Fic: And One More For the Road
Title: And One More For the Road
Author: vicious_trade
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG
Words: 5,100
Summary: Sam isn't blind, he can see just as well as everyone else does that Dean loves food, fast women, and most importantly, his car. However, he's not so quick on the uptake about other things, as it turns out.
Note: Can be taken as a stand alone or as a kind of sequel to Say It's Possible
Dean is pulling a gas nozzle from the back of the Impala and sliding a hand slowly across the sleek metal frame. His eyes are fixed on the black paint job, gaze sweeping the length the body with downright reverence, his touch almost sexual.
Sam snorts, and earns a glare in response. He’d make a comment, but they’ve both heard them all by now, probably several times over. “Gotta pay cash on this one. You want anything?” Dean asks, pocketing his keys and jerking his head in the direction of the small convenience store behind them.
Stomach growling audibly in response, Sam rights himself from where he’d been leaning against the passenger door. “Yeah, I’m coming.”
Dean nods, but hangs back a moment to buffer out a smudge left behind on the side window with a warm breath and the sleeve of his shirt.
The clerk behind the counter gives them a long, cursory one-over from beneath the brim of his trucker hat when they walk in. Dean, who these days gets his kicks out of making certain people uncomfortable, gives the guy a lecherous, smarmy smile as they pass and sticks a hand down the back of Sam’s jean pocket.
Sam squirms away and shoots the man an awkward, apologetic look before turning a few aisles to find his brother nonchalantly pocketing a pack of Juicy Fruit.
“Dean, seriously?” he hisses, feeling his eyebrows climb in exasperation. Sam can feel the glare of the gas station attendant burning a hole between his shoulder blades.
Dean levels him with a look that says be cool, douche bag, and sniffs casually. With a well-crafted casual and carefree smile, he continues strolling the aisles. “Here we go,” he says joyfully as he snatches up two Snickers bars and a Reese’s, like they’re the answer to the meaning of the universe. Next he stops in front of a large refrigerator and pulls out a giant bottle of Mountain Dew and a smaller one of water, tucking both under his armpit.
Sam rolls his eyes. At least his tastes are being considered.
Adding a few last-minute items to the haul in his arms before dropping it all unceremoniously on the cash desk, Dean pulls out his wallet and starts thumbing through his winnings from a pool hall the night before. “That will be all, my good man.” Too many bills flutter to counter.
Unable to watch as the man slowly starts to ring their items through, steely eyes never once shifting from Dean’s grinning face, Sam turns his back.
“Oh, and pump number three,” Sam hears Dean say, and then the tell-tale sound of a candy-wrapper being torn into. There’s a pause and then Dean’s voice, this time spoken around a mouthful of chocolate. “Gotta have fuel for my baby.”
When Sam turns around again a few moments later to go for the door, the attendant takes a break from shooting daggers of hatred at Dean to spare Sam a withering look. “Right,” he drawls, and slides a bunch of coins across the counter.
Dean scoops up his food, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “Keep the change, Leroy.” He struts to the door and yanks it open, holding it wide and jerking his head towards the car. “C’mon, Sammy.”
Ducking his head, Sam passes his brother as quickly as he can, and Dean must have grown another arm or something, because no way was he able to smack Sam on the ass while maintaining a grip on all the junk food he’d been clinging to.
They’re safely back in the Impala and swerving onto the highway when Sam finally levels Dean’s profile with a disapproving look. “Did you have fun back there?” he challenges sourly.
“Absolutely.” Dean shoves the last of his chocolate bar into his mouth, smearing a little on the corner of his lips. “I thought Jim Bob was going to stroke out for a minute, though. Did you see the look on his face?” His expression is positively gleeful.
Sam shakes his head again and glares out the window. “When is the novelty of this going to wear off, Dean?” he asks and shifts angrily on the leather bench seat, one of his knees banging the glove compartment as if in solidarity.
“Hey! Don’t take it out on my car,” Dean chides, reaching out a hand to stroke over the dashboard where Sam’s leg just smacked. “It’s not her fault you’ve got no sense of humour. Just let me have my fun. You get the sex and the hand-holding and all the Oprah moments you can shake a stick at. Can’t there be a little something in it for me?” A hopeful lilt in his voice.
Sam tries not to feel hurt by the comment, he knows Dean is just messing with him, and doing a damn good job of it, too. But somehow it still manages to cut pretty deep.
