"The Road Goes Ever On" (28/30) (Sam/Dean)
The Road Goes Ever On (28/30)
(3100 words) *facepalm*
Warnings: Teenchesters (Sam is 16, Dean is 20)
Alternate reality/pre-series.
Rated: Adult (Mild Wincest, natural/supernatural violence, disturbing themes)
Links to previous installments under the cut.
(1) * (2) * (3) * (4) * (5) * (6) * (7) * (8) * (9) * (10) * (11) * (12) * (13) * (14) * (15) * (16) * (17) * (18) * (19) * (20) * (21) * (22) * (23) * (24) * (25) * (26) * (27) *
Twenty-Eight
The sun's bright now that it's come out from behind all those heavy clouds, shining down so sharp and proud Dean thinks he might get a sunburn. He knows he'll end up with an odd dozen or more new freckles scattered over the backs of his hands and his nose. Sam'll just get a good start on browning up again, which Dean thinks Sam does just to piss him off.
It's a fantastic day.
They can't get started walking back to the shelter right away, need to take care of putting this place completely to rest first. Without salt or fire they don't have many options, but Dean comes up with a few ideas, Sam develops a few more, and they make do.
Dean suggests saying a rosary over one of their two bottles of water -- Sam found them near the tree line amongst some storm-broken pine saplings, the clear plastic battered by hail yet still somehow intact -- and Sam pulls a you're nuts face when Dean suggests they bless it, but Sam remembers his Latin best and Dean hopes it's good enough to make the spring water holy.
This is Dean's responsibility, so it's Dean who takes care of sprinkling the scraps of bone in Benjamin's grave, baptizing him before covering him back up, another quarter of the bottle over the spot where Joey fell and Hannah disappeared, then walking the last precious drops around the shanty in a sunwise circle. Sam pulls out the Latin-fu again with a hopefully not too mangled version of Last Rites and maybe Dean imagines it, but he'd swear there's almost a settling to the burned, tumbledown boards, a groan as it rests deeper in the earth, as if it's finally at peace too. Places remember things as well as people.
Sam argues back when Dean wants to change the bandage on his leg -- it's soaked through with mud and hail, and like hell he's letting Sam go septic. When Sam points out they've got exactly jack shit that'll work better, they compromise on cutting Sam's jeans off at the knee and hoping the sunshine and air circulation will help. Dean decides to make the best of it and keep a look out for signs of infection just in case.
Besides? He gets to mock Sam relentlessly about how stupid he looks with one long skinny leg and bony knee exposed. Sam sucks at comebacks, mumbling one about how Dean's hair looks like someone jizzed in it, sticking up everywhere -- to which Dean, lying on a mat of sweetgrass, propped up on his elbows, takes as the right and proper ammunition it is and waggles his eyebrows at Sam, tongue caught between his teeth.
Sam turns as red as Dean's gonna get with the sunburn, presses his lips together in a thin line, and turns his back on Dean to sulk. Again, Dean doesn't mind. He figures he can tease Sam about that, too, and later, when they're clean and fed, oh God, Dean doesn't know which one he wants first or most, he can let Sam know in a casual and manly way that the pouting? Is actually kind of hot.
Their work takes up a good chunk of the afternoon, longer than either Dean or Sam would have liked to get ready for the trek back. Dean reckons they might be out of natural daylight hours before they reach the shelter, depending on how slow a pace they set. Still, it's not half as cold as before, and the sun's warmth should linger until they get a good fire going.
Quiet now, the burst of adrenaline giving way once again to exhaustion, Dean and Sam dry up for words for a while, waiting for their second wind. Still, Sam slings his arm around Dean's shoulders as they head for the tree line, jostling him. Thanks, approval, appreciation, maybe all of the above. Dean hip-checks Sam -- carefully -- and reaches up to scruff Sam's hair.
Everything's gonna be okay now. No, better than okay. Good. Great, even.
Except, as he and Sam push their way through the loblollies and fir, their hands gaining a new layer of sticky sap on top of the dirt, heading up over rocks and fallen logs and down muddy slopes slippery with wet, dead leaves, Dean knows now is when he has to let Sam know what's on his mind.
