Fic: Night Closure
Title: Night Closure
Author: brightly_lit
Rating: PG
Genre: gen, humor, badassery, very slight casefic, brothers on the road together
Characters: Sam, Dean, OMC
Word Count: 1,250
Summary: Something's off about the construction worker stopping traffic in the middle of the night on a mountain road all by himself in the middle of winter. Very off.
Sam awoke with a soft gasp. Something must be wrong. Very wrong. It was quiet, dark. He could hear the Impala idling, but it wasn’t going anywhere, and if Dean was behind the wheel, it was always going somewhere, usually waaay too fast. He sat up from where he’d lay tucked against the door and the passenger seat and looked around, casing the situation in seconds flat, as he’d had to do countless times, coming to in a dangerous situation. Dean must no longer be in the car, taken by angels or demons or--
Dean looked over at him, whistling a little Megadeth, tapping his fingers boredly on the steering wheel. “The princess finally woke up after her hundred-years slumber. With a one o’clock shadow.”
“That’s Rip Van Winkle. And he had a really long beard.”
“Don’t worry, Sammy, someday you’ll be able to grow a beard,” Dean teased.
A few cars up, Sam could see a guy in an orange reflective vest holding a portable stop sign. “Construction?”
“Yeah. Midnight construction on a two-lane road in the mountains in the middle of winter. We’ve been here for-fucking-ever! We’ll never get to Utah before the full moon’s over at this rate.”
Sam looked at the snow-dusted mountainside, feet from his window. “Huh.”
“Would you grab me a sandwich?”
Sam looked around the back seat, still groggy. “Uh ... we didn’t have time to make anything; we just brought bread and meat and cheese.”
“And mustard.” Dean nodded sagely.
“And lettuce. I’m hungry, too; I’ll make us something.”
It took a full five minutes for Sam to find all the makings in the dark backseat on the pitch-black roadway, then another three to cover the upholstery to Dean’s satisfaction before actually breaking out any foodstuffs, and the line of cars still hadn’t moved an inch. Sam looked up from opening the bread bag, distractedly looking up and down the other side of the road. “But another car hasn’t come by in all this time.”
“Of course not! Nobody drives this freakin’ road! The interstate’s only thirty miles that way. Everybody takes that.”
“But they only hold up the stop sign on two-lane roads like this when one side is blocked off. We should have seen a bunch of cars come through the other way by now.” Sam peered again at the construction worker standing out there all alone in the middle of the night. He didn’t have a walkie-talkie. No other construction workers had come to talk to him. There wasn’t even any sign of construction on the road: no cones, no barriers, no sound of heavy machinery in the distance, nothing.
A glance at Dean showed all this was occurring to him at the same moment. In the same second, Dean wrenched open the door, slammed it shut behind him, and walked up to the construction worker, or whatever he was. Sam only heard snippets through Dean’s open window, first the guy protesting that he was legit, then saying Dean would never believe the truth, Dean insisting he would ... Sam didn’t hear the rest.
Dean strode back to the Impala, reached through his driver’s side window, turned off the car and took the keys out of the ignition. He opened the trunk, stalking past Sam again a few seconds later with the sawed-off and another gun, tucking an angel blade into his jacket. Sam rolled down his window in a hurry. The truck behind them sat high, with bright headlights. Sam already hadn’t relished whatever that person was able to see in their trunk, and here Dean was, waving guns around. “Dean!”
Dean leaned in the window. “Extra mustard on mine. You never use enough! Extra meat, too. And use that thick bread--you know, that Texas cut. I’ll be right back.”
“What is it?”
“Werewolf, probably, but I brought an angel blade just in case.”
“Do you need help?”
“Nah, I got it. What I need is a sandwich. You have got to be the world’s slowest sandwich artist. It’s a good thing you’re a hunter, because you could never get a job at Subway ....” He was already walking away as he finished the sentence.
Sam saw the “construction worker’s” eyes grow huge, taking in the sight of the guns. He heard him plead with Dean not to walk into the danger, and then Dean disappeared into the darkness.
The contruction worker spied Sam and drove his sign into the dirt beside the road, then hurried over. Sam had just rolled up his window against the cold, along with Dean’s. Reluctantly, he rolled his down again. “Your friend is nuts! It’s dangerous! I just told him, but he--”
“What makes you think it’s a werewolf?” Sam interrupted.
“W-- Uh--there’s--there’s--wait, you believe in werewolves, too?”
“Yeah.” He couldn’t escape the image of Madison’s face that flashed into his mind against his will. “Yep. So, what, hearts missing?”
The guy nodded, eyes huge.
