Fiddling While Bones Burn for mimblexwimble
Title: Fiddling While Bones Burn
Author: girlguidejones
Recipient: mimblexwimble
Rating: PG | 2900 words | Gen
Warnings: none
Author's Notes: My sincerest thanks to poisontaster who deserves heaps of credit and zero blame.
Summary: The epic love story of Sam and Dean…and an entire town in Texas.
Dean’s toe was tapping in his borrowed boots, a dead giveaway that he was enjoying himself. When Garth Brooks refused to go down ‘til the sun comes up Dean snorted and tipped his beer at Sam and they grinned wearily at each other over the peanuts. Lord knows they saw more sunrises than showers in some of their cases, and this one was no exception. Sam was glad it was done, even if it did leave him with one arm in a sling and both of them stuck outside Texarkana waiting on the next card to come in the mail.
This had been one of the rare ones: the sort of case and the sort of place where everyone knew who they were and what they did when they showed up. Somebody had a friend who had a friend who’d called in a favor to someone in the hunter network and, bam, there they were, no suits or fake badges necessary.
Sam was pretty sure the small-town life wasn’t for him, but there was something to be said for no-nonsense Texas pragmatism that had librarians working microfiches on the Winchesters’ behalf, construction workers supplying flashlights and tools, and little old ladies marking brittle yellow pages in their family records with sticky notes and inviting them over for sweet tea and dark gossip. Dean had just been glad he didn’t have to wear a tie.
Now those same people had turned out en masse to remember the lost and thank the Winchesters for the still-living, starting with a church picnic earlier that day. Sam was a little embarrassed to think of how much he’d eaten… even using one hand. He’d worn out one super-thick Dixie plate and had to get a second. Dean had grinned and given him a thumbs-up, as if Sam had just learned to tie his shoes or ride a bike, sans training wheels.
Dean had gone through the line with him initially, filling Sam’s plate and getting him settled before returning for his own. Sam felt like he’d stepped into a way-back machine, meeting up with their childhood selves, when Dean would always ensure Sam was fed first.
After the first time, though, a flock of moms and teenage girls took turns scooping potato salad and plating deviled eggs for Sam-all he had to do was hold his plate out next to a casserole and someone would materialize to fill it.
Later that day, they traded tart lemonade for icy Shiner Bock. While the parents of those lost offered somber handshakes and retired, others with still-living children and cause to celebrate migrated across town to the honky-tonk bar that now rocked as though Austin City Limits were recording an episode inside.
After they were settled at a corner booth they’d played some pool, picking up random games for fun instead of funds with strangers who pumped their hands, bought their beer, and were all too happy to let them play in. They needed the cash, but neither of them had the heart to run a con on anyone here.
Today, they were just glad the bones of the thing methodically wiping out the entire millennium generation of Hooks, Texas were smoldering in a pit in Antioch Cemetery. The whole town had suffered through the attacks, until Sam’s blood and Dean’s blade had ended them for good.
Cold beer and the smoky-slow heat of shots of bourbon ("Bulleit? It’s really called Bulleit? That’s totally what we’re drinkin’, Sammy!") mellowed both Winchesters. Without more cash, sleeping in the car was still a real possibility, but when the local sheriff introduced you to his daughter instead of chasing the Impala out of town with his bubble lights flashing, the world was your oyster.
A haze blurred the upper half of the room all the way to the twelve-foot ceilings, growing ever thicker near the top, a bastard born of full-blown, July-in-Texas humidity and cigarettes. It made the air dense and the band indistinct at the far end of the place, like a mirage springing from some kind of sawdust oasis. Sam had to fight the urge to walk hunched over when he went to the bathroom, so he could stay below the fog line, but it wasn’t so bad when they were sitting down.
It never mattered how much room they had in any given place, somehow Dean couldn’t avoid touching Sam. He always made it seem like it was mere chance that, even with ten square feet under the booth-top, Dean’s legs had to occupy the same space as Sam’s. Tonight Dean’s legs were stretched further than strictly necessary under the table, one of them extended out between Sam’s, jigging in time with the thump of the bass drum. When he was fifteen Sam would have been kicking Dean’s shin for more space, but now he liked knowing exactly where Dean was even when he wasn’t looking.