Not easy. Dean has to take a deep breath, twice, three times, straining his abused lungs, and fist his hands tight for a moment or two to work up the balls to force himself past all his training to keep his mouth shut about what he wants to tell Sam.
Sam doesn't push Dean beyond a few curious looks and an air of waiting while he holds back branches low enough for Dean to conk his head on, scattering pine needles on both of them in a green shower.
Dean takes his time, crafts his words together careful as a carpenter measuring joints, and waits for the right moment. When they reach the creek -- and damn, it looks innocent in the sunlight filtering in streaks through the heavy tree cover, clear and still cold, moving faster as if the water's got somewhere to go now -- Dean figures: this is where he should make his stand.
"Break for ten," Dean suggests, crouching and dabbling his fingertips in the water. He savors the good natural tingle and rubs his palms together in the current. "Go upstream of me and fill the bottles, then come back here and stick your leg in."
Sam cracks up. "What, now?"
"C'mon, it'll feel good, and can't hurt to wash the mud off."
Sam quirks an eyebrow, but doesn't argue. See? Dean thinks, lazily pleased in the warmth of the late afternoon sun and quiescent despite hunger and weariness. Sam's not like Dad thinks. You've just gotta argue the way Sam thinks, is all.
Dad. Yeah. There's a hornet's nest. Still, though, still… Dean rubs the softer skin beside his eye, brushing his cheek as he goes. He blinks at the feel of how long his stubble's gotten. He has to be a quarter of the way to a beard.
A flash passes through Dean's mind's eye of, once they're clean, taking unfair advantage and whisker-burning Sam until he cries for mercy. The idea improves Dean's mood; more, it reinforces his decision.
What Dean wants is for he and Sam to go it alone. Maybe it was Sam who planted the seed of the idea in Dean with his rebellion and his never-ending questions and his mule headed stubbornness, but Dean's taken the yearning and made it his own.
So now, they'll talk. It still ain't easy, but after what they've just been through at least laying it flat-out and honest to Sam isn't as hard as it might have been before.
Dean shifts from foot to foot, toes squelchy in his boots, and shakes the water off his not-clean but at least cleaner hands. He pitches backward, planting his ass on the side of the creek, and rests his arms on his knees, hands dangling free, and watches in quiet patience while Sam takes care of business.
Without being told or even asked, when he's done Sam comes to sit beside Dean. He's close enough to warm Dean's side that extra few degrees, close enough for the motion of his breathing to chafe their arms together.
Dean picks up a pinecone, perfectly ordinary pinecone, and picks off the bits one by one, tossing them in the creek, where they're carried away who knows where. "So."
"So," Sam echoes, turning his face to the sun.
Man up, Dean. "So. When we get out of here, what's the first thing you want?"
Sam wrinkles his nose. "Huh?"
"Dude, we used to play this game all the time. 'What if'." Dean tosses two scraps of pinecone one right after the other, plip, plip. "Humor me. If you could have anything you wanted waiting on you when we get out of the woods, what would it be?"
"Huh." Sam gnaws at his lower lip, thinking seriously about the question before answering, "Penicillin."
Dean snorts and smacks Sam's shoulder. "Okay, clearing up the rules. Something good."
"Penicillin is good." Sam laughs and holds up his hand, palm out, to ward off another punch. "Give me a minute." He takes the pinecone away from Dean and twists the ragged-ass middle. "A shower," he decides.
"That the best you can do?" Dean scoffs. He looks up at the sun, same as Sam.
"What, that's not enough?"
"Lacks style, Sam. Let's see… I want a hot shower. In a clean shower stall. All the water I want and some huge towels, too." Dean loses himself briefly to the fantasy. He could use a shower in the worst way -- aw, man, steaming hot shower, the water temperature high enough to redden his skin, Dove soap because nothing that smells piney or woodsy or anything like a forest is getting near him for years, if he has his way.