But, because he refuses to be the giant girl Dean always insinuates that he is, he heaves a put upon sigh and pretends to be amused slash irritated.
“Here.” Something drops into his lap. “Have some gum.”
They’re just about ready to leave a hunt in Los Angeles behind when Dean announces that he’s hungry, so they stop for lunch at a restaurant on their way out of town. It’s nicer than he’s used to, and money has been a little tight over the last couple days, what with the last of their credit cards getting declined, but Dean tells him he’s feeling flush and that he shouldn’t worry about it.
“Order whatever you want, Sam,” Dean is smiling from overtop his own menu. He glances out the window and visibly relaxes - he’d managed to secure them a table with a view out into the parking lot and directly at the Impala.
Sam rolls his eyes and tries to recover his brother’s attention. “Dean, that last motel wasn’t exactly cheap. In fact, nothing about this hunt has been easy on our wallets.” he starts, feeling the corner of his mouth twitch into a frown. “You want to go two states over, and we’ve got a lot of driving ahead of us. I’m just saying, we could skip a meal here and there, or maybe...”
Dean’s eyes widen comically. “Take that back.”
Sam heaves a sigh of frustration. “Or I will, just until we can cut back on some expenses, and...”
“This is not America’s Next Top Model, dipwad,” Dean interrupts again, voice adamant. “No one is going hungry, ok? We’re fine. We’re always fine. Right?” he asks, ducking his head and seeking out Sam’s eyes.
Relenting, Sam forces an agreeable nod, staring down at his open menu with feigned interest.
A hand rests on his forearm, heavy and warm. “Hey,” Dean says, and when he looks up, green eyes are fixed on him intently, blocking out the rest of the dining area’s clamour. “I’m serious. It’s okay.”
Dean isn’t a hearts and flowers kind of guy. That’s fine, because Sam likes to think he’s pretty quick on the draw, and even though they’ve been like this for only a couple months, he’s become fairly talented at interpreting all the things his brother doesn’t say out loud.
Dean’s thumb stroking a gentle line on the skin just below the cuff of his shirt and the look in his eye says, stop worrying. Don’t I always take care of you?
Sam swallows. “Okay.” This time his smile is real.
Grinning triumphantly, Dean releases his arm and shoots an appreciative look out the window at the car. “Besides, if worst comes to worst, we’ll just forego a motel for a night and sleep under the stars.” His voice drops suggestively
With a snort, Sam returns his gaze to the menu with renewed interest. After all, he is pretty hungry, and the prime rib beef dip did sound pretty damn good. “Right. Try to make it sound as romantic as you want, Dean. But two people just don’t fit comfortably in that backseat - I’ve still got the kinks in my neck to prove it.”
“Lame. Whatever. You think I like your snoring in my ear, Rip Van Winkle? That shit’s like a mating call, I thought I was going to wake up to find that you’d been raped by a moose or...” He waves his hand vaguely, “some other woodland creature.” The loud purr of an unfamiliar engine interrupts, and suddenly Dean’s eyes are once again glued out the window. “Wow.”
Sam follows his gaze as a bright, shiny, red convertible pulls into the lot and expertly into a small space with a conspicuous squeal of tires on pavement. It’s obviously expensive, Sam squints to figure out the make and model, but it feels like it’s been centuries since he’s seen any automobile that doesn’t have a flatbed in the back or a busted-off fender, so he’s out of the loop.
“Nice,” Dean breathes, practically salivating. “Forget a hotel - I could live out of that thing and die a happy man.”
With a shrug, Sam decides that he means from the value alone. The backseat has to be smaller than the Impala’s if that even is one. He looks a little closer, but the car only seems to be a two-door, and -
The driver’s side opens and someone steps out. Across from him, Dean sucks in a breath, going still.
Oh, perfect.
Both of their eyes track the woman as she crosses the street and strides purposely into the restaurant. Soon she’s walking past their table and slowing at Dean’s “nice car”. Up close, she’s even more unbelievable. Tall, legs for days, sleek brown hair down to there - even a leather jacket and motorcycle boots, because the universe is funny like that.
She flashes a cherry-lipped smile in Dean’s direction. “Thanks.” She sidles a little closer, fingers playing with the keys in her hand. “Maybe you’d like me to take you for a ride sometime.” Her dark eyes flash suggestively, one eyebrow carefully arched.