“It’s fine,” Sam said, trying to get busy on the sandwiches, but he could hardly see a thing in the dark. Sam might be about to discover even Dean’s mustard limit, if the blob that just squirted out with unexpected force was as big as he suspected. After all this time on the road, the change in pressure at high altitudes still took him and Dean by surprise regularly. “Dean’ll take care of it.”
“But it’s like a wolf, only as smart as a man! It’s--it’s like a--”
“‘Man-wolf’?” Sam asked dryly, idly trying to figure out what word mashup Dean would dub a werewolf with if it didn’t already have a name. Molf? Wan? Nah. It’d be man-wolf. Or wolf-man. He shook his head and sighed. Dean and his ridiculous word mashups. Sam would never participate in that incredibly annoying habit. Never.
“But it’s killed so many people! Every night, on the same stretch of road! So I finally got this sign and started coming out here--”
“Do you stand here every night, all night?”
“Yeah! There’s this rest area everyone stops at, because it’s the only one for miles--it gets them there ....”
“Wait a minute--did you just say ‘the same stretch of road’?” Sam asked urgently. “Are you sure it’s not a ghos--”
Then Dean reappeared, sauntering past the cars ahead, sawed-off slung casually upon his shoulder, and positively covered with blood. It was definitely not a ghost.
Sam hadn’t thought the guy’s eyes could get wider than they were when Dean first walked past with those guns, but they were twice as big now. Dean kicked over the stop sign as he passed before tossing the guns back in the trunk, slamming it shut, and getting in the driver’s side, tugging over the blanket Sam had laid to protect the upholstery from sandwich makings and sitting on it. He shut his door and leaned over, grinning out Sam’s window at the “construction worker,” who was still boggling. Maybe only Sam could tell how much tension that grin was meant to cover. Dean was hungry. And angry. He was hangry. Goddammit.
“Took care of it. Why are these drivers all still just sitting here?” he complained. “I knocked down the sign!”
“They probably figure you’re just having road-rage,” Sam said mildly, handing Dean a paper towel.
“Thanks,” Dean muttered, wiping his face.
Sam handed him a sandwich.
“Thanks!” Dean said, eyes lighting up. He dug in, and immediately groaned. Uh-oh. God only knew what had ended up on that sandwich in the dark. Maybe Sam accidentally got some lettuce on it. But Dean paused to punch Sam on the shoulder with a now-genuine grin. “You finally used enough mustard!”
~ The End ~
Author: brightly_lit
Rating: PG
Genre: gen, humor, badassery, very slight casefic, brothers on the road together
Characters: Sam, Dean, OMC
Word Count: 1,250
Summary: Something's off about the construction worker stopping traffic in the middle of the night on a mountain road all by himself in the middle of winter. Very off.
Sam awoke with a soft gasp. Something must be wrong. Very wrong. It was quiet, dark. He could hear the Impala idling, but it wasn’t going anywhere, and if Dean was behind the wheel, it was always going somewhere, usually waaay too fast. He sat up from where he’d lay tucked against the door and the passenger seat and looked around, casing the situation in seconds flat, as he’d had to do countless times, coming to in a dangerous situation. Dean must no longer be in the car, taken by angels or demons or--
Dean looked over at him, whistling a little Megadeth, tapping his fingers boredly on the steering wheel. “The princess finally woke up after her hundred-years slumber. With a one o’clock shadow.”
“That’s Rip Van Winkle. And he had a really long beard.”
“Don’t worry, Sammy, someday you’ll be able to grow a beard,” Dean teased.
A few cars up, Sam could see a guy in an orange reflective vest holding a portable stop sign. “Construction?”
“Yeah. Midnight construction on a two-lane road in the mountains in the middle of winter. We’ve been here for-fucking-ever! We’ll never get to Utah before the full moon’s over at this rate.”
Sam looked at the snow-dusted mountainside, feet from his window. “Huh.”
“Would you grab me a sandwich?”
Sam looked around the back seat, still groggy. “Uh ... we didn’t have time to make anything; we just brought bread and meat and cheese.”
“And mustard.” Dean nodded sagely.
“And lettuce. I’m hungry, too; I’ll make us something.”
It took a full five minutes for Sam to find all the makings in the dark backseat on the pitch-black roadway, then another three to cover the upholstery to Dean’s satisfaction before actually breaking out any foodstuffs, and the line of cars still hadn’t moved an inch. Sam looked up from opening the bread bag, distractedly looking up and down the other side of the road. “But another car hasn’t come by in all this time.”
“Of course not! Nobody drives this freakin’ road! The interstate’s only thirty miles that way. Everybody takes that.”