And Sam in there with him, maybe? Dean likes the bubble of anticipation that rises warm and fluid in his chest. He's only ever gotten lucky enough to shower with ladies maybe two or three times -- he wears 'em out so that they fall asleep not long after -- and he's enough of a player to know the key to lasting good memories is to keep 'em close until they've fallen asleep, and he never stays the night. Almost never.
Guess that's something new about Sam. Something good. Sam'll always be there when Dean wakes up in the mornings -- even if evidence already suggests Sam's one of those wham-bam, roll over and snore types. Dean's okay with that, he just wants to make sure Sam knows how to reciprocate and hey, there's a lot to teach him.
Dean thinks he's looking forward to that.
Sam slides his hand up Dean's leg and rests his palm not too close to tease, but enough to let Dean know Sam's still got sharp enough eyes and a quick enough mind to know e-damn-xactly what Dean's daydreaming about. "So after we're clean," Sam says, hopeful and nervous. "What then?"
"Food," Dean responds immediately. He'd meant to tease Sam, ratchet it up a notch, but they both moan for a totally different reason once food enters their heads. FOOD.
"Bacon," Dean says. "Thick-cut bacon, chewy, crispy, I don't care, I just want a plate full of it. Piled up, even."
"Scrambled eggs," Sam groans. "Fried. Boiled. Poached."
"You have a weird hard-on for eggs."
"You're the one pitching a tent over bacon," Sam points out, literally.
Dean leers at Sam until Sam realizes that bacon equals pork equals, yeah baby, and Sam groans, making a thwap sound when he covers his face with his hands. Dean whoops with laughter and pats Sam's knee, still drowning in the sunlight that warms him from the outside in and back again.
"Is there anything you can't turn into a dirty joke?" Sam grouches, kicking pine needles into the creek.
"Nope," Dean says cheerfully. "What, you want me to stop?"
"No," Sam mumbles.
"So okay, back to the food." Dean's maybe getting a little too into this and drifting from the point, but c'mon. FOOD. "Pancakes? Waffles with whipped cream for me and blueberries for you? Or hey, I know, how about hash browns? Or home fries, soft all the way through with cayenne pepper and salt and --"
"Dean?" Sam squeezes Dean's leg, fingers flexing uncertainly. Dean can feel the weight of Sam's gaze on the side of his cheek.
Dean lets out his breath, dreams of steaming hot fritters coated in cinnamon-sugar fading away right when he was just about to taste them. "Yeah. Sorry." He clears his throat.
Although… it's not a bad segue, as transitions go. Dean laces his fingers together, pushing his thumbs back and forth, and looks away from Sam -- then decides that's a cheat, not playing fair, and looks back. Sam meets Dean's eyes, level and calm in a way that's come to Sam during this hunt. Dean likes the steadiness as much as he hates the too-old look that flashes through the hazel every now and again.
"I can cook," Dean volunteers, heart in his throat. "You remember when you were little, and you were picky as hell? Wouldn't eat in a diner unless we tied you down. So I always tried to get us rooms with kitchenettes and made sure the stove worked if we settled in an apartment for a while."
"I remember." Sam's forehead wrinkles, then smoothes; he's tickled. "Dean, you suck at cooking."
"Shut up, I do not." Dean pushes him.
"Actually, you really kind of do." Sam eases up. "Sorry. You were heading somewhere with this?"
"Um. Yeah." Dean drops his head, rolls his shoulders, and comes up swinging. "I could cook instead of us eating out. If we found someplace. I don't know, maybe with a garage I could work at, and a school where maybe you could stick around until you graduated. Every night, I could grill us both up a hot cheese sandwich, and every morning I could wake up to burn-my-tongue coffee I brewed for myself just the way I like it. I'd share." He looks sideways at Sam. "If we. You know. If you wanted to, I guess I could."
Sam nods slowly, taking this serious. "What about Dad?"
This is the part Dean's uneasiest about, and the piece of his mind that's the hardest to pry loose. He doesn't back down, though. "What about Dad?" he asks, voice shaking the tiniest bit. "He knew what was out here. Had to. Hannah recognized him, and she knew hunters. Don't ask me how I know, I don't want to get distracted; I'll tell you later. Just trust me right now, okay?"
Sam looks grave and worried, but he nods.
