. Jared's mouth is seeking out the soft place below her ear, at the bolt of her jaw, and Genevieve's breath catches when he finds it, fingers clenching on Jensen's shoulder. "The plan wasn't actually for there to be near-fatalities," she points out, her voice a little thready. "I just, you know -- pizza."
"Which you can get in the form of takeout," Jared says into the hollow of her throat, one hand skating over the pale skin of her sternum, the flat of her stomach. He shifts a little when he finds Jensen's wrist, curls his fingers around it. "We're not on the lookout for some housewife, you know. Pretty sure we want you for your --"
"--brain," Jensen cuts in, flashing Genevieve a wink as he twists his fingers, pushes two inside of her and crooks them upward just to feel her clench. "But sometimes, you gotta turn that damn thing off, okay?"
"Fuck," Genevieve breathes, biting at her lip, and Jared laughs, leans up and over to lick at her mouth.
"Yeah," he says, "that's more like it." He shifts his hand, palms the underside of her thigh and pushes it up, spreading her wide for Jensen's hips. "Jen?"
"Mmm," says Jensen, "we're getting to that." He catches Jared's eye, and pushes in.
For xlamentcasx and pocketfullasun; I mushed your prompts together because I doubted my capacity to write two pieces of Christmassy fluff that would be different to each other. ;)
Cas doesn't know what mistletoe is for; Dean teaches him.
Castiel is making for the crackers when Dean pulls him up short, hand on his arm and a slow grin on his lips. Castiel has come to be wary of that grin, and all it signifies. Up close like this, Dean smells warmly of sandalwood and whisky, gunmetal and leather.
"Hey," Dean says, "Cas. Look where we are." He nods, and Castiel notices the tangle of greenery above his head, dangling from a beam. "See it?"
Castiel blinks slowly. He finds it difficult to think, this close to Dean. His head swims with the proximity. "Yes," he says, a little impatient, wanting to extricate himself before something bad happens. He isn't sure what he thinks the bad thing will be, but he knows it will be bad. "Dean --"
"What is it?" Dean demands, interrupting. "Look."
Castiel tips his head back obligingly and studies the plant. "Viscus album," he declares, flatly. He isn't entirely certain what this has to do with anything. "A poisonous plant that can cause acute gastrointestinal problems if consumed. Dean --"
Dean laughs and catches him by the shoulders. "Jesus, Cas," he breaks in, "it's mistletoe, dude." And his hand skates around to flatten between Castiel's shoulderblades, nudging him closer. "You don't eat it. You..."
He tilts his head, leaning in. Castiel is gripped with the acute sensation that the bad thing is looming ever closer. He brings a hand up, presses it to Dean's collarbone. "What?" he prompts, every part of him suddenly nervous. "Dean, I need to --"
"Not yet, you don't," Dean cuts in. His big hand slips to Castiel's jaw, holding it steady. "I caught you fair and square, Cas; mistletoe. And that means --"
He closes the distance between them in place of finishing his sentence, mouth settling soft against Castiel's, and oh. This, Castiel recognises, is the Bad Thing, except that apparently it is not bad in Dean's eyes, not when mistletoe is involved. Dean's lips work gently over Castiel's, nudging them apart, and Castiel's hand fists in Dean's shirt of its own accord. When Dean pulls away, an undignified whining sound emerges unbidden from Castiel's throat, and Dean laughs.
"Like that," Dean says, "you do that." He sounds breathless. "Okay?"
Castiel is very much, as Dean puts it, okay. The plate of crackers no longer holds any appeal. The sense of the encroaching Bad Thing has been replaced by something that warms his chest like wine. "Okay," he says. His voice emerges cracked, oddly hot.
He leans up, kisses Dean again, and Dean's hand slides up into Castiel's hair, tangling in the thick of it.
Apparently, this is okay too.
For akadougal:
wet!RoboSassy
So much about Castiel is a mystery. Sam feels the world with his body now, not with his heart; but when he looks at Dean there's an ache in his jaw that says the old Sam loved him, and when he looks at Cas, there's nothing of that. Just the fizz in his blood that's different, somehow, to the way it heats for the whores he's fucked; something in the way he wants Cas that isn't entirely dispassionate. It isn't love, or the residue of it, but Cas is different, and not because of his grace. Something about Castiel made him different, once, to the Sam he was before Lucifer's pit was opened.