“But they only hold up the stop sign on two-lane roads like this when one side is blocked off. We should have seen a bunch of cars come through the other way by now.” Sam peered again at the construction worker standing out there all alone in the middle of the night. He didn’t have a walkie-talkie. No other construction workers had come to talk to him. There wasn’t even any sign of construction on the road: no cones, no barriers, no sound of heavy machinery in the distance, nothing.
A glance at Dean showed all this was occurring to him at the same moment. In the same second, Dean wrenched open the door, slammed it shut behind him, and walked up to the construction worker, or whatever he was. Sam only heard snippets through Dean’s open window, first the guy protesting that he was legit, then saying Dean would never believe the truth, Dean insisting he would ... Sam didn’t hear the rest.
Dean strode back to the Impala, reached through his driver’s side window, turned off the car and took the keys out of the ignition. He opened the trunk, stalking past Sam again a few seconds later with the sawed-off and another gun, tucking an angel blade into his jacket. Sam rolled down his window in a hurry. The truck behind them sat high, with bright headlights. Sam already hadn’t relished whatever that person was able to see in their trunk, and here Dean was, waving guns around. “Dean!”
Dean leaned in the window. “Extra mustard on mine. You never use enough! Extra meat, too. And use that thick bread--you know, that Texas cut. I’ll be right back.”
“What is it?”
“Werewolf, probably, but I brought an angel blade just in case.”
“Do you need help?”
“Nah, I got it. What I need is a sandwich. You have got to be the world’s slowest sandwich artist. It’s a good thing you’re a hunter, because you could never get a job at Subway ....” He was already walking away as he finished the sentence.
Sam saw the “construction worker’s” eyes grow huge, taking in the sight of the guns. He heard him plead with Dean not to walk into the danger, and then Dean disappeared into the darkness.
The contruction worker spied Sam and drove his sign into the dirt beside the road, then hurried over. Sam had just rolled up his window against the cold, along with Dean’s. Reluctantly, he rolled his down again. “Your friend is nuts! It’s dangerous! I just told him, but he--”
“What makes you think it’s a werewolf?” Sam interrupted.
“W-- Uh--there’s--there’s--wait, you believe in werewolves, too?”
“Yeah.” He couldn’t escape the image of Madison’s face that flashed into his mind against his will. “Yep. So, what, hearts missing?”
The guy nodded, eyes huge.
“It’s fine,” Sam said, trying to get busy on the sandwiches, but he could hardly see a thing in the dark. Sam might be about to discover even Dean’s mustard limit, if the blob that just squirted out with unexpected force was as big as he suspected. After all this time on the road, the change in pressure at high altitudes still took him and Dean by surprise regularly. “Dean’ll take care of it.”
“But it’s like a wolf, only as smart as a man! It’s--it’s like a--”
“‘Man-wolf’?” Sam asked dryly, idly trying to figure out what word mashup Dean would dub a werewolf with if it didn’t already have a name. Molf? Wan? Nah. It’d be man-wolf. Or wolf-man. He shook his head and sighed. Dean and his ridiculous word mashups. Sam would never participate in that incredibly annoying habit. Never.
“But it’s killed so many people! Every night, on the same stretch of road! So I finally got this sign and started coming out here--”
“Do you stand here every night, all night?”
“Yeah! There’s this rest area everyone stops at, because it’s the only one for miles--it gets them there ....”
“Wait a minute--did you just say ‘the same stretch of road’?” Sam asked urgently. “Are you sure it’s not a ghos--”
Then Dean reappeared, sauntering past the cars ahead, sawed-off slung casually upon his shoulder, and positively covered with blood. It was definitely not a ghost.
Sam hadn’t thought the guy’s eyes could get wider than they were when Dean first walked past with those guns, but they were twice as big now. Dean kicked over the stop sign as he passed before tossing the guns back in the trunk, slamming it shut, and getting in the driver’s side, tugging over the blanket Sam had laid to protect the upholstery from sandwich makings and sitting on it. He shut his door and leaned over, grinning out Sam’s window at the “construction worker,” who was still boggling. Maybe only Sam could tell how much tension that grin was meant to cover. Dean was hungry. And angry. He was hangry. Goddammit.
“Took care of it. Why are these drivers all still just sitting here?” he complained. “I knocked down the sign!”
“They probably figure you’re just having road-rage,” Sam said mildly, handing Dean a paper towel.
“Thanks,” Dean muttered, wiping his face.
Sam handed him a sandwich.
“Thanks!” Dean said, eyes lighting up. He dug in, and immediately groaned. Uh-oh. God only knew what had ended up on that sandwich in the dark. Maybe Sam accidentally got some lettuce on it. But Dean paused to punch Sam on the shoulder with a now-genuine grin. “You finally used enough mustard!”
~ The End ~