Good enough. Dean goes on, tugging the ragged edge of his sleeve for something to keep his hands busy. "He left us to do the best we could on our own. So I say that's what we do." He tears some threads loose and winds them once around his fingers, then tosses them aside. "We walk, but to the next town. I hustle some cash, we get on a bus, and we go. We find that town with the garage and the school and what-the-fuck ever else you want."
"Huh." Sam works his jaw, looking ahead of him, deep in thought.
Dean waits, his palms starting to sweat when Sam takes longer than Dean had thought he would to answer.
But when Sam does, Dean thinks he could either collapse with relief or punch the air with his fist for a hell yeah!
"I'd be okay with it," Sam says, turning back to grin at Dean, slice of white in the middle of tan and dirt.
"Bitch, you gave me a heart attack waiting!" Dean elbows him.
"Yeah, well, that's part of my job. Seriously? Yeah. I'd like that. As long as there's a kitchen, because I really want a grilled cheese sandwich now. And hey, you know, you could even get your GED," Sam goes on, kneeling up, because Sam's happy too, and that pushes his "talk" and "action" buttons. Dean can roll with that. "Maybe college afterwards. You don't have to hunt forever."
Dean flashes back to Hannah, tattered and grieving and tired, and knows better. "I kinda think I do, Sam."
Sam quiets. "Yeah." He shakes himself and gets a stubborn on like he's putting on a mantle. "So I guess you have to put up with me hunting, too. With you."
Dean can't hold back his relief, blazing at Sam. "Awesome. But after you graduate."
"And you." Sam's chin comes up. "I'm serious."
"C'mon, Sam. I'm not good with book stuff," Dean hedges.
Sam's nostrils flare. He looks like a bull that's just seen a red flag. "Don't pull that crap on me. You're smart. You know you are." He jabs Dean's shoulder with his forefinger. Ow. "An idiot wouldn't have been able to do what you did back there. So I get hunting, there's things we can do other people can't and shouldn't, but you're more than just a gun with a hand attached, okay?" Sam's getting worked up now, downright damn fiery in his defense of Dean's smarts.
There's only one real way to say "thanks" and "I know" and "shut up" and "sounds like a plan to me" at the same time, and lucky Dean, smash-mouthing Sam silent suits both Dean and Sam just fine.
Also, mental note for the future, Dean thinks, keeping his eyes open and focused on Sam's, looking back, it works like a charm when nothing else has a prayer.
***
Sun's nearly set by the time Dean and Sam make it back up the hill to the shelter. Dean's face warms when he thinks about wasting time making out by the creek like it's a chick movie or something, which would have been okay except he zigged when Sam zagged and they ended up falling in the water. But hell, in lieu of a hot shower a cold water douse cleaned off a lot of the muck caked and coated on both of them.
They're still fine. The walk's warmed Dean and Sam both back up after the spring water chilled them, the last of the day's light gentle in the way it brushes over Dean's face. As he walks, Dean finds himself humming. It's not a bad day, all things considered. Nice limber burn in his arms and legs, hands good and flexible and ready to grip a knife handle or kindle a fire. His neck's not stiff like usual, moves smoothly, no tension knotting up the back and hurting clear to his eyes, nothing pops when he cricks his head to and fro.
Fire, shelter, food even if it's from an MRE, sleep, Sam, fire, money, bus tickets, Sam, food, Sam -- Dean can't remember being this happy, like he's about to pop out of his skin with too much.
It makes him careless. Dean doesn't catch the movement, even though it's small, when he and Sam top the final rise, elbowing each other and snickering over crazy shit that's only funny because they're so tired and loopy with excitement. Dean knows as soon as he spots the tiny glint of light off metal that he should have known.
Sam stops in his tracks, hand coming up to push on Dean's chest. Sam's color drains away.
The last of the sunlight is still enough to see by. To see, pulled up to the edge of the shelter, the gleaming black hulk of the Impala free of road grime or mud or anything, sweet a ride as ever but -- Dean tastes blood when he grinds his teeth, and his hands form rock-solid fists.
Dad sits on the hood of the Impala, cleaning a long-barreled gun. Waiting. For them.
