fic: ashtray floors, dirty clothes, and filthy jokes (SPN; Sam and Dean; gen)
ashtray floors, dirty clothes, and filthy jokes
Supernatural; Sam and Dean; spoilers through 4.10; pg; 6,200 words
Domesticity, Winchester style.
Thanks to luzdeestrellas for betaing and to angelgazing for brainstorming. Title and cut-text from the Replacements. All errors are mine.
~*~
ashtray floors, dirty clothes, and filthy jokes
[one]
Even though it's what Sam's been wishing for, for months, it's still weird to sit in the passenger seat again, to not be the one behind the wheel. Dean doesn't seem to feel weird about it, though; his hands are gentle on the wheel, the dashboard, and when he thinks Sam isn't listening, he talks to the car the way he always has.
The morning after the raising of the witnesses, Dean goes out to the yard and pops the hood, spends some time poking around the engine. Sam wants to go out there with him, but all the things he's hiding, all the secrets he's been keeping, make him keep his distance, stay inside with Bobby and the books.
Sam remembers when he was younger, how he'd pester Dean and Dad about the car, just wanting to hang out with them, be part of their little club, and how that changed somewhere around his tenth birthday, when he decided he'd rather sit curled up with a book (a book that didn't have to do with hunting, either) rather than try to force himself into the closed circle of Dad, Dean, and the car.
Dean doesn't come in for lunch, so Sam puts a turkey sandwich on a paper plate, pours a glass of iced tea, and brings it out to him.
"Thanks," Dean says, rubbing his sweaty forehead with his greasy forearm. He tries wiping his hands on his jeans, but that just spreads the grease around.
Sam finally takes pity on him; he puts the plate down on the front seat and pulls the wet wipes out of the glove compartment. "Here," he says. "It's not a good scrub with Lava soap, but it'll do."
"Yeah," Dean says. "It will." He cleans the worst of the grease off his fingers and then takes the glass from Sam, downs the iced tea in two long gulps. "There more where that came from?"
"Yeah." Sam hands him the plate and heads back into the house, weird ache in his chest.
"And bring me another sandwich while you're at it," Dean calls after him. "Ham and Swiss this time, okay? Mayonnaise on one side, mustard on the other. And none of that wilted lettuce crap." As if Sam might have forgotten how he likes his sandwiches in the four months he's been gone.
"I got it, Dean." He can feel the weight of Dean's gaze on his back, an itch between his shoulder blades, but he doesn't twitch.
"Yeah," Dean says again. "Okay."
Sam knows it's really not, but maybe if they both keep pretending, it will be soon.
*
When he's done with the engine, Dean starts on the weapons. Empties the trunk out completely, shooting an incredulous look at Sam for how neatly everything is organized. Sam wants to tell him it could be much, much worse, but he doesn't; they don't talk about Broward County, not even now that Sam knows the reality is much, much worse than the pocket universe the Trickster created to torture him.
Dean sets everything out on the kitchen table. Bobby sits with him, reading one of his dusty old grimoires, the dog sleeping at his feet.
Sam joins them, picks up his whetstone and starts on the knives while Dean handles the guns.
Dean looks up and grins at him, and he has to lower his gaze to his hands so Dean won't see how bright his eyes are, how the tears are welling up and threatening to spill over. He hasn't cried yet, not the way he did when Dean died, and he's afraid if he starts now, he'll never stop.
His hands shake a little, and Dean must be watching, because he says, "Hey, hey, Sammy. Be careful there. Don't want you to lose a finger or anything."
"Yeah," he says, blinking rapidly at the familiar words and setting the knife and whetstone down on the table. He rubs his hands on his thighs and blinks rapidly. "That would be inconvenient."
"Not to mention messy." Dean barks out a laugh that sounds a little forced, and Sam huffs one back at him, trying to get back into the old rhythm.
Bobby just looks at Dean, and then at him, and shakes his head, but there's a suspicious shine in his eyes, as well. Sam grins at him, and picks up the knife again.
***
[two]
"I think Greg Dooley's credit card is maxed out," Sam says, pulling the MasterCard out of his wallet and flipping it at Dean, who bats it away easily and without flinching, his eyes leaving the road for less than a second. Sam only does it because there's no one on the road and he trusts Dean's reflexes. He looks at the other credit card he's currently carrying. "But we can probably get away with using Steve Applebaum's for a couple of nights at the local sleep easy."
