Dean watched from the corner of his eye as Sam shifted on the Impala's front bench: lift with the legs, brace with the back, wince, slide, drop, flinch, grunt. "You need one of those butt donuts?"
"Maybe a towel," Sam admitted. "No, what I need," here he waved the Capri Sun juice-pack he held delicately in his scraped and bandaged fingers, "is a sports bottle with a straw. For water. Not . . . Honey-Boo-Boo juice."
"You'll drink your fruit punch and like it," Dean growled, but his heart wasn't in it. Something thunked in his mind, a boulder settling to a lake bottom. "Do I gotta watch you?" he demanded. "We can make that happen, do some fraud, set you up, start hunting with Garth if you're gonna . . . gnaw off body parts."
"I was in a cage," Sam interrupted. "I couldn't talk, I was surrounded by these idiot dogs, turns out I could smell fear -- you know dogs give off this pheromone when they're freaked? It's potent stuff -- and who needs a tail, anyway? Nobody. There's dogs live most of their lives without tails. It's cosmetic."
"So we just try to keep you out of cages," Dean muttered.
"Which is different from normal how? If we're in a cage, we're in lock-up or somebody's trying to eat us." Sam cut himself off and drained his Capri Sun. "I want to hunt. It's better."
As long as I can, Dean heard. It's better than being trapped in a small concrete pen like an unwanted pet. "Okay, then," he said.
"I wasn't a person in there," Sam continued, facing the window and the glaring sun. "I mean -- of course I wasn't -- I was just a problem."
Dean grunted in sympathy.
"I know what I'm doing when I say I want to hunt," Sam insisted.
"Okay, Sam."
"Okay?"
"Okay."
The endless black snake of the highway sprawled before them. In the corner of his eye, Dean watched Sam slowly stretch and curl his fingers in the confining bandages.
"Maybe a towel," Sam admitted. "No, what I need," here he waved the Capri Sun juice-pack he held delicately in his scraped and bandaged fingers, "is a sports bottle with a straw. For water. Not . . . Honey-Boo-Boo juice."
"You'll drink your fruit punch and like it," Dean growled, but his heart wasn't in it. Something thunked in his mind, a boulder settling to a lake bottom. "Do I gotta watch you?" he demanded. "We can make that happen, do some fraud, set you up, start hunting with Garth if you're gonna . . . gnaw off body parts."
"I was in a cage," Sam interrupted. "I couldn't talk, I was surrounded by these idiot dogs, turns out I could smell fear -- you know dogs give off this pheromone when they're freaked? It's potent stuff -- and who needs a tail, anyway? Nobody. There's dogs live most of their lives without tails. It's cosmetic."
"So we just try to keep you out of cages," Dean muttered.
"Which is different from normal how? If we're in a cage, we're in lock-up or somebody's trying to eat us." Sam cut himself off and drained his Capri Sun. "I want to hunt. It's better."
As long as I can, Dean heard. It's better than being trapped in a small concrete pen like an unwanted pet. "Okay, then," he said.
"I wasn't a person in there," Sam continued, facing the window and the glaring sun. "I mean -- of course I wasn't -- I was just a problem."
Dean grunted in sympathy.
"I know what I'm doing when I say I want to hunt," Sam insisted.
"Okay, Sam."
"Okay?"
"Okay."
The endless black snake of the highway sprawled before them. In the corner of his eye, Dean watched Sam slowly stretch and curl his fingers in the confining bandages.
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