Continues here.
(3100 words) *facepalm*
Warnings: Teenchesters (Sam is 16, Dean is 20)
Alternate reality/pre-series.
Rated: Adult (Mild Wincest, natural/supernatural violence, disturbing themes)
Links to previous installments under the cut.
(1) * (2) * (3) * (4) * (5) * (6) * (7) * (8) * (9) * (10) * (11) * (12) * (13) * (14) * (15) * (16) * (17) * (18) * (19) * (20) * (21) * (22) * (23) * (24) * (25) * (26) * (27) *
Twenty-Eight
The sun's bright now that it's come out from behind all those heavy clouds, shining down so sharp and proud Dean thinks he might get a sunburn. He knows he'll end up with an odd dozen or more new freckles scattered over the backs of his hands and his nose. Sam'll just get a good start on browning up again, which Dean thinks Sam does just to piss him off.
It's a fantastic day.
They can't get started walking back to the shelter right away, need to take care of putting this place completely to rest first. Without salt or fire they don't have many options, but Dean comes up with a few ideas, Sam develops a few more, and they make do.
Dean suggests saying a rosary over one of their two bottles of water -- Sam found them near the tree line amongst some storm-broken pine saplings, the clear plastic battered by hail yet still somehow intact -- and Sam pulls a you're nuts face when Dean suggests they bless it, but Sam remembers his Latin best and Dean hopes it's good enough to make the spring water holy.
This is Dean's responsibility, so it's Dean who takes care of sprinkling the scraps of bone in Benjamin's grave, baptizing him before covering him back up, another quarter of the bottle over the spot where Joey fell and Hannah disappeared, then walking the last precious drops around the shanty in a sunwise circle. Sam pulls out the Latin-fu again with a hopefully not too mangled version of Last Rites and maybe Dean imagines it, but he'd swear there's almost a settling to the burned, tumbledown boards, a groan as it rests deeper in the earth, as if it's finally at peace too. Places remember things as well as people.
Sam argues back when Dean wants to change the bandage on his leg -- it's soaked through with mud and hail, and like hell he's letting Sam go septic. When Sam points out they've got exactly jack shit that'll work better, they compromise on cutting Sam's jeans off at the knee and hoping the sunshine and air circulation will help. Dean decides to make the best of it and keep a look out for signs of infection just in case.
Besides? He gets to mock Sam relentlessly about how stupid he looks with one long skinny leg and bony knee exposed. Sam sucks at comebacks, mumbling one about how Dean's hair looks like someone jizzed in it, sticking up everywhere -- to which Dean, lying on a mat of sweetgrass, propped up on his elbows, takes as the right and proper ammunition it is and waggles his eyebrows at Sam, tongue caught between his teeth.
Sam turns as red as Dean's gonna get with the sunburn, presses his lips together in a thin line, and turns his back on Dean to sulk. Again, Dean doesn't mind. He figures he can tease Sam about that, too, and later, when they're clean and fed, oh God, Dean doesn't know which one he wants first or most, he can let Sam know in a casual and manly way that the pouting? Is actually kind of hot.
Their work takes up a good chunk of the afternoon, longer than either Dean or Sam would have liked to get ready for the trek back. Dean reckons they might be out of natural daylight hours before they reach the shelter, depending on how slow a pace they set. Still, it's not half as cold as before, and the sun's warmth should linger until they get a good fire going.
Quiet now, the burst of adrenaline giving way once again to exhaustion, Dean and Sam dry up for words for a while, waiting for their second wind. Still, Sam slings his arm around Dean's shoulders as they head for the tree line, jostling him. Thanks, approval, appreciation, maybe all of the above. Dean hip-checks Sam -- carefully -- and reaches up to scruff Sam's hair.
Everything's gonna be okay now. No, better than okay. Good. Great, even.
Except, as he and Sam push their way through the loblollies and fir, their hands gaining a new layer of sticky sap on top of the dirt, heading up over rocks and fallen logs and down muddy slopes slippery with wet, dead leaves, Dean knows now is when he has to let Sam know what's on his mind.