"Or we could just camp inside," Dean says, waving a hand at the abandoned warehouses they're driving past. They're a feature of many of the towns they pass through, places the recession hit long before Wall Street finally felt it.
When they were kids, Dean always called squatting "camping inside" to make it sound a lot more fun than it was. Not that they did it that often. That they'd done it at all was one of the things Sam had always held against their father.
Last spring, as the time on Dean's clock wound down, they'd done it more often, trying to stay off the radar, even with the Feds off their backs. They still weren't very popular with other hunters, especially friends of Gordon's. And then those first few weeks Dean was gone, Sam hadn't given a damn about hot water or clean sheets, or even tepid water and slightly damp sheets. He'd lived like a homeless man, camping out wherever he stumbled to a stop.
Since Dean's been back, though, they've been living it up in motels again, and not just the ones that rent by the hour, or smell like crack houses. Dean's always had a knack for choosing the kitschiest, most ridiculous places to stay, and he seems to have regained it with his resurrection. Sam appreciates it more now, sees the humor in it when he used to just find it annoying.
"Rats, Dean."
Dean gives a theatrical shudder that's not even mostly show. Dean has faced--well, he still won't talk about what he's faced, and Sam's not ready to push him on it just yet, but not even counting hell, Dean's faced some pretty scary shit, and none of it seems to freak him out the way rats do. Sam knows there's a reason, but Dean's never been willing to share what it is.
"Good point. You okay to ride through for a couple hours? I know a place we could stay not too far from Lafayette."
Sam nods. They're twenty minutes out from the last rest stop, and he's not the one who just drank a thirty-two ounce cup of Coke.
*
The motel room is typical--they've stayed in hundreds, probably thousands of them over the years, so Sam doesn't really give it a second thought. It's nowhere near the most garish or the most disgusting place they've ever stayed. Sam finds himself a little disappointed. He'd been hoping for something like Kathy's Fantasy Castle in Biloxi, which looked like a cut-rate version of Cinderella's castle, or Fred's Fish'n'Sleep, up by Keuka Lake, which catered almost exclusively to fishermen and was decorated mainly with pictures of the clientele with their catches.
Dean heads right for the bathroom, doesn't even push the door all the way shut, and moans a little when he's done pissing. "Oh, man, I really needed that."
"Tiny bladder," Sam teases, even though Dean's been complaining about having to hold it for the past three hours.
"Whatever." He brushes past Sam back out to the car, and Sam goes into the bathroom to get himself a glass of water.
He's not really paying attention when he turns the water on, and he yelps in surprise when it burns his fingers. He looks down at the faucet again, and shakes his head. "Dammit, Dean, that's not funny."
"I'd say it's a little funny," Dean says, coming in with his duffle, "but I don't even know what you're talking about."
"The faucet! The hot water coming out when I turned on the cold."
Dean snorts. "Even though that is just the kind of fiendishly clever prank I would come up with, I didn't exactly have time to switch the fixtures around, did I? And the door was open the whole time." He sets his bag down on the bed and joins Sam in the bathroom, which isn't really big enough for both of them. "It's probably because I just used the hot water. Did you let it run for a bit?"
"Yes, Dean, I let it run. I'm not stupid. The water's still hot."
"That's debatable." Dean turns on the cold water, waits about fifteen seconds, and sticks his hand beneath it. Then he yanks it away as if it burns. "Huh. That is weird."
Sam gives a little "Ha!" of triumph.
Dean leans closer to the sink, studies it intently, forehead creased in concentration.
"It definitely has a 'c' on it," he says finally. "And that one has an 'h', so the fixtures haven't been switched."
Sam refrains from commenting on how he's pointing out the obvious. "You think it's our kind of thing?" He's still getting used to this again, aches with how much he's missed the normal give-and-take as they figure out what they're dealing with, the routine hauntings and the sad lingering ghosts that don't do much more than scare their loved ones before they get laid to rest for good. It's been all demons, all the time for a long time, and he's actually looking forward to something relatively easy to put down. Then he shakes his head, remembers Dad saying, No such thing as a routine haunting, Sammy. You start thinking like that, you're as good as dead.
Dean is still peering at the sink, so he doesn't notice the way Sam's gone all thoughtful. "Could be." He leans over to the right and turns on the cold water in the shower. "Huh."
"What?" Sam crowds in next to him.
"Feel that."