When it came to music, Dean Winchester was a fraud, and Sam was the only one who really knew it. Dean loved his classic rock, that much was true, and the face he put on for the world, but he had a secret appreciation for straight up blues, honky-tonk, and outlaw country that only someone who frequently got stuck drinking in small-town bars with him would know.
Sam was a flat-out enabler, picking dusty country renegade cassettes out of bins at the Flying J to round out Dean’s collection and pinging his way through rockabilly iTunes samples for hours on end. He told Dean it was self-defense, that his ears would bleed out if he had to listen to Zeppelin IV one more time, but, in reality, it made Sam happy to fake sleep in the car, waiting to hear Dean’s tenor slip into a duet with George Strait, once he thought Sam was out.
Just then the band opened up with a cover of Charlie Daniels, the sweet fiddling wail telling the story of how he was drinking his baby goodbye. Sam knew this one well; he’d put it in a mix along with some Waylon Jennings, Merle Haggard, Johnny Cash and a bunch of other real and self-styled outlaws. The look on Dean’s face when he'd found this new cache uploaded to his phone had been inscrutable, but the next morning, Dean had shaken Sam from sleep outside a Starbucks in Morgantown, WV, ordering him to wake his lazy bitch-ass up before his caramel whipped cream thing got cold. Which, in Dean-ese, meant I love you and thank you all in one.
The sheriff’s twenty-something daughter appeared suddenly, snapping Sam back to the present. She was all tan legs and wide, white smile, throwing Sam a wink as she swung Dean up by his elbow and toward the dance floor. Sam raised his beer in salute and whooped his approval along with the rest of the crowd. Now the whole world-well, at least the better portion of the 3,012 drinking-age residents of Hooks, Texas -was going to know Dean’s secret music affinity, too.
Dean gave a token protest to his new dance partner; after all, he didn’t exactly make a practice of saying no to women, and certainly not when their daddies were watching. Sam could tell his brother was in the sweet spot…that place where you’ve had just enough to drink to lose the inhibitions that would make you hesitant and clumsy-not that Dean had a lot of those to begin with-and yet not enough to make you sloppy. Factor in a pretty girl whose life he and Dean had presumably saved only hours ago and a benevolent audience that considered him a hero and Sam only had to watch and wait.
As quick as Dean was to act the hound dog with women, he had no qualms learning what skills he could from whomever was best at them and he didn’t give a damn what genitals they had. The sheriff’s daughter led for the first few minutes while the steel guitar and fiddle traded turns on the melody, Dean a half beat behind her, but he picked it up quickly, like he did everything. The lead singer twanged about love gone wrong and drinking himself to oblivion.
God knew the Winchesters could relate to that one.
It took Dean about twice through the moves to get it down. Then he sketched a cocky salute to the band and caught his partner around the waist mid-twirl, reversing her turn and taking over the lead as she laughed. A few of the other couples thinned themselves, moving to the edge of the floor until Dean and the sheriff’s daughter had a generous share of the parquet, and Sam found himself standing and moving up to join the ring of spectators just so he could see.
The lead singer twirled a finger in the air, and the band followed his signal, circling back to the bridge again with a change of key and a faster pace instead of wrapping up the song; now that they had a chance to see Dean in the zone they weren’t about to let him go.
Sam understood that feeling perfectly.
The drums drove the pace ever faster; the piano player followed, pounding his keys like a drummer himself. The guitars wailed, and the fiddler scraped his bow so fast that Sam imagined his strings smoking, adding to the thickening haze gathered up at the tin ceiling. Dean swung his partner in tight circles around himself, switching hands and directions in time with the music like she’d taught him.