Not easy. Dean has to take a deep breath, twice, three times, straining his abused lungs, and fist his hands tight for a moment or two to work up the balls to force himself past all his training to keep his mouth shut about what he wants to tell Sam.
Sam doesn't push Dean beyond a few curious looks and an air of waiting while he holds back branches low enough for Dean to conk his head on, scattering pine needles on both of them in a green shower.
Dean takes his time, crafts his words together careful as a carpenter measuring joints, and waits for the right moment. When they reach the creek -- and damn, it looks innocent in the sunlight filtering in streaks through the heavy tree cover, clear and still cold, moving faster as if the water's got somewhere to go now -- Dean figures: this is where he should make his stand.
"Break for ten," Dean suggests, crouching and dabbling his fingertips in the water. He savors the good natural tingle and rubs his palms together in the current. "Go upstream of me and fill the bottles, then come back here and stick your leg in."
Sam cracks up. "What, now?"
"C'mon, it'll feel good, and can't hurt to wash the mud off."
Sam quirks an eyebrow, but doesn't argue. See? Dean thinks, lazily pleased in the warmth of the late afternoon sun and quiescent despite hunger and weariness. Sam's not like Dad thinks. You've just gotta argue the way Sam thinks, is all.
Dad. Yeah. There's a hornet's nest. Still, though, still… Dean rubs the softer skin beside his eye, brushing his cheek as he goes. He blinks at the feel of how long his stubble's gotten. He has to be a quarter of the way to a beard.
A flash passes through Dean's mind's eye of, once they're clean, taking unfair advantage and whisker-burning Sam until he cries for mercy. The idea improves Dean's mood; more, it reinforces his decision.
What Dean wants is for he and Sam to go it alone. Maybe it was Sam who planted the seed of the idea in Dean with his rebellion and his never-ending questions and his mule headed stubbornness, but Dean's taken the yearning and made it his own.
So now, they'll talk. It still ain't easy, but after what they've just been through at least laying it flat-out and honest to Sam isn't as hard as it might have been before.
Dean shifts from foot to foot, toes squelchy in his boots, and shakes the water off his not-clean but at least cleaner hands. He pitches backward, planting his ass on the side of the creek, and rests his arms on his knees, hands dangling free, and watches in quiet patience while Sam takes care of business.
Without being told or even asked, when he's done Sam comes to sit beside Dean. He's close enough to warm Dean's side that extra few degrees, close enough for the motion of his breathing to chafe their arms together.
Dean picks up a pinecone, perfectly ordinary pinecone, and picks off the bits one by one, tossing them in the creek, where they're carried away who knows where. "So."
"So," Sam echoes, turning his face to the sun.
Man up, Dean. "So. When we get out of here, what's the first thing you want?"
Sam wrinkles his nose. "Huh?"
"Dude, we used to play this game all the time. 'What if'." Dean tosses two scraps of pinecone one right after the other, plip, plip. "Humor me. If you could have anything you wanted waiting on you when we get out of the woods, what would it be?"
"Huh." Sam gnaws at his lower lip, thinking seriously about the question before answering, "Penicillin."
Dean snorts and smacks Sam's shoulder. "Okay, clearing up the rules. Something good."
"Penicillin is good." Sam laughs and holds up his hand, palm out, to ward off another punch. "Give me a minute." He takes the pinecone away from Dean and twists the ragged-ass middle. "A shower," he decides.
"That the best you can do?" Dean scoffs. He looks up at the sun, same as Sam.
"What, that's not enough?"
"Lacks style, Sam. Let's see… I want a hot shower. In a clean shower stall. All the water I want and some huge towels, too." Dean loses himself briefly to the fantasy. He could use a shower in the worst way -- aw, man, steaming hot shower, the water temperature high enough to redden his skin, Dove soap because nothing that smells piney or woodsy or anything like a forest is getting near him for years, if he has his way.
And Sam in there with him, maybe? Dean likes the bubble of anticipation that rises warm and fluid in his chest. He's only ever gotten lucky enough to shower with ladies maybe two or three times -- he wears 'em out so that they fall asleep not long after -- and he's enough of a player to know the key to lasting good memories is to keep 'em close until they've fallen asleep, and he never stays the night. Almost never.