Sam sticks his hand under the faucet and jerks it back. "That's cold, Dean."
Dean laughs. The real, happy laughter Sam hasn't heard a whole lot of lately--not since he's been back, and not in the few weeks before he got taken. "Damn straight, skippy."
Sam sighs and wipes his hand on his jeans, because Dean is leaning against the towel rack.
"So the sink is haunted?"
"Or there's a valve that needs fixing." Dean shrugs. "I'll get the toolkit."
"Maybe we should ask the clerk if they've ever had the problem before."
Dean rolls his eyes. "I can pretty much guarantee that whatever I do won't make it worse."
If anyone else had said it, Sam would expect broken pipes and spraying water, but Dean's always had a knack for fixing things. Sam's sure he must have learned it somewhere--from Dad or Bobby or maybe one of the many shop teachers he spent a semester with during high school--but it's something Dean always just seems to know, and Sam's never been good at picking up. He remembers the hours he and Jess spent putting together furniture from Ikea, cursing the sketchy directions and the stupid Allen wrench. He'd gotten it done--no son of John Winchester's is completely useless with a wrench--but he's pretty sure Dean would have had it all put together in the time it had taken Sam to figure out the diagrams.
Dean stretches out under the sink with his toolkit, humming softly to himself for a few minutes, and Sam sits on the edge of the tub, prepared to hand him tools if he needs them.
When he's done poking around, he sits up carefully, narrowly avoiding bashing his head in on the underside of the sink.
"Yeah," he says. "Valve's rusted out." He grins. "I think it's time for a trip to Home Depot, Sammy."
*
The guy behind the desk "hmms" and "huhs" at them while Dean explains that the sink in their room is busted, and he'll fix it if the guy will take tonight off the bill. And pay for supplies.
Sam doesn't know why he's bothering--he was going to fix it anyway, more because he enjoys fixing things than because he cares one way or another about it being fixed--but the guy says, "Yeah, sure. I also got a tub that needs regrouting in sixteen. You up for that?"
"Sure," Dean answers, and they shake on it.
When they get to the nearest Home Depot, Sam says, "Okay, do we need to go over the rules, Dean?"
"What rules?" Dean looks studiously oblivious, like they haven't had this conversation every time they've gone to Home Depot.
"No power tools, no leaf blowers, no--"
Dean flips him off and grabs a cart, pushing his way through the automatic doors so quickly Sam has to take an extra step or two to catch up. He remembers when he used to have to run.
"We can probably pick up some extra salt while we're here, too," Dean says. "Why don't you go do that and I'll meet you by the plumbing supplies in fifteen minutes?"
Sam nods and grabs a cart of his own. He loads up on salt and while he's there, he picks up two extra shovels, the kind with the lightweight fiberglass handle that's cushioned--the handle on his favorite shovel was snapped by the last ghost he dug up, and he'd started using Dean's instead, but now that Dean's back, they need a second shovel and a spare. And anyway, it's on sale--winter is coming and people are preparing for snow.
He doesn't know why he bothers justifying the purchases, even to himself. It's all stolen money, and saying it's for a good cause doesn't change that. It's not even the worst crime he's committed, so he doesn't know why it still bothers him sometimes.
Of course, Dean is not anywhere near the plumbing section when Sam gets there. Dean is over by the power tools, just like he always is on the rare occasions Sam lets him loose in Home Depot.
"Look at her, Sammy," he says, holding up the floor model of a chainsaw. "Isn't she beautiful?" He pets the thing like it's a cat or a girl. "She's cordless, and the perfect size for--"
"No, Dean." Sam crosses his arms over his chest to show he means business. "Rule number one of going to Home Depot is no power tools. You know that."
"But Sam--" Dean's lower lip juts out and his eyes go wide. He looks up at Sam from under his lashes, just like a little kid asking for the latest toy for Christmas. Sam wonders if this is how he looks when he's giving Dean the earnest puppy-dog face. But he's better at saying no than Dean's ever been.
"No." Sam frowns repressively. "And stop anthropomorphizing it. It's creepy."
"If I stop anthropo-whatevering, can I have it?" Dean gives him a grin that wouldn't be out of place on a used car salesman. "It's on sale, Sam."
Sam doesn't know why that's supposed to make a difference, when the problem isn't money, but he finds himself unable to withstand the sheer earnestness of Dean's desire for a chainsaw, especially because it's so rare for Dean to actually ask for something he wants. And it's not like Dean was actually going to let him have the last word on it anyway.