Sam can’t keep his eyes from rolling. While he contemplates the perfect fair-haired, Metallica-loving, car-sex babies she and Dean would have, he smothers a grin and focuses his gaze on the black Chevy out the window, wondering if she’s feeling just as betrayed while his brother struggles with a response.
Dean clears his throat. “Uh, thanks,” he’s saying gruffly. “But I’ve only got eyes for my sweetheart.”
The blonde doesn’t sound all that put off, just amused. She must have seen Dean getting all googly-eye at his own beloved parked just outside. “I see.” When Sam looks back, she’s smiling, leaving the table. “Drive safe, boys.”
When she’s gone, Dean blows out a breath like he’d been holding it, and Sam shakes his head. “Was that hard?” he asks in mock-sympathy.
Dean chugs at his water glass. “No, but something else certainly is,” he grumbles once he’s come up for air.
Sam chucks his napkin at his face. “Remind me to give you a trophy later.” He crosses his arms across his chest.
With a smarmy smile, Dean hooks a foot around his ankle from underneath the table. “Aw, Sammy. You know you’re the only trophy I need.” He bats his eyelashes and does his best to be irritating to the point where Sam doesn’t know whether to laugh or punch him in the face. Then, when the waitress comes to finally take their order, he interrupts before Sam gets a chance to open his mouth and orders the most expensive thing on the menu for both of them.
A pissed-off spirit in Montana gets a little out of hand. It’s stalking the basement of a local library, real old-school Ghostbusters shit, complete with the middle-aged librarian that walks in on the cleansing ritual when they’d thought the place was closed and starts screaming bloody murder.
Not only does that piss the ghost off, but she also goes into hysterics and calls the cops the moment Dean gets her out of the room, which is enough time for the thing to get the drop on Sam and send him flying into a bookshelf.
“Motherfucker.” Dean’s growling angrily from the biography section when the ringing in his ears stops. After that, it’s a haze of muttered cursing and a howling breeze of strewn papers as Dean gets the last of the rite complete and the poltergeist is gone.
“Sammy,” Dean’s voice is worried and unusually loud in his ears.
He cracks open an eye to find his brother beside him, concerned green eyes doing a hasty triage from head to toe, stopping at his temple where he feels the stickiness of blood already matting his hair. “So,” Sam manages, barely able to focus over the pounding behind his eyes. “Did you find out where she comes from? Originally?”
Dean’s eyes narrow. “What?” He asks, probably contemplating the possibility of brain damage.
Sam licks his lips and goes for something more universal. “Ray, when someone asks you if you’re a God, you say yes.” He quotes robotically, expecting a smile, at the very least.
Dean doesn’t disappoint. “You’re the biggest geek on the planet,” he grouches, but looks secretly pleased that his little brother has actually made some sort of pop-culture reference that he can appreciate. He stops Sam’s hand from reaching the cut with a gentle hold. “Don’t touch.”
“Ouch.” Sam says anyway.
“Yeah,” Dean agrees, looking around the room. “Look, we’ve gotta get out of here. Popo will be here in five.” He looks hesitant and sympathetic about having to pose the next question. “Think you can work with me on this one?”
Sam takes a deep breath. He can, but it won’t be pretty. “Yeah. Just help me up.”
A hand strokes down the back of his head and stops at his neck. Then there’s a steady pressure under his arm and around his waist. “On three.”
When they’re vertical, Sam fights with dizziness that threatens to send them crashing back down. The world spins, tilts, and he slams his eyes shut until he’s sure he’s not going to pass out. Dean is a solid, warm presence beside him, and then moving to his front. Two hands cup his jaw, finger stroking gently. “You okay?”
Swallowing back nausea, Sam chooses not to nod. “I’m good.” He opens his eyes to a familiar, troubled gaze. “Let’s go.”
Dean doesn’t question him, just helps him along. In no time they’re moving in tandem through the building and out the doors onto the street. There are cops just around the corner, talking to the hysterical librarian, and Dean somehow manages to steer them around a dark corner and out of sight, until...
“My car!” Dean shouts, and Sam follows his gaze to the tow truck that is currently hitching the Impala to its back.
Sam flinches, not only at the pain in his head racketing up a notch, but at the flurry of cops that Dean has now alerted to their presence. With a wince, Dean shoots him an apologetic look as they’re pounced on, and soon he’s being lowered to the curb, his back resting on the brick wall of the old building. “You - stay put.” Dean says softly, and covers his upper body with his leather jacket.