He doesn't know what it was. He knows what it is, though, in part, that makes him different now: the now-familiar curve of Cas's back, unsnappable; the way Sam can hold his head underwater and know that his angel-force will never let him drown. There's still the rush to it, the power that sparks in Sam's hands as he shoves Cas under the surface, and still the thrill, too, of hearing him draw in air like he's dying when Sam finally lets him up. Still all the heat, but none of the inconvenience of having to revive some human whore who can't withstand Sam's strength. Castiel, Sam thinks, is a far better prospect. As a catamite, he's perfect.
He isn't loud, but the way he shivers makes up for it, the jagged way he pushes his hips back when Sam slams home, fucking him deep in the shallows. The lakewater is cold, but Castiel can handle that, too, as nobody else could, and Sam likes the ferric taste of it on the blades of Castiel's shoulders, the exposed nape of his neck. He's panting, fingers scrabbling in wet dirt for unattainable purchase, and Sam sinks his teeth into the side of his neck just to hear the catch of breath, the half-vocalised whine.
"Come on," Sam whispers, "come on, angel; you can do better than that." Thrust forward, bruising press of fingers into the spur of Cas's hip, and Cas cries out, pulses a string of precome that smears on the lakewet back of Sam's wrist. Cas's hips jerk, the gesture setting the water swirling wild about their waists, and Sam is pleased, somewhere deep under the slow burn of arousal. Cas is often pleasing, for some reason he cannot pin down.
"Harder," Cas hisses. His hair is plastered to his head, sleek and dark, little rivulets making their way down the bowed line of his neck. "Sam --" and he clenches, heat of his body milking the pleasure out of Sam, as if he thinks he can force the issue; as if he thinks he can make Sam come.
But Sam, this Sam, is not so malleable; does not dissolve, as Cas will do, in water. "You want harder?" He takes a slow breath, fights down the spike of arousal in his gut and spreads his legs, replanting his bare feet in the silt. "Take a breath," he says, "and hold it for me, angel."
Cas breaks the surface under Sam's weight, under the force of his forward thrust, and Sam's hand in his hair holds him under, relentless. His body moves with the surefire certainty of a piston, pinning Cas down, a forced prostration on the lakebed. Sam will come when he wants to, and not before.
And only then will Castiel come up for air.
For quickreaver -- she prompted 'Wild West Sam/Dean goodness' and I asked if she wanted time travel or an Old West AU. She told me it was author's choice, which was probably a bad idea, because I promptly went and wrote
a Western, I guess
They say the boys came out of Kansas, a long time ago.
How long? Well, now. That's where it all gets complicated. There's some'll tell you they remember the sound their boots made, clank of the spurs on cracked leather, clank of the heels on cracked earth, that metal-red southwestern dirt. There's some'll say it was years back, the tall one behind his brother, the West all wild around them and the two of them fast together, hip to hip and gun to gun.
Nobody knows how long.
Those who're fond of records, they'll look 'em up and tell you there's a Winchester here; here, see? Here, two boys of the nineteen-eighties who drove their father's car through a half-century modern. That's what they'll tell you, but there aren't any records of what those Winchesters did after the school district lost track: other'n that they killed some and got killed, and then killed again, and who-all can die twice?
Well, now. Guys that do, they got a name for them. Guys who drink and shoot and go down swinging, get a bullet in the head and do it all again, that's what legends are. The Winchester boys are guys like that. They die in the dirt thrice over, and then they get back up and walk, knives stuck in their spines, gunshot and whisky in their stomachs. The Winchesters keep on dying, but they say they can't be killed, so who's to say they were ever born, either, like normal folk? Who's to say.
So maybe they grew up on Kool-Aid and the Ninja Turtles, maybe they did. The other story's better. Two boys out of Kansas, hats pulled low on their foreheads, dead men's gold in their pockets. They say they got a gun made by Samuel Colt, a gun that fired over the Alamo. Colt made that gun for a hunter back in thirty-five, thirteen bullets and a ticket to forever. Let's say that hunter was John Winchester. Who's gonna argue? Pick a legend, any legend.