"Fine." Sam gives in grudgingly.
Dean beams for the rest of the afternoon.
***
[three]
The tension in the car is so thick Sam feels like he's choking on it, but he knows they won't talk about it anymore, whether it is Sam's demon blood or Dean's overreaction to finding out he's been using the powers it gives him. They've already surpassed Dean's daily recommended allowance for open and honest conversation, so it's all going to have to wait.
It never fails to amaze him how Dean compartmentalizes--when they're on the job, he shoves down all the interpersonal drama and focuses. It's not healthy, and lately, he hasn't been as successful as he used to be (lately, their interpersonal drama has taken on a sick apocalyptic tinge, so Sam can't really blame him), but it's something Sam's come to admire about him, even as he tries to break it down. He's not bad at it himself, but Dean's the master. He'd probably be thrilled if Sam told him, but Sam never will, because one, totally unhealthy, and two, right now he's still too pissed off about Dean's self-righteousness over him using his powers. (He still can't believe Dean dragged God into it; even with proof, he's still not sure Dean actually believes God exists, so it's dirty pool to use him in an argument.) His jaw is still sore (he selfishly hopes Dean's knuckles are, too); they're stuck in stop-and-go traffic on I70, because Dean still refuses to drive through Kansas if he can avoid it, even when it's the most direct route, and Sam can't take another round of No Sleep 'til Hammersmith.
He pops the tape out of the player and says, "Can we stop early tonight? There's a Star Trek marathon on SciFi."
Dean glances over, wary. "Original flavor or extra wimpy?"
Sam clenches his jaw so tightly he thinks he might be straining something. "The movies," he says, and braces himself.
Dean doesn't disappoint. He throws back his head and yells, "KHAN!" grinning like he thinks he's clever, even though he's been doing that since before Sam knew who Khan was. "I think we deserve that after sitting in this freaking traffic all afternoon. Man, Uhura was hot. I totally would've tapped that."
"So you've said, Dean. Many, many times."
"Oh, like you wouldn't have? You know Kirk would have. Probably did. Actually, I think there's a porno."
Sam cuts him off before he can start going into detail. "I'm pretty sure they had rules against fraternization. Not that a cowboy like Kirk ever paid attention to the rules."
"Oh, so he should have been like Picard?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"He pined after the redheaded doctor lady forever and never got any action."
"They decided not to rush into anything. Unlike Kirk, who never met a woman he didn't want to fuck."
"Smart man, Captain Kirk. He was awesome."
"Sure, he was all shoot first and ask questions later. Real great way to make friends across the galaxy."
"Yeah."
"What?"
"I bet the ladies had no complaints."
"That's not what I meant, Dean, and you know it. God, not everything is about sex." Sam shakes his head and sucks his teeth in annoyance.
Dean gives him the ducky lips, like he knows he's being annoying and he thinks it's funny.
Traffic moves about five feet and then stops again. There are ambulance lights flashing in the distance and an endless line of brake lights snaking out ahead of them.
Sam rolls the window down, breathes in the exhaust-tainted air, and settles in for the long haul. "Kirk never could have handled Q."
Dean shoots him another glance, and Sam knows Dean knows what he's doing, but he goes along with it. "And Picard always sent Riker off to do his dirty work."
The argument sustains them for nearly half an hour--they're both a little rusty on the details at this point, since it's been years since either of them gave either version of Star Trek much thought--but by the time traffic starts moving again, the tension in the car has subsided to bearable levels, and Sam breathes a little easier.
***
[four]
Dean dumps all his clothes out onto the bed, searching for something, and Sam wrinkles his nose at the smell.
"Dude, we so need to do laundry," he says.
"Thank you, Captain Obvious."
"Unless you want to wear your lederhosen for the next few days."
"Shut up."
Dean starts separating the halfway decent from the probably salvageable from the even Clorox isn't going to save them. For once, the salvageable pile is larger than the rag pile, and he starts sorting again, lights and darks, which makes Sam laugh. Dean doesn't let Sam do his laundry anymore, not since he turned all Dean's stuff pink.
"It was an honest mistake," he says, lying through his teeth. "I didn't see that one red sock."
"The one red sock that neither of us even owns, Sam. That was sabotage, pure and simple."