Turns out, the librarian wasn’t a total bitch and helped explain that Sam and Dean weren’t actually crazy and were just there to help. Or at least, that’s what Sam manages to pick out from the bits and pieces of the statement he overhears while drifting in and out of consciousness. The car being parked in a tow-away zone was just bad luck.
“...That’s all fine and dandy, but see, we’d love to go now.” Dean is using his ‘you are stupid and not worth my time’ voice, most likely finishing up with a police officer. “He’s hurt, and...hey, man! Think you could not scratch the shit out of my car?!”
Sam cracks open an eye to where the tow truck driver is smirking at Dean, leaning up against the side of the Impala from where it’s still angled from the hitch. He doesn’t look all that concerned.
“If you wouldn’t mind telling this jackass to unhand my vehicle, I’d really appreciate it.” Dean sounds just about as anxious as he ever gets. “My baby needs me.”
There’s a pause, but the cop must be a classic car enthusiast or something, because he pulls a few strings and gets the keys back under Dean’s grateful possession.
“Thank God,” Dean is saying once he makes his way back over. After a few choice words about fat guys in coveralls and things of disproportionate sizes that Dean would like to shove up their asses are muttered under his breath, he crouches down to eye level, touching Sam’s shoulder. “Hey. You okay?” he asks, voice back to its soft, warm register.
Sam squints at the concerned face. “Are you the gatekeeper?” he deadpans.
Dean looks even more worried. “What?” He gets closer and starts studying Sam’s eyes, no doubt looking for pupil reaction.
Wrapping Dean’s jacket tighter around his shoulders, Sam just focuses on getting back to his feet. “Never mind.” He mumbles, swaying until Dean can get a grip on him again. “Last time I ever try to be funny.”
They weave their way back to the car that the tow truck guy is lowering to the ground. “Is that what you were trying to do? Yeah, don’t.” Dean warns, guiding him to the passenger door and lowering him down with a gentle hand at the top of his head, making sure it clears the roof. “Really. It’s creeping me out.”
The inside of the car is warm and comfortable, and as the engine starts up into a soothing rumble, Sam lets himself relax. Maybe Dean’s freaky hard-on for transportation comes in handy every once and awhile.
It’s the middle of winter and Sam is cold. The car heater is on the fritz, he can’t find his good fleece-lined coat, and their motel room doesn’t have extra blankets - Dean hogs the covers in a big way.
So when a truck goes screaming by as they’re waiting at a crosswalk and splashes into a puddle of icy half-melted snow, Sam feels like crying a little bit at the freezing cold water now covering him neck to shins. “Well,” he mutters, counting to ten. “This is fantastic.”
Dean is stalking a little ways after the truck, waving around the one-finger salute. A horn blares. “Yeah, same to you, thundercunt!” he shouts uselessly, and returns to give Sam a once-over. “Shitty,” he says, but looks surprisingly sympathetic.
Shivering already, Sam just shakes his head. “Let’s just get out of here, please?”
Dean is standing directly in front of him, pulling Sam’s arms away from his body so he can inspect the mess like a tongue-clucking mother. “Yeah,” he agrees, and has the decency to look sheepish before adding, “but we’ve got to make a stop first. The car needs Anti-Freeze.”
Sam doesn’t even bother saying anything, because it’s been the type of day where he regrets getting out of bed already, so why not traipse through town whilst cold and wet? “Sure.” He sighs, and follows his brother across the street.
They walk in companionable silence for awhile, until he feels his lips twitch. “Thundercunt?”
“Yep.” Dean is grinning wider than the Cheshire cat. “Like it? It’s my new word. Thought I’d take it for a test drive.”
Despite his misery, Sam laughs. “Where did you hear it?”
“What makes you think I didn’t make it up myself?” Dean demands, looking offended as they get to their destination. He blocks the way to the door with his body when Sam tries to get by.
Right now, his older brother is the only thing standing between him and what is probably a fully heated general store, so Sam doesn’t really have time for this. “Because our motel room gets HBO, and you’re not that creative.” It’s kind of mean but also true, but he’s in a bad mood and it’s mostly Dean’s fault, in a way, even if Dean can’t help that he’s a blanket whore. Still, Sam doesn’t really stop to worry about it as he pushes bodily past and through the door.
But of course, the inside is just as cold as out, and a middle-aged lady bundled up in a buffalo-check sweater from behind her cash desk gives him a compassionate smile while he rubs his hands together for warmth.