So. Picture the scene: two brothers roll into a saloon, dirt on their boots and blood in their mouths. They've rough-ridden wild over half the Wild West, Route 66 and Lincoln County road, and they've sure as hell gotten right to Armageddon more than once. You can get anywhere if you keep driving.
The car's all wrong for the story, but that makes no odds, not really, not the way it cradles their bones like it was born when they were, as they were, instead of twenty years before, a hundred years after. Man's gotta have his horse, and she's theirs. She's theirs.
Anyway, this saloon. There's plenty of 'em still, all over the west, half-doors on creaking hinges, sawdust on bare boards. The older brother is the shorter, but his face is set like flint, this hard-edged beauty that'll shoot you where you stand. Green eyes, all the stories remember that, and he moves with the bow-legged swagger of a man who cut his teeth on someone's ranch, breaking in stallions, a real caballero. (Maybe they're wrong about the car. Some say Baby was a black mare with a silver blaze on her forehead, clean-shod, glorious. Could be true. No-one ever wrote it down.)
The younger one's a half-step behind him, too close for other people's comfort, barely close enough for theirs. Always had to be close. Some say a curse was responsible, bound them up together for eternity when they messed some witch around. Some say something went wrong with demons, left them with only the one soul between them, and they have to be close for it to work right or you'd wind up with one human and one empty thing that's only fit for killing. One story has it they weren't ever brothers at all, the closeness due to something else entirely, but that one's hogwash. This guy behind, he's the younger brother.
He's a big guy, six feet six (six-eight, seven-one). Keeps a flask of demon's blood (or so they say) next to his gun; keeps his hat pulled down over his eyes. Nobody knows what color they are. Green, maybe, like his brother's, and no-one thought to mention it. Black, maybe, like Baby, like their blood, and no-one dared. Yellow.
People say all sorts.
Two brothers roll into a saloon, blood in their mouths, dirt on their boots, guns at their hips. We can all agree on that. The older one's handsome, straightforward, captivating. The younger has an edge like a bloody knife, a sharp, unhappy beauty like the calm after a massacre. (They both have improbably lovely teeth. That part'll be a fabrication.)
"Sam," says the older one.
The man at the bar pulls his shoulders in, folds himself up like he's scared. The silence expands right to the corners of the room.
"Sam," says the older one, "how about we clean this place out?"
The man at the bar, inexplicably, turns round. He's turning so we can see how his eyes are black, turning so we know where the story is going. Really, he probably hotfooted it out of there without taking his eyes off the ground, if he ever set foot in the place at all. Hell, if the place was ever there.
Still, that's the way of stories. The man at the bar turns around, and his eyes are black, demon-dark.
"Exorcizamus te," says Sam.
The older one shoots from the hip, the Colt smoking. They say it only had thirteen bullets, but he always has enough. They say it blows holes in demons, makes them melt, turns them to ash that'll cure any ailment you got. They say all kinds of things.
A saloon ain't always pleased to see the Winchesters roll in, but it's cleaner when they leave. Even with their blood all over the floor.
"Gotta get me some pie," Dean says. They say black cherry is his favorite, or maybe Key Lime -- ha! -- in the nineteenth-century old West. Who the hell knows. Never liked apple, though. Some kind of bad association.
Sam puts a hand low down on his brother's back. Have to keep close, one soul in two bodies (or so some say). They're both of them bleeding from the bulletholes in their stomachs, the gashes in their spines, but they're years old now and the boys still thirty, can't be killed. Not until the red dirt's dead, and that'll be a long while yet.
"At the next exit," Sam says, tips his hat down over his eyes and rolls his shoulders. They get in the car, on the horse together; Dean gets on the horse and Sam's behind him in the cart. Sam's riding shotgun, gun over his knees, guns in the trunk, gun in the saddlebag. "Come on, Dean. We got work to do."
They say they came out of Kansas, a long time ago. They say a lot of things.
Jared/Jensen/Genevieve, wherein Genevieve tries to get all sexy seductress on them and fails, but there's still sexy times.
"You know," Jensen says, "the whole elaborate thingummy --"
"Charade," Jared supplies, and Jensen nods, pulls him in for a kiss in thanks.