It had been, it's true, but Sam had been really tired of having to do the laundry every month. His own dirty clothes were bad enough, but Dean's were downright disgusting--covered in caked on blood and dirt and grease and other substances Sam didn't want to think too much about, the pungent smell of his brother's sweat and fear assaulting him with every breath.
"I still can't believe you couldn't find my suit," Dean says, moving on. "Now we've gotta buy a new one, and I hate trying that shit on."
"You just hate getting felt up by the tailors when they measure your inseam."
"It's always some wrinkled old guy who smells like cabbage or cheese. He doesn't need to know I dress left, Sam." He sounds so offended that Sam has to bite back a smile.
"I didn't need to know either."
Dean huffs at him. "Whatever. There was a laundromat next to the Starbucks, so you can have your frilly coffee and maybe some free wi-fi while we do laundry."
"I'm not going with you."
"I think you are."
"Dean--"
"Sam." There's real fear and anger vibrating beneath the regular annoyance in Dean's tone, and Sam knows he's thinking about waking up all those times to find Sam gone.
"Fine." It's Sam's turn to huff as he shuts down the laptop and flings himself off the bed. His own laundry is definitely in need of doing, so it won't be a wasted couple of hours, but he really wishes Dean would just trust him again. He knows he doesn't deserve it, but he misses the surety of it, the warm knowledge that Dean believed in him. Now he's afraid to look at Dean's face for too long, afraid he'll see hate or disgust or that the fear that Dean carries won't be so much for him anymore as of him. He doesn't think he could stand that.
*
Sam buys himself a latte and a couple of hazelnut biscotti, which he knows Dean will end up eating even as he mocks Sam for buying them, and easily finds a wi-fi connection in the laundromat. Dean is schmoozing the lady behind the counter, who must be sixty if she's a day, all bleached blonde hair and blue eye shadow, the kind of woman who, when they were growing up, used to occasionally sneak them treats because they looked like motherless boys.
He comes back with a jug of Tide he didn't have to pay for and a grin that's more sad than happy. Sam doesn't know what to do with that, so he looks back down at the laptop, where he's reading an interview with J.J. Abrams about the Star Trek reboot. After their conversation in the car, he's pretty sure Dean's going to want to see it, probably to bitch about it the whole time. And check out Uhura.
They're the only people in the place, and it's quiet except for the hum of the machines; there's a television mounted above the counter, tuned to some soap opera, but the sound is off.
"Is Joshua still speaking to us?"
Sam looks up, startled. "Uh, I think so. Why?"
"I don't have his number." Dean's fiddling with the buttons on his phone and frowning.
"It's in Dad's journal. Did you need it for something?"
"No, I just--" Dean doesn't look up at him, shrugs a shoulder.
"You just what, Dean?" Sam lets his annoyance at being interrupted for nothing show, and then wishes he hadn't when Dean clams up.
"Nothing. Never mind." His voice is neutral, locked down tighter than a drum.
"Dean?"
"Nothing," Dean repeats. "It's stupid."
Sam lowers the laptop screen and gives Dean his full attention. "Obviously, it's not nothing or you wouldn't have brought it up."
"I don't have Joshua's number in my phone. That's it."
"It's a new phone, Dean. If you've got anybody but me and Bobby in there, I'd be surprised."
Dean's mouth twists in what's supposed to be a grin but fails miserably. "Yeah. I guess you're right." He gets up and starts pacing in front of the two washers he's got going (one for lights, one for darks), worrying at his thumbnail with his teeth.
It takes Sam a minute to put everything together; he's so used to thinking of Dean as self-sufficient--bulletproof--even now, that he'd never even thought about Dean needing people. Well, other people. But aside from Bobby, the only people they talk to these days are victims, angels, or demons.
"I've got Ellen's number," he says, handing over his phone. "And Jo's." He tries not to think of how the list of names in his own address book has gotten shorter over the years, Stanford friends falling by the wayside and family friends dying violently. "And I know you've got Pam's."
"You bet your ass I do." Dean's smile perks up at that, reaches his eyes, even, making them crinkle, and he takes the phone. "Thanks, Sammy."
Sam smiles back. "No problem."
***
[five]
Sam had hoped that Dean's roadside confession would have alleviated his guilt a little, maybe keep him from drinking so much, let him sleep a little more peacefully, but he can't really see a difference. He knows talking about stuff is supposed to help, but he's pretty sure Freud and Jung never dealt with people who saw the kinds of things they see in a day, let alone what Dean went through in hell.