She worked it too, trying to anticipate his unorthodox moves. Her eyes shone, flashing as she challenged him to keep up with tight, two-step boot-stomps as they pivoted together, arm-in-arm, around an invisible spoke in the floor. Dean was on the outside of the spoke, and she pushed him for all he was worth to keep up with her double-time heel-toes. He grinned, panting for breath and fighting hard not to fall behind even with the advantage of longer legs.
Sam could see the sweat trickling in gleaming rivulets behind her ears, and Dean’s hair was spiked with it, his freckles popping out in a flush. His Adam’s apple bobbed when he threw back his head in a whoop, egging her on even though he was hard pressed to keep up with her and the band as it was.
The crescendo rose and built and rose some more; adrenaline raced through Sam even though he was just a spectator. He couldn’t imagine what it felt like to be in the band, or be twirling in a blur on the floor himself. He sensed the same feeling sweeping through the crowd, which was clapping in time with the music and hollering, caught up in the excitement themselves. His aches and pains forgotten for the moment, Sam felt himself grinning until his face hurt, watching Dean dance with unabashed joy to music he’d never admitted to even liking. It made Sam’s chest ache, as if he was four years old again and thinking about how there was nothing his big brother couldn’t do…how Dean was the coolest person in the entire world.
Which Sam supposed Dean was.
The band came together in one last run. Dean had his partner by one hand, twirling her lightning fast as she balanced on the ball of one foot, long brunette pony-tail whipping Dean’s forearm as she whirled.
The honky-tonk piano scaled up and up. Stepping back, Dean extended his arm, popping her out of her spin and snapping her back to his side with an arm around her waist. The drums and guitar punctuated the singer’s got-done-wrong, gonna-get-drunk tale, leading to a last, scorching fiddle flourish. As if they could read each other’s minds, Dean and the sheriff’s daughter both grinned at each other and snapped a last triple-time stomp hip-to-hip and then swept down in a bow just as the fiddle’s final note sang out.
The entire bar erupted with howls of approval, beer bottles thumping on tables and feet stomping. Sam looked around to see the band actually coming down off the stage to clap Dean on the back and kiss his partner on the cheek. The bartender was standing up on the bar-top twirling a dirty rag in the air like a terrible towel. Sam realized he was still cheering himself only when his throat started hurting.
He watched Dean deliver his partner safely back into her father’s arms, shaking the grinning sheriff’s hand and dropping a chaste kiss on his daughter’s damp forehead before starting back to where Sam stood. It took him a while to fight his way through all the handshakes and backslaps, eyes cutting to Sam each time he was stalled, making sure Sam was still where he’d left him.
"Where’s my beer, bitch?" Dean’s voice was a little hoarse, and he was still flushed as he pulled up a stool. The band was taking a well-deserved break, so luckily he only had to talk over the juke. It sounded a little subdued after the raucous live performance.
"By my count you turned down at least six free ones on your way over here," Sam replied, sipping his and trying not to grin like a loon.
"Eight," he corrected. "And that’s because I assumed my little brother would have me all set." Sam rolled his eyes and handed Dean his own beer, which Dean promptly downed, waving to the waitress for two more, which arrived in record time…and on the house. "Why are you staring at me?"
Sam tried to look less like an admirer and more like an exasperated brother.
"I’m thinking about how bad you smell right now," he answered. Dean snorted.
"Whatever. You’re wishing you were as cool as me," he said confidently.
"I’m wishing you were near a large body of water so I could push you in it," Sam shot back, which made Dean grin despite himself.
"Which would only-literally-make me even cooler."
"You like fiddles and know how to do the two-step. I think you lose a lot of coolness points for that."
"Now that’s just a flat-out lie," Dean stood and clapped him on his good shoulder. "Let’s go, dude," he said. He tapped the table in emphasis as he set down his empty beer, snatching up an unattended bucket of fresh bottles from a nearby hi-top.
"Go? Go where? We don’t have any money. And what about your fan club?" Sam teased, rising slowly.
"Chill, dude. I just wanna get you out of here for a while before the drunks start stumbling into your bad shoulder and I have to listen to you whine all night," Dean said, shifting to shield Sam’s bad side as they moved into the crowd. "And when have I ever not taken care of you Sammy? It so happens we’ve got a room later at the Yellow Rose Inn, free of charge."