"The whole charade," he resumes, when Jared pulls back, mouth pink and shining, "with the cooking and the smoke and the possible fatalities was pretty unnecessary." He smiles, teases two fingers through Genevieve's slick. "Pretty sure we would have gone out with you anyway."
Genevieve's blushing hotly across her cheekbones, but her hips are still shifting frenetically, arching towards Jensen's hand, and Jensen takes that to mean she isn't too uncomfortable. Jared's mouth is seeking out the soft place below her ear, at the bolt of her jaw, and Genevieve's breath catches when he finds it, fingers clenching on Jensen's shoulder. "The plan wasn't actually for there to be near-fatalities," she points out, her voice a little thready. "I just, you know -- pizza."
"Which you can get in the form of takeout," Jared says into the hollow of her throat, one hand skating over the pale skin of her sternum, the flat of her stomach. He shifts a little when he finds Jensen's wrist, curls his fingers around it. "We're not on the lookout for some housewife, you know. Pretty sure we want you for your --"
"--brain," Jensen cuts in, flashing Genevieve a wink as he twists his fingers, pushes two inside of her and crooks them upward just to feel her clench. "But sometimes, you gotta turn that damn thing off, okay?"
"Fuck," Genevieve breathes, biting at her lip, and Jared laughs, leans up and over to lick at her mouth.
"Yeah," he says, "that's more like it." He shifts his hand, palms the underside of her thigh and pushes it up, spreading her wide for Jensen's hips. "Jen?"
"Mmm," says Jensen, "we're getting to that." He catches Jared's eye, and pushes in.
For xlamentcasx and pocketfullasun; I mushed your prompts together because I doubted my capacity to write two pieces of Christmassy fluff that would be different to each other. ;)
Cas doesn't know what mistletoe is for; Dean teaches him.
Castiel is making for the crackers when Dean pulls him up short, hand on his arm and a slow grin on his lips. Castiel has come to be wary of that grin, and all it signifies. Up close like this, Dean smells warmly of sandalwood and whisky, gunmetal and leather.
"Hey," Dean says, "Cas. Look where we are." He nods, and Castiel notices the tangle of greenery above his head, dangling from a beam. "See it?"
Castiel blinks slowly. He finds it difficult to think, this close to Dean. His head swims with the proximity. "Yes," he says, a little impatient, wanting to extricate himself before something bad happens. He isn't sure what he thinks the bad thing will be, but he knows it will be bad. "Dean --"
"What is it?" Dean demands, interrupting. "Look."
Castiel tips his head back obligingly and studies the plant. "Viscus album," he declares, flatly. He isn't entirely certain what this has to do with anything. "A poisonous plant that can cause acute gastrointestinal problems if consumed. Dean --"
Dean laughs and catches him by the shoulders. "Jesus, Cas," he breaks in, "it's mistletoe, dude." And his hand skates around to flatten between Castiel's shoulderblades, nudging him closer. "You don't eat it. You..."
He tilts his head, leaning in. Castiel is gripped with the acute sensation that the bad thing is looming ever closer. He brings a hand up, presses it to Dean's collarbone. "What?" he prompts, every part of him suddenly nervous. "Dean, I need to --"
"Not yet, you don't," Dean cuts in. His big hand slips to Castiel's jaw, holding it steady. "I caught you fair and square, Cas; mistletoe. And that means --"
He closes the distance between them in place of finishing his sentence, mouth settling soft against Castiel's, and oh. This, Castiel recognises, is the Bad Thing, except that apparently it is not bad in Dean's eyes, not when mistletoe is involved. Dean's lips work gently over Castiel's, nudging them apart, and Castiel's hand fists in Dean's shirt of its own accord. When Dean pulls away, an undignified whining sound emerges unbidden from Castiel's throat, and Dean laughs.
"Like that," Dean says, "you do that." He sounds breathless. "Okay?"
Castiel is very much, as Dean puts it, okay. The plate of crackers no longer holds any appeal. The sense of the encroaching Bad Thing has been replaced by something that warms his chest like wine. "Okay," he says. His voice emerges cracked, oddly hot.
He leans up, kisses Dean again, and Dean's hand slides up into Castiel's hair, tangling in the thick of it.
Apparently, this is okay too.