He tries not to treat Dean differently, tries not to walk on eggshells around him, but he's always been bad at it, always forgets that Dean's a lot more complicated than he looks on the surface, and the fact that he's watched Sam like a hawk his entire life means he knows him a lot better than Sam gives him credit for, even if Sam thinks Dean doesn't necessarily understand him. He doesn't necessarily understand Dean either, so he can't blame him (though sometimes he still does).
"Stop thinking so much," Dean says, tapping Sam's forehead with two fingers, an imitation of Castiel's patented move. "Your face is going to freeze that way." His voice is rough, holds the slightest hint of a slur, and he smells like beer and cigarettes and sex.
Sam wrinkles his nose. "Maybe you should shower." He pulls the bottle of Advil out of his bag and tosses it at Dean, who catches it easily, reflexively. Not that drunk, then. "And take a few of those before you hit the sack. We've gotta be out of here early tomorrow, and if you're hung over, I'm driving. And you know what that means."
"A steady diet of fucking emo," Dean says, grimacing and pulling a clean t-shirt and boxers out of his duffle. "Listening to cats fuck would be more appealing."
"Hey, they're your rules."
"I don't know where I went wrong with you, Sammy." Dean shakes his head, scrubs a hand over his eyes. "I could maybe live with the fake country crap, but the whiny-droney shit makes me want to stab myself in the face."
Sam flips him off as Dean pulls the door to the bathroom closed behind him.
There's nothing on TV this time of night--infomercials and Sports Center and bad movies. Sam runs through the limited number of channels mindlessly, stopping on some cartoon when he finds a listing on eBay for a grimoire Bobby's been looking for. He gets involved in bidding and forgets about the television, so when Dean comes out of the bathroom and says, "Jesus, Sam, turn that shit off," Sam doesn't even know what he's watching.
He looks up to see cartoon rats with glowing red eyes and laughs. "It's a cartoon, Dean."
"I fucking hate rats, Sam. Turn it off or I will."
Sam turns the TV off and holds up his hands. "Whatever, man. It's just a cartoon."
Dean glares as he climbs into bed, so Sam shuts the laptop down and turns off the light. He doesn't want to deal with Dean in this mood.
He's almost asleep when Dean says, "You wouldn't remember--you weren't more than two or three, I guess--but we lived in this rundown shack somewhere in West Virginia for a few months when I was in first grade, and at night I could hear them in the walls, scratching."
Sam holds his breath and freezes in place, even though he wants to roll over and watch Dean in the darkness. He's afraid if he moves, Dean will stop talking.
"I already knew how to shoot, but Dad didn't let me keep a gun under my pillow then, because you slept in the bed with me, and you were just a baby."
So were you, Sam wants to say, but doesn't. Can't.
"One night, I woke up to go to the bathroom, and I knew those freaking rats were there, but I couldn't see them, so I figured they couldn't see me, or you. But when I got back to bed, there was one climbing up the blankets, trying to get to you.
"I freaked out, of course, and yelled for Dad. He'd fallen asleep in the living room, and he came running in and told me to pick you up and leave the room, and I--I didn't want to go near that rat, but I had to get you out of there, so I grabbed you and booked it, but I stood in the hallway and watched him shoot it. There were rat guts and blood and fur all over our bed, Sam, and you wouldn't stop crying." His voice is calm, like he's telling a story that happened to someone else, but Sam can hear the echoes of fear in it. He wonders if this is one of the things Alastair used to torture Dean in hell, if the memory is fresh because of that, or because Dean's always blamed himself for things that weren't his fault.
"Dad packed us up and moved us out that night. We ended up somewhere in Georgia, I think. I'm not sure. After that, I asked Dad to let me sleep with a gun or a knife, but he didn't let me until you were old enough to sleep in a separate bed. I always kept one close by, though. It was bad enough I had to share the bed with you. I wasn't gonna share with goddamn fucking rats, too." His voice breaks a little, and Sam feels like he's been hollowed out, huge stinging ache in his chest and behind his eyes.
"Thanks," he says, his own voice hoarse and thick. He finally rolls over to face Dean's bed. Though he can't see Dean's expression, he can imagine it easily enough.
Dean chokes out a laugh, and Sam wonders how much he had to drink. "For what?"
"For, you know, keeping the rats away." It sounds dumb when he says it out loud, but he has no clue what else to say. He hates how often Dean puts him in that position; how often he puts himself there.