"That the lady with the cucumber salad?"
"Nope, she’s the antique shop. Yellow Rose Inn is the pecan pie."
"Mmmmm. "
"Yeah. Hopefully it includes breakfast." Dean steered him past several new friends protesting their departure. He gracefully declined offers as they went, citing Sam’s injuries along the way.
"Look, Sam," he gestured around them. "They’re your fan club too, and if you wouldn’t have fucked up your arm that blond over there would be dancing with you instead of getting her toes crushed by the mailman." Sam glanced over to where Dean had chin-pointed and, sure enough, there was a pretty blond smiling at him while making a valiant attempt to keep her feet out of walking casts. "Do you know how many people said something to me about you being so brave? How many of them were talking about how you jumped out in front of that thing and distracted it so I could get my chance at it?"
Sam flushed. He didn’t know, actually. He’d napped after his arm was tended to, deep under the spell of some very nice white pills provided by the town doctor.
"Of course I set ‘em straight, and told ‘em how stupid you were and that you was fixin’ to get yer fool self kilt, as they say around here." Dean’s face, ducked down and tilted up at Sam at the same time, told the real story, with his wide eyes and set jaw. He hadn’t said any such thing. Dean had been singing his little brother’s praises to all and sundry.
"So…we’re both heroes." Sam ventured, and Dean grinned, brighter than the full moon overhead. It looked bigger, like all things in Texas were, Sam figured. The strains of a forlorn fiddle floated out into the lot as they crunched their way toward the Impala.
"Well, yeah. But I can dance a hole in the floor, so I’m still cooler," Dean declared, door creaking open under his hands.
"So…what you’re saying is…you’re Kevin Bacon." Sam grinned, wedging carefully into the front seat as the engine purred to life.
"Now, that just ain’t right," Dean drawled, and pulled into the dark.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Song credit: "Drinkin’ my Baby Goodbye" written and performed by Charlie Daniels. This recording is from the album "Essential Super Hits", released in 2004.
Author: girlguidejones
Recipient: mimblexwimble
Rating: PG | 2900 words | Gen
Warnings: none
Author's Notes: My sincerest thanks to poisontaster who deserves heaps of credit and zero blame.
Summary: The epic love story of Sam and Dean…and an entire town in Texas.
Dean’s toe was tapping in his borrowed boots, a dead giveaway that he was enjoying himself. When Garth Brooks refused to go down ‘til the sun comes up Dean snorted and tipped his beer at Sam and they grinned wearily at each other over the peanuts. Lord knows they saw more sunrises than showers in some of their cases, and this one was no exception. Sam was glad it was done, even if it did leave him with one arm in a sling and both of them stuck outside Texarkana waiting on the next card to come in the mail.
This had been one of the rare ones: the sort of case and the sort of place where everyone knew who they were and what they did when they showed up. Somebody had a friend who had a friend who’d called in a favor to someone in the hunter network and, bam, there they were, no suits or fake badges necessary.
Sam was pretty sure the small-town life wasn’t for him, but there was something to be said for no-nonsense Texas pragmatism that had librarians working microfiches on the Winchesters’ behalf, construction workers supplying flashlights and tools, and little old ladies marking brittle yellow pages in their family records with sticky notes and inviting them over for sweet tea and dark gossip. Dean had just been glad he didn’t have to wear a tie.
Now those same people had turned out en masse to remember the lost and thank the Winchesters for the still-living, starting with a church picnic earlier that day. Sam was a little embarrassed to think of how much he’d eaten… even using one hand. He’d worn out one super-thick Dixie plate and had to get a second. Dean had grinned and given him a thumbs-up, as if Sam had just learned to tie his shoes or ride a bike, sans training wheels.
Dean had gone through the line with him initially, filling Sam’s plate and getting him settled before returning for his own. Sam felt like he’d stepped into a way-back machine, meeting up with their childhood selves, when Dean would always ensure Sam was fed first.