For akadougal:
wet!RoboSassy
So much about Castiel is a mystery. Sam feels the world with his body now, not with his heart; but when he looks at Dean there's an ache in his jaw that says the old Sam loved him, and when he looks at Cas, there's nothing of that. Just the fizz in his blood that's different, somehow, to the way it heats for the whores he's fucked; something in the way he wants Cas that isn't entirely dispassionate. It isn't love, or the residue of it, but Cas is different, and not because of his grace. Something about Castiel made him different, once, to the Sam he was before Lucifer's pit was opened.
He doesn't know what it was. He knows what it is, though, in part, that makes him different now: the now-familiar curve of Cas's back, unsnappable; the way Sam can hold his head underwater and know that his angel-force will never let him drown. There's still the rush to it, the power that sparks in Sam's hands as he shoves Cas under the surface, and still the thrill, too, of hearing him draw in air like he's dying when Sam finally lets him up. Still all the heat, but none of the inconvenience of having to revive some human whore who can't withstand Sam's strength. Castiel, Sam thinks, is a far better prospect. As a catamite, he's perfect.
He isn't loud, but the way he shivers makes up for it, the jagged way he pushes his hips back when Sam slams home, fucking him deep in the shallows. The lakewater is cold, but Castiel can handle that, too, as nobody else could, and Sam likes the ferric taste of it on the blades of Castiel's shoulders, the exposed nape of his neck. He's panting, fingers scrabbling in wet dirt for unattainable purchase, and Sam sinks his teeth into the side of his neck just to hear the catch of breath, the half-vocalised whine.
"Come on," Sam whispers, "come on, angel; you can do better than that." Thrust forward, bruising press of fingers into the spur of Cas's hip, and Cas cries out, pulses a string of precome that smears on the lakewet back of Sam's wrist. Cas's hips jerk, the gesture setting the water swirling wild about their waists, and Sam is pleased, somewhere deep under the slow burn of arousal. Cas is often pleasing, for some reason he cannot pin down.
"Harder," Cas hisses. His hair is plastered to his head, sleek and dark, little rivulets making their way down the bowed line of his neck. "Sam --" and he clenches, heat of his body milking the pleasure out of Sam, as if he thinks he can force the issue; as if he thinks he can make Sam come.
But Sam, this Sam, is not so malleable; does not dissolve, as Cas will do, in water. "You want harder?" He takes a slow breath, fights down the spike of arousal in his gut and spreads his legs, replanting his bare feet in the silt. "Take a breath," he says, "and hold it for me, angel."
Cas breaks the surface under Sam's weight, under the force of his forward thrust, and Sam's hand in his hair holds him under, relentless. His body moves with the surefire certainty of a piston, pinning Cas down, a forced prostration on the lakebed. Sam will come when he wants to, and not before.
And only then will Castiel come up for air.
For quickreaver -- she prompted 'Wild West Sam/Dean goodness' and I asked if she wanted time travel or an Old West AU. She told me it was author's choice, which was probably a bad idea, because I promptly went and wrote
a Western, I guess
They say the boys came out of Kansas, a long time ago.
How long? Well, now. That's where it all gets complicated. There's some'll tell you they remember the sound their boots made, clank of the spurs on cracked leather, clank of the heels on cracked earth, that metal-red southwestern dirt. There's some'll say it was years back, the tall one behind his brother, the West all wild around them and the two of them fast together, hip to hip and gun to gun.
Nobody knows how long.
Those who're fond of records, they'll look 'em up and tell you there's a Winchester here; here, see? Here, two boys of the nineteen-eighties who drove their father's car through a half-century modern. That's what they'll tell you, but there aren't any records of what those Winchesters did after the school district lost track: other'n that they killed some and got killed, and then killed again, and who-all can die twice?
Well, now. Guys that do, they got a name for them. Guys who drink and shoot and go down swinging, get a bullet in the head and do it all again, that's what legends are. The Winchester boys are guys like that. They die in the dirt thrice over, and then they get back up and walk, knives stuck in their spines, gunshot and whisky in their stomachs. The Winchesters keep on dying, but they say they can't be killed, so who's to say they were ever born, either, like normal folk? Who's to say.