"Oh. Well. It was my job, Sammy. You were just a baby. Kinda cute, but totally useless except for eating, sleeping, and shitting." He laughs again, and this time it sounds less like dying. "Not much has changed."
"Very funny."
"Go to sleep, Sam."
"You, too, Dean."
"I'm totally not letting you drive tomorrow."
"We'll see about that."
Sam falls asleep listening to the sound of Dean breathing in the next bed, familiar as his own heartbeat, and if he doesn't exactly feel safe (he can't remember the last time he did), he at least feels safer than he has in a long time.
***
[six]
Dean's reading the newspaper when Sam comes out of the bathroom. He dresses to the accompaniment of pages rattling and Dean's thinky murmurs as he finds something that could be a case. Or maybe just an ad for a two-for-one drink special at a strip club. Sam can never be sure, though Dean will often share either possibility with him, despite his protests.
When he's done dressing, he sits down at the laptop and does his own morning news roundup. Google reader and RSS feeds have made this part of the job a lot less painful than it used to be--he can skim through obituaries from all over the country in a few minutes, and has Google alerts set up to send him links to stories about weird or unexplained deaths or accidents. After he's skimmed and saved everything that looks like a possible case, he reads the national and international news, and if Dean's not pushing him out the door, he reads the Arts & Leisure section of the New York Times.
Dean gets up to refill his coffee cup--Sam is always glad when they stay in a place with a complimentary coffee maker--and leaves his paper open to the sports section. Sam glances at the headlines--it's mostly hockey and football this time of year, and he wonders when the Big Game is this year. He'd never been a big football fan, but he'd gone when he was at school, because it was what his friends did, and he'd wanted to fit in.
He wonders if Dean reads the sports scores the way he reads reviews of foreign films he'll never get to see. It's not that he's even all that interested, though he'd gone through a French New Wave phase in college, and The 400 Blows is still one of his favorite movies--he'd convinced Dean to watch it one night when it was on PBS, and Dean had been disappointed it wasn't a porno, and then disturbed at how easily Antoine's parents gave him up--so much as they open up a window on a world he used to want to be a part of. Reading about them gives him a glimpse of the life he'll never have. The life he isn't even sure he really wants anymore.
He doesn't think Dean's harboring any lingering desire for a pro ball career, but looking back, Sam realizes there was a time he might have been able to have one, if they hadn't had to move around so much, if injuries from the hunt hadn't kept him from playing his senior year. Sam doesn't ask, though, because he knows no matter what answer Dean gives, it won't be one he wants to hear.
"We could stop at the diner before we leave," Dean says, folding up the newspaper and shoving it into the outside pocket of his duffle, "or we could just pick up some bacon, egg, and cheese sandwiches on the way out of town, and stop to eat when we get to--" He stops, waiting for Sam to fill in the location.
"Richfield, Minnesota," Sam supplies. "Sounds like it might be a black dog." He shoves his feet into his sneakers. "Sandwiches are fine by me. Why don't I go down to the deli and you can pick me up after you've checked out?"
"Nah, I'll drive you," Dean says. "Checking out won't take a minute."
Sam shrugs and shoulders his duffle. "I'll wait by the car then."
Dean hesitates for a second, then says, "Okay."
He's been a little clingier than usual since the ghost fever, and not for the usual reasons. Not that Sam can blame him. He's just glad Dean doesn't know about his encounter with the bolt of lightning in Concrete.
He stays where Dean can see him through the office window, leans against the car, arms crossed over his chest against the wind, and waits.
"I think I want Canadian bacon today," Dean says as he saunters to the car, bowlegs making him look like some kind of misplaced cowboy. Sam thinks Dean would probably be delighted with the comparison; Dean's always seen himself as a handsome drifter in the young Clint Eastwood mode. "Or possibly sausage."
"Your obsession with pork products scares me sometimes."
Dean puts the key into the ignition and starts the car. He grins at Sam, wide and bright. "Only sometimes?"
And Sam laughs, wishing it was always this easy.
end
~*~
[eta] You can read about Dean's further adventures with the chainsaw here. [/eta]
~*~
Feedback is adored.
~*~
Supernatural; Sam and Dean; spoilers through 4.10; pg; 6,200 words
Domesticity, Winchester style.
Thanks to luzdeestrellas for betaing and to angelgazing for brainstorming. Title and cut-text from the Replacements. All errors are mine.