Guess that's something new about Sam. Something good. Sam'll always be there when Dean wakes up in the mornings -- even if evidence already suggests Sam's one of those wham-bam, roll over and snore types. Dean's okay with that, he just wants to make sure Sam knows how to reciprocate and hey, there's a lot to teach him.
Dean thinks he's looking forward to that.
Sam slides his hand up Dean's leg and rests his palm not too close to tease, but enough to let Dean know Sam's still got sharp enough eyes and a quick enough mind to know e-damn-xactly what Dean's daydreaming about. "So after we're clean," Sam says, hopeful and nervous. "What then?"
"Food," Dean responds immediately. He'd meant to tease Sam, ratchet it up a notch, but they both moan for a totally different reason once food enters their heads. FOOD.
"Bacon," Dean says. "Thick-cut bacon, chewy, crispy, I don't care, I just want a plate full of it. Piled up, even."
"Scrambled eggs," Sam groans. "Fried. Boiled. Poached."
"You have a weird hard-on for eggs."
"You're the one pitching a tent over bacon," Sam points out, literally.
Dean leers at Sam until Sam realizes that bacon equals pork equals, yeah baby, and Sam groans, making a thwap sound when he covers his face with his hands. Dean whoops with laughter and pats Sam's knee, still drowning in the sunlight that warms him from the outside in and back again.
"Is there anything you can't turn into a dirty joke?" Sam grouches, kicking pine needles into the creek.
"Nope," Dean says cheerfully. "What, you want me to stop?"
"No," Sam mumbles.
"So okay, back to the food." Dean's maybe getting a little too into this and drifting from the point, but c'mon. FOOD. "Pancakes? Waffles with whipped cream for me and blueberries for you? Or hey, I know, how about hash browns? Or home fries, soft all the way through with cayenne pepper and salt and --"
"Dean?" Sam squeezes Dean's leg, fingers flexing uncertainly. Dean can feel the weight of Sam's gaze on the side of his cheek.
Dean lets out his breath, dreams of steaming hot fritters coated in cinnamon-sugar fading away right when he was just about to taste them. "Yeah. Sorry." He clears his throat.
Although… it's not a bad segue, as transitions go. Dean laces his fingers together, pushing his thumbs back and forth, and looks away from Sam -- then decides that's a cheat, not playing fair, and looks back. Sam meets Dean's eyes, level and calm in a way that's come to Sam during this hunt. Dean likes the steadiness as much as he hates the too-old look that flashes through the hazel every now and again.
"I can cook," Dean volunteers, heart in his throat. "You remember when you were little, and you were picky as hell? Wouldn't eat in a diner unless we tied you down. So I always tried to get us rooms with kitchenettes and made sure the stove worked if we settled in an apartment for a while."
"I remember." Sam's forehead wrinkles, then smoothes; he's tickled. "Dean, you suck at cooking."
"Shut up, I do not." Dean pushes him.
"Actually, you really kind of do." Sam eases up. "Sorry. You were heading somewhere with this?"
"Um. Yeah." Dean drops his head, rolls his shoulders, and comes up swinging. "I could cook instead of us eating out. If we found someplace. I don't know, maybe with a garage I could work at, and a school where maybe you could stick around until you graduated. Every night, I could grill us both up a hot cheese sandwich, and every morning I could wake up to burn-my-tongue coffee I brewed for myself just the way I like it. I'd share." He looks sideways at Sam. "If we. You know. If you wanted to, I guess I could."
Sam nods slowly, taking this serious. "What about Dad?"
This is the part Dean's uneasiest about, and the piece of his mind that's the hardest to pry loose. He doesn't back down, though. "What about Dad?" he asks, voice shaking the tiniest bit. "He knew what was out here. Had to. Hannah recognized him, and she knew hunters. Don't ask me how I know, I don't want to get distracted; I'll tell you later. Just trust me right now, okay?"
Sam looks grave and worried, but he nods.