So maybe they grew up on Kool-Aid and the Ninja Turtles, maybe they did. The other story's better. Two boys out of Kansas, hats pulled low on their foreheads, dead men's gold in their pockets. They say they got a gun made by Samuel Colt, a gun that fired over the Alamo. Colt made that gun for a hunter back in thirty-five, thirteen bullets and a ticket to forever. Let's say that hunter was John Winchester. Who's gonna argue? Pick a legend, any legend.
So. Picture the scene: two brothers roll into a saloon, dirt on their boots and blood in their mouths. They've rough-ridden wild over half the Wild West, Route 66 and Lincoln County road, and they've sure as hell gotten right to Armageddon more than once. You can get anywhere if you keep driving.
The car's all wrong for the story, but that makes no odds, not really, not the way it cradles their bones like it was born when they were, as they were, instead of twenty years before, a hundred years after. Man's gotta have his horse, and she's theirs. She's theirs.
Anyway, this saloon. There's plenty of 'em still, all over the west, half-doors on creaking hinges, sawdust on bare boards. The older brother is the shorter, but his face is set like flint, this hard-edged beauty that'll shoot you where you stand. Green eyes, all the stories remember that, and he moves with the bow-legged swagger of a man who cut his teeth on someone's ranch, breaking in stallions, a real caballero. (Maybe they're wrong about the car. Some say Baby was a black mare with a silver blaze on her forehead, clean-shod, glorious. Could be true. No-one ever wrote it down.)
The younger one's a half-step behind him, too close for other people's comfort, barely close enough for theirs. Always had to be close. Some say a curse was responsible, bound them up together for eternity when they messed some witch around. Some say something went wrong with demons, left them with only the one soul between them, and they have to be close for it to work right or you'd wind up with one human and one empty thing that's only fit for killing. One story has it they weren't ever brothers at all, the closeness due to something else entirely, but that one's hogwash. This guy behind, he's the younger brother.
He's a big guy, six feet six (six-eight, seven-one). Keeps a flask of demon's blood (or so they say) next to his gun; keeps his hat pulled down over his eyes. Nobody knows what color they are. Green, maybe, like his brother's, and no-one thought to mention it. Black, maybe, like Baby, like their blood, and no-one dared. Yellow.
People say all sorts.
Two brothers roll into a saloon, blood in their mouths, dirt on their boots, guns at their hips. We can all agree on that. The older one's handsome, straightforward, captivating. The younger has an edge like a bloody knife, a sharp, unhappy beauty like the calm after a massacre. (They both have improbably lovely teeth. That part'll be a fabrication.)
"Sam," says the older one.
The man at the bar pulls his shoulders in, folds himself up like he's scared. The silence expands right to the corners of the room.
"Sam," says the older one, "how about we clean this place out?"
The man at the bar, inexplicably, turns round. He's turning so we can see how his eyes are black, turning so we know where the story is going. Really, he probably hotfooted it out of there without taking his eyes off the ground, if he ever set foot in the place at all. Hell, if the place was ever there.
Still, that's the way of stories. The man at the bar turns around, and his eyes are black, demon-dark.
"Exorcizamus te," says Sam.
The older one shoots from the hip, the Colt smoking. They say it only had thirteen bullets, but he always has enough. They say it blows holes in demons, makes them melt, turns them to ash that'll cure any ailment you got. They say all kinds of things.
A saloon ain't always pleased to see the Winchesters roll in, but it's cleaner when they leave. Even with their blood all over the floor.
"Gotta get me some pie," Dean says. They say black cherry is his favorite, or maybe Key Lime -- ha! -- in the nineteenth-century old West. Who the hell knows. Never liked apple, though. Some kind of bad association.
Sam puts a hand low down on his brother's back. Have to keep close, one soul in two bodies (or so some say). They're both of them bleeding from the bulletholes in their stomachs, the gashes in their spines, but they're years old now and the boys still thirty, can't be killed. Not until the red dirt's dead, and that'll be a long while yet.
"At the next exit," Sam says, tips his hat down over his eyes and rolls his shoulders. They get in the car, on the horse together; Dean gets on the horse and Sam's behind him in the cart. Sam's riding shotgun, gun over his knees, guns in the trunk, gun in the saddlebag. "Come on, Dean. We got work to do."
They say they came out of Kansas, a long time ago. They say a lot of things.