After the first time, though, a flock of moms and teenage girls took turns scooping potato salad and plating deviled eggs for Sam-all he had to do was hold his plate out next to a casserole and someone would materialize to fill it.
Later that day, they traded tart lemonade for icy Shiner Bock. While the parents of those lost offered somber handshakes and retired, others with still-living children and cause to celebrate migrated across town to the honky-tonk bar that now rocked as though Austin City Limits were recording an episode inside.
After they were settled at a corner booth they’d played some pool, picking up random games for fun instead of funds with strangers who pumped their hands, bought their beer, and were all too happy to let them play in. They needed the cash, but neither of them had the heart to run a con on anyone here.
Today, they were just glad the bones of the thing methodically wiping out the entire millennium generation of Hooks, Texas were smoldering in a pit in Antioch Cemetery. The whole town had suffered through the attacks, until Sam’s blood and Dean’s blade had ended them for good.
Cold beer and the smoky-slow heat of shots of bourbon ("Bulleit? It’s really called Bulleit? That’s totally what we’re drinkin’, Sammy!") mellowed both Winchesters. Without more cash, sleeping in the car was still a real possibility, but when the local sheriff introduced you to his daughter instead of chasing the Impala out of town with his bubble lights flashing, the world was your oyster.
A haze blurred the upper half of the room all the way to the twelve-foot ceilings, growing ever thicker near the top, a bastard born of full-blown, July-in-Texas humidity and cigarettes. It made the air dense and the band indistinct at the far end of the place, like a mirage springing from some kind of sawdust oasis. Sam had to fight the urge to walk hunched over when he went to the bathroom, so he could stay below the fog line, but it wasn’t so bad when they were sitting down.
It never mattered how much room they had in any given place, somehow Dean couldn’t avoid touching Sam. He always made it seem like it was mere chance that, even with ten square feet under the booth-top, Dean’s legs had to occupy the same space as Sam’s. Tonight Dean’s legs were stretched further than strictly necessary under the table, one of them extended out between Sam’s, jigging in time with the thump of the bass drum. When he was fifteen Sam would have been kicking Dean’s shin for more space, but now he liked knowing exactly where Dean was even when he wasn’t looking.
When it came to music, Dean Winchester was a fraud, and Sam was the only one who really knew it. Dean loved his classic rock, that much was true, and the face he put on for the world, but he had a secret appreciation for straight up blues, honky-tonk, and outlaw country that only someone who frequently got stuck drinking in small-town bars with him would know.
Sam was a flat-out enabler, picking dusty country renegade cassettes out of bins at the Flying J to round out Dean’s collection and pinging his way through rockabilly iTunes samples for hours on end. He told Dean it was self-defense, that his ears would bleed out if he had to listen to Zeppelin IV one more time, but, in reality, it made Sam happy to fake sleep in the car, waiting to hear Dean’s tenor slip into a duet with George Strait, once he thought Sam was out.
Just then the band opened up with a cover of Charlie Daniels, the sweet fiddling wail telling the story of how he was drinking his baby goodbye. Sam knew this one well; he’d put it in a mix along with some Waylon Jennings, Merle Haggard, Johnny Cash and a bunch of other real and self-styled outlaws. The look on Dean’s face when he'd found this new cache uploaded to his phone had been inscrutable, but the next morning, Dean had shaken Sam from sleep outside a Starbucks in Morgantown, WV, ordering him to wake his lazy bitch-ass up before his caramel whipped cream thing got cold. Which, in Dean-ese, meant I love you and thank you all in one.
The sheriff’s twenty-something daughter appeared suddenly, snapping Sam back to the present. She was all tan legs and wide, white smile, throwing Sam a wink as she swung Dean up by his elbow and toward the dance floor. Sam raised his beer in salute and whooped his approval along with the rest of the crowd. Now the whole world-well, at least the better portion of the 3,012 drinking-age residents of Hooks, Texas -was going to know Dean’s secret music affinity, too.