Good enough. Dean goes on, tugging the ragged edge of his sleeve for something to keep his hands busy. "He left us to do the best we could on our own. So I say that's what we do." He tears some threads loose and winds them once around his fingers, then tosses them aside. "We walk, but to the next town. I hustle some cash, we get on a bus, and we go. We find that town with the garage and the school and what-the-fuck ever else you want."
"Huh." Sam works his jaw, looking ahead of him, deep in thought.
Dean waits, his palms starting to sweat when Sam takes longer than Dean had thought he would to answer.
But when Sam does, Dean thinks he could either collapse with relief or punch the air with his fist for a hell yeah!
"I'd be okay with it," Sam says, turning back to grin at Dean, slice of white in the middle of tan and dirt.
"Bitch, you gave me a heart attack waiting!" Dean elbows him.
"Yeah, well, that's part of my job. Seriously? Yeah. I'd like that. As long as there's a kitchen, because I really want a grilled cheese sandwich now. And hey, you know, you could even get your GED," Sam goes on, kneeling up, because Sam's happy too, and that pushes his "talk" and "action" buttons. Dean can roll with that. "Maybe college afterwards. You don't have to hunt forever."
Dean flashes back to Hannah, tattered and grieving and tired, and knows better. "I kinda think I do, Sam."
Sam quiets. "Yeah." He shakes himself and gets a stubborn on like he's putting on a mantle. "So I guess you have to put up with me hunting, too. With you."
Dean can't hold back his relief, blazing at Sam. "Awesome. But after you graduate."
"And you." Sam's chin comes up. "I'm serious."
"C'mon, Sam. I'm not good with book stuff," Dean hedges.
Sam's nostrils flare. He looks like a bull that's just seen a red flag. "Don't pull that crap on me. You're smart. You know you are." He jabs Dean's shoulder with his forefinger. Ow. "An idiot wouldn't have been able to do what you did back there. So I get hunting, there's things we can do other people can't and shouldn't, but you're more than just a gun with a hand attached, okay?" Sam's getting worked up now, downright damn fiery in his defense of Dean's smarts.
There's only one real way to say "thanks" and "I know" and "shut up" and "sounds like a plan to me" at the same time, and lucky Dean, smash-mouthing Sam silent suits both Dean and Sam just fine.
Also, mental note for the future, Dean thinks, keeping his eyes open and focused on Sam's, looking back, it works like a charm when nothing else has a prayer.
***
Sun's nearly set by the time Dean and Sam make it back up the hill to the shelter. Dean's face warms when he thinks about wasting time making out by the creek like it's a chick movie or something, which would have been okay except he zigged when Sam zagged and they ended up falling in the water. But hell, in lieu of a hot shower a cold water douse cleaned off a lot of the muck caked and coated on both of them.
They're still fine. The walk's warmed Dean and Sam both back up after the spring water chilled them, the last of the day's light gentle in the way it brushes over Dean's face. As he walks, Dean finds himself humming. It's not a bad day, all things considered. Nice limber burn in his arms and legs, hands good and flexible and ready to grip a knife handle or kindle a fire. His neck's not stiff like usual, moves smoothly, no tension knotting up the back and hurting clear to his eyes, nothing pops when he cricks his head to and fro.
Fire, shelter, food even if it's from an MRE, sleep, Sam, fire, money, bus tickets, Sam, food, Sam -- Dean can't remember being this happy, like he's about to pop out of his skin with too much.
It makes him careless. Dean doesn't catch the movement, even though it's small, when he and Sam top the final rise, elbowing each other and snickering over crazy shit that's only funny because they're so tired and loopy with excitement. Dean knows as soon as he spots the tiny glint of light off metal that he should have known.
Sam stops in his tracks, hand coming up to push on Dean's chest. Sam's color drains away.
The last of the sunlight is still enough to see by. To see, pulled up to the edge of the shelter, the gleaming black hulk of the Impala free of road grime or mud or anything, sweet a ride as ever but -- Dean tastes blood when he grinds his teeth, and his hands form rock-solid fists.
Dad sits on the hood of the Impala, cleaning a long-barreled gun. Waiting. For them.
Continues here.