“Do up your jacket, would you?” Dean chides him, pulling at his buttons like he’s a fourth grader bundled up in a movement-restricting snowsuit. “It’s freakin’ January outside, for crying out loud.”
Then he’s off asking for the correct aisle, laying on the charm and probably well on his way to getting a discount, to boot. When the lady gets a good look at Sam, however, she frowns slightly at his dishevelled appearance and points to a mat by the door. “Wipe your feet, dear.”
Suppressing his outrage, Sam does as he’s told while Dean smothers a chuckle behind his hand. “Can’t take you anywhere, Sammy,” he says quietly, pulling him along as he navigates to the wall of car products. Sam breathes warm air into his palms impatiently while Dean picks the most expensive bottle of the stuff and heads to the register.
While Dean pays, Sam shoves his hands in his pockets and tries to think of someplace warmer - like Fiji, or Ethiopia - while staring at a wall of gardening equipment. Over his shoulder he listens to his brother’s conversation with one ear.
“Gotta treat my sweetheart right,” Dean says, that stupid, sickeningly sweet tone of voice he reserves for something that runs on gasoline and spews motor oil, and Sam rolls his eyes. Today, it’s fucking impossible to find it even remotely endearing.
Later, back at the motel while Dean is outside happily pouring twenty dollars worth of Anti-Freeze into the Impala, Sam finds fur-lined mittens in size XL and three packets of extra-rich hot chocolate mix at the bottom of the bag from the hardware store. He starts to wonder.
When the weather warms up a little, they head to Georgia to kill a banshee that’s been causing some trouble for a group of families on the outskirts of a small town. Nothing too bad, only one guy injured and in their line of work, those are damn good odds, but people are scared and that’s what they’re around for, right?
After a few days of tracking the thing down and finally killing it, Dean is on a first name basis with just about everybody who has a farm in a five mile radius, and Sam has had exactly three little old ladies offer to make him various baked goods.
“Nice town,” Dean comments casually as they walk back down a dirt road path from the woods to where the car is parked. He’s got a shotgun slung over one shoulder, and a streak of dirt across his forehead.
Sam nods. “It is.”After a couple moments of silence, Sam turns when he feels Dean slow his pace beside him and stops to find his brother glancing around as if looking for something . “Dean, what?” he asks, senses hyper-aware.
A beat, and then a slow, easy smile spreads across Dean’s face. “Nothin’,” he reassures, slinking closer and letting the nose of the sawed-off rest on the grass while he edges Sam up against the fence line. “Just making sure we’re alone.”
Right. Close-knit towns like this were known for their hospitality, and right off the bat, no one would even hear of them staying at a motel. Mrs. Hinkley, the owner of the bed and breakfast had insisted that they use one of her rooms, free of charge. There were fresh-baked muffins on the kitchen table every morning, but very little privacy.
“Been wanting you like this forever.” Dean is growling in his ear, low and territorial, as his hands dip inside his coat, sliding up his sides.
Sam smiles into the kiss. “We’ve been here four days, Dean.”
Dean groans. “Too fucking long.”
Just as things are starting to get good, a voice calls out in the not-so-far-off distance. “Dean? Sam? Y’all alright?”
Dean pulls his lips away like it’s painful. “Burt,” he breathes reluctantly, pressing one last bruising kiss to Sam’s mouth before separating and hefting the gun back in his arms. “Yeah, we’re good!” he calls back, and they continue down the road.
Burt Milton, the local mechanic, had taken one look at the Impala and declared Dean his lifelong friend. Hell, after they’d both had a few beers in them, they even acted like it, and Sam had been doing his best not to let his jealousy show. The man was married, after all, had two-point-five kids and everything, including the American Flag waving in the front yard.
Trouble was, Dean fit in around here, maybe a little too well. Sam had thought about mentioning it more than once over the last few days, but had chickened out each time.
He wasn’t going to be telling Dean anything he probably didn’t already know.
As they get closer, Sam feels Dean’s eyes on him and sure enough, he’s staring. “What?” he asks, feeling self-conscious.
Dean slows again and reaches over with one hand, the pad of his thumb swiping gently at Sam’s bottom lip. “They’re red,” he explains softly.
Sam blushes, realizing he probably looks like he was just taken advantage of. He hastily stuffs his shirt back into his jeans as they’re rounding the last bend, the car now coming into view. “It’s ‘cause you burned me with your stupid beard, dude.” Dean had stopped shaving a couple days ago. Probably so he’d feel even more the part.