Dean gave a token protest to his new dance partner; after all, he didn’t exactly make a practice of saying no to women, and certainly not when their daddies were watching. Sam could tell his brother was in the sweet spot…that place where you’ve had just enough to drink to lose the inhibitions that would make you hesitant and clumsy-not that Dean had a lot of those to begin with-and yet not enough to make you sloppy. Factor in a pretty girl whose life he and Dean had presumably saved only hours ago and a benevolent audience that considered him a hero and Sam only had to watch and wait.
As quick as Dean was to act the hound dog with women, he had no qualms learning what skills he could from whomever was best at them and he didn’t give a damn what genitals they had. The sheriff’s daughter led for the first few minutes while the steel guitar and fiddle traded turns on the melody, Dean a half beat behind her, but he picked it up quickly, like he did everything. The lead singer twanged about love gone wrong and drinking himself to oblivion.
God knew the Winchesters could relate to that one.
It took Dean about twice through the moves to get it down. Then he sketched a cocky salute to the band and caught his partner around the waist mid-twirl, reversing her turn and taking over the lead as she laughed. A few of the other couples thinned themselves, moving to the edge of the floor until Dean and the sheriff’s daughter had a generous share of the parquet, and Sam found himself standing and moving up to join the ring of spectators just so he could see.
The lead singer twirled a finger in the air, and the band followed his signal, circling back to the bridge again with a change of key and a faster pace instead of wrapping up the song; now that they had a chance to see Dean in the zone they weren’t about to let him go.
Sam understood that feeling perfectly.
The drums drove the pace ever faster; the piano player followed, pounding his keys like a drummer himself. The guitars wailed, and the fiddler scraped his bow so fast that Sam imagined his strings smoking, adding to the thickening haze gathered up at the tin ceiling. Dean swung his partner in tight circles around himself, switching hands and directions in time with the music like she’d taught him.
She worked it too, trying to anticipate his unorthodox moves. Her eyes shone, flashing as she challenged him to keep up with tight, two-step boot-stomps as they pivoted together, arm-in-arm, around an invisible spoke in the floor. Dean was on the outside of the spoke, and she pushed him for all he was worth to keep up with her double-time heel-toes. He grinned, panting for breath and fighting hard not to fall behind even with the advantage of longer legs.
Sam could see the sweat trickling in gleaming rivulets behind her ears, and Dean’s hair was spiked with it, his freckles popping out in a flush. His Adam’s apple bobbed when he threw back his head in a whoop, egging her on even though he was hard pressed to keep up with her and the band as it was.
The crescendo rose and built and rose some more; adrenaline raced through Sam even though he was just a spectator. He couldn’t imagine what it felt like to be in the band, or be twirling in a blur on the floor himself. He sensed the same feeling sweeping through the crowd, which was clapping in time with the music and hollering, caught up in the excitement themselves. His aches and pains forgotten for the moment, Sam felt himself grinning until his face hurt, watching Dean dance with unabashed joy to music he’d never admitted to even liking. It made Sam’s chest ache, as if he was four years old again and thinking about how there was nothing his big brother couldn’t do…how Dean was the coolest person in the entire world.
Which Sam supposed Dean was.
The band came together in one last run. Dean had his partner by one hand, twirling her lightning fast as she balanced on the ball of one foot, long brunette pony-tail whipping Dean’s forearm as she whirled.
The honky-tonk piano scaled up and up. Stepping back, Dean extended his arm, popping her out of her spin and snapping her back to his side with an arm around her waist. The drums and guitar punctuated the singer’s got-done-wrong, gonna-get-drunk tale, leading to a last, scorching fiddle flourish. As if they could read each other’s minds, Dean and the sheriff’s daughter both grinned at each other and snapped a last triple-time stomp hip-to-hip and then swept down in a bow just as the fiddle’s final note sang out.
The entire bar erupted with howls of approval, beer bottles thumping on tables and feet stomping. Sam looked around to see the band actually coming down off the stage to clap Dean on the back and kiss his partner on the cheek. The bartender was standing up on the bar-top twirling a dirty rag in the air like a terrible towel. Sam realized he was still cheering himself only when his throat started hurting.