“There you are.” Burt says, looking relieved as they approach. “You boys had me worried for awhile there.”
“Nah, piece of cake,” Dean replies indifferently, opening one of the back doors and tossing the shotgun down onto the leather seat. “That filthy mother is dead. Won’t be causing you folks anymore trouble.”
The respect and gratitude in the man’s eyes is obvious. “That’s...thank you.” He steps forward and shakes Dean’s hand fiercely in both of his, probably a heartbeat away from reaching out for a bear hug. “I don’t know how to thank you guys.”
He takes Sam’s hand next, and maybe it’s just his imagination, but Burt seems to look at him differently, curiously, first at his face and then his proximity to Dean, who is standing closer than is probably socially acceptable. Self-consciously, Sam covers his lips with the backs of his fingers and takes a step away.
“You don’t have to thank us.” Dean interrupts the moment, thank God, and the look on Burt’s face disappears. “Although I wouldn’t say no to a victory beer right about now. Then Sammy and I will be hittin’ the road.”
Burt looks disappointed. “Already? But y’all must be exhausted! You’ve got to stay for at least another night.”
“I don’t know...”
“We insist. Joan and I are havin’ a celebratory barbeque over at our house. Whole neighbourhood is coming. Everyone will want to thank you boys.” He says excitedly, voice leaving very little room for argument.
Sam smiles quietly to himself, because he can see that Dean had been won over at the mere mention of another home-cooked meal. Knowing their minds have already been made up, Sam walks to the other side of the car, fingertips trailing over the cool metal. “Well...” he hears Dean say.
Bert knows he’s winning, too. “Plus, it’ll give me a chance to look under this beauty’s hood. You were sayin’ how she probably needed an oil change, at the very least,” he adds, no doubt tipping the scales.
Sam studies the scenery while he waits for Dean’s reply. “I don’t know,” his brother begins. “Let me ask my baby.” There’s a hint of a twang to his voice, and Sam isn’t sure if it’s coming out naturally, or if he’s taking this Southern Comfort thing a little too seriously. Either way, Sam waits with one hand poised on the door handle, shaking his head because some things never change.
There’s a long pause, and Sam wonders if Dean has truly lost it and expects the Impala to give some sort of verbal answer. That’s why he’s totally unprepared for what comes next.
“Sam?”
He looks up sharply, and Dean is watching him, waiting. “Uh, yeah?” He says dumbly.
Dean smirks at the slowness of his response. “What do you say? Want to hang around? Let these good people pamper us with some t-bone steaks and pie?” His eyes dart to Burt, who is smiling easily as well. “There will be pie, right?” He asks, voice mock-serious.
Burt just laughs. “We grow our own rhubarb. Best in the state.”
Grinning and obviously pleased, Dean looks back at him expectantly. “Babe?”
Stunned, Sam isn’t really sure what to do in the upcoming moments. First off, he’d look incredibly stupid if he went and pinched himself while these two are standing right in front of him, and Burt is going to be downright confused if he utters Christo in public. Plus it might not make Dean very happy, either. So instead, what comes out is a sluggish and stammered, “sure?”
“Awesome.” Dean is already getting behind the wheel, waving at the mechanic as he returns to his own pick-up truck and disappearing down the road in a puff of red dust.
Its several minutes later, after Sam has forced his brain into gear again and they’re driving past a field of cattle that he gives his head a shake, and it all starts to fall into place. At first Sam wonders if he’s going crazy, or maybe it’s Dean that’s not sane, because the evidence is all there, Sam’s just been looking at it from the wrong angle.
He thinks back days, weeks, hell, months, replaying conversations in his mind and wondering if it’s possible that he really is as big of a tool as Dean says he is, after all.
He’s giving his head another hard shake when Dean turns to look at him. “Sam, what are you doing over there?” he asks curiously
Sam lets out a deep breath. “Getting a clue.”
Dean makes a patronizing noise of agreement. “Looks like it hurts,” he comments offhandedly, taking one hand off the wheel and draping his arm over the back of the seat, fingers touching the skin of Sam’s neck.
Instantly, he relaxes, letting his body melt into the vibrations of the car as he glances from Dean’s serene expression to the bouncing truck they’re following down the beat-up road. “Nah,” he sighs. “It’s not so bad.”
Dean smiles like he understands and turns up the volume on the stereo.
Fin.