He watched Dean deliver his partner safely back into her father’s arms, shaking the grinning sheriff’s hand and dropping a chaste kiss on his daughter’s damp forehead before starting back to where Sam stood. It took him a while to fight his way through all the handshakes and backslaps, eyes cutting to Sam each time he was stalled, making sure Sam was still where he’d left him.
"Where’s my beer, bitch?" Dean’s voice was a little hoarse, and he was still flushed as he pulled up a stool. The band was taking a well-deserved break, so luckily he only had to talk over the juke. It sounded a little subdued after the raucous live performance.
"By my count you turned down at least six free ones on your way over here," Sam replied, sipping his and trying not to grin like a loon.
"Eight," he corrected. "And that’s because I assumed my little brother would have me all set." Sam rolled his eyes and handed Dean his own beer, which Dean promptly downed, waving to the waitress for two more, which arrived in record time…and on the house. "Why are you staring at me?"
Sam tried to look less like an admirer and more like an exasperated brother.
"I’m thinking about how bad you smell right now," he answered. Dean snorted.
"Whatever. You’re wishing you were as cool as me," he said confidently.
"I’m wishing you were near a large body of water so I could push you in it," Sam shot back, which made Dean grin despite himself.
"Which would only-literally-make me even cooler."
"You like fiddles and know how to do the two-step. I think you lose a lot of coolness points for that."
"Now that’s just a flat-out lie," Dean stood and clapped him on his good shoulder. "Let’s go, dude," he said. He tapped the table in emphasis as he set down his empty beer, snatching up an unattended bucket of fresh bottles from a nearby hi-top.
"Go? Go where? We don’t have any money. And what about your fan club?" Sam teased, rising slowly.
"Chill, dude. I just wanna get you out of here for a while before the drunks start stumbling into your bad shoulder and I have to listen to you whine all night," Dean said, shifting to shield Sam’s bad side as they moved into the crowd. "And when have I ever not taken care of you Sammy? It so happens we’ve got a room later at the Yellow Rose Inn, free of charge."
"That the lady with the cucumber salad?"
"Nope, she’s the antique shop. Yellow Rose Inn is the pecan pie."
"Mmmmm. "
"Yeah. Hopefully it includes breakfast." Dean steered him past several new friends protesting their departure. He gracefully declined offers as they went, citing Sam’s injuries along the way.
"Look, Sam," he gestured around them. "They’re your fan club too, and if you wouldn’t have fucked up your arm that blond over there would be dancing with you instead of getting her toes crushed by the mailman." Sam glanced over to where Dean had chin-pointed and, sure enough, there was a pretty blond smiling at him while making a valiant attempt to keep her feet out of walking casts. "Do you know how many people said something to me about you being so brave? How many of them were talking about how you jumped out in front of that thing and distracted it so I could get my chance at it?"
Sam flushed. He didn’t know, actually. He’d napped after his arm was tended to, deep under the spell of some very nice white pills provided by the town doctor.
"Of course I set ‘em straight, and told ‘em how stupid you were and that you was fixin’ to get yer fool self kilt, as they say around here." Dean’s face, ducked down and tilted up at Sam at the same time, told the real story, with his wide eyes and set jaw. He hadn’t said any such thing. Dean had been singing his little brother’s praises to all and sundry.
"So…we’re both heroes." Sam ventured, and Dean grinned, brighter than the full moon overhead. It looked bigger, like all things in Texas were, Sam figured. The strains of a forlorn fiddle floated out into the lot as they crunched their way toward the Impala.
"Well, yeah. But I can dance a hole in the floor, so I’m still cooler," Dean declared, door creaking open under his hands.
"So…what you’re saying is…you’re Kevin Bacon." Sam grinned, wedging carefully into the front seat as the engine purred to life.
"Now, that just ain’t right," Dean drawled, and pulled into the dark.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Song credit: "Drinkin’ my Baby Goodbye" written and performed by Charlie Daniels. This recording is from the album "Essential Super Hits", released in 2004.