~*~
ashtray floors, dirty clothes, and filthy jokes
[one]
Even though it's what Sam's been wishing for, for months, it's still weird to sit in the passenger seat again, to not be the one behind the wheel. Dean doesn't seem to feel weird about it, though; his hands are gentle on the wheel, the dashboard, and when he thinks Sam isn't listening, he talks to the car the way he always has.
The morning after the raising of the witnesses, Dean goes out to the yard and pops the hood, spends some time poking around the engine. Sam wants to go out there with him, but all the things he's hiding, all the secrets he's been keeping, make him keep his distance, stay inside with Bobby and the books.
Sam remembers when he was younger, how he'd pester Dean and Dad about the car, just wanting to hang out with them, be part of their little club, and how that changed somewhere around his tenth birthday, when he decided he'd rather sit curled up with a book (a book that didn't have to do with hunting, either) rather than try to force himself into the closed circle of Dad, Dean, and the car.
Dean doesn't come in for lunch, so Sam puts a turkey sandwich on a paper plate, pours a glass of iced tea, and brings it out to him.
"Thanks," Dean says, rubbing his sweaty forehead with his greasy forearm. He tries wiping his hands on his jeans, but that just spreads the grease around.
Sam finally takes pity on him; he puts the plate down on the front seat and pulls the wet wipes out of the glove compartment. "Here," he says. "It's not a good scrub with Lava soap, but it'll do."
"Yeah," Dean says. "It will." He cleans the worst of the grease off his fingers and then takes the glass from Sam, downs the iced tea in two long gulps. "There more where that came from?"
"Yeah." Sam hands him the plate and heads back into the house, weird ache in his chest.
"And bring me another sandwich while you're at it," Dean calls after him. "Ham and Swiss this time, okay? Mayonnaise on one side, mustard on the other. And none of that wilted lettuce crap." As if Sam might have forgotten how he likes his sandwiches in the four months he's been gone.
"I got it, Dean." He can feel the weight of Dean's gaze on his back, an itch between his shoulder blades, but he doesn't twitch.
"Yeah," Dean says again. "Okay."
Sam knows it's really not, but maybe if they both keep pretending, it will be soon.
*
When he's done with the engine, Dean starts on the weapons. Empties the trunk out completely, shooting an incredulous look at Sam for how neatly everything is organized. Sam wants to tell him it could be much, much worse, but he doesn't; they don't talk about Broward County, not even now that Sam knows the reality is much, much worse than the pocket universe the Trickster created to torture him.
Dean sets everything out on the kitchen table. Bobby sits with him, reading one of his dusty old grimoires, the dog sleeping at his feet.
Sam joins them, picks up his whetstone and starts on the knives while Dean handles the guns.
Dean looks up and grins at him, and he has to lower his gaze to his hands so Dean won't see how bright his eyes are, how the tears are welling up and threatening to spill over. He hasn't cried yet, not the way he did when Dean died, and he's afraid if he starts now, he'll never stop.
His hands shake a little, and Dean must be watching, because he says, "Hey, hey, Sammy. Be careful there. Don't want you to lose a finger or anything."
"Yeah," he says, blinking rapidly at the familiar words and setting the knife and whetstone down on the table. He rubs his hands on his thighs and blinks rapidly. "That would be inconvenient."
"Not to mention messy." Dean barks out a laugh that sounds a little forced, and Sam huffs one back at him, trying to get back into the old rhythm.
Bobby just looks at Dean, and then at him, and shakes his head, but there's a suspicious shine in his eyes, as well. Sam grins at him, and picks up the knife again.
***
[two]
"I think Greg Dooley's credit card is maxed out," Sam says, pulling the MasterCard out of his wallet and flipping it at Dean, who bats it away easily and without flinching, his eyes leaving the road for less than a second. Sam only does it because there's no one on the road and he trusts Dean's reflexes. He looks at the other credit card he's currently carrying. "But we can probably get away with using Steve Applebaum's for a couple of nights at the local sleep easy."
"Or we could just camp inside," Dean says, waving a hand at the abandoned warehouses they're driving past. They're a feature of many of the towns they pass through, places the recession hit long before Wall Street finally felt it.
When they were kids, Dean always called squatting "camping inside" to make it sound a lot more fun than it was. Not that they did it that often. That they'd done it at all was one of the things Sam had always held against their father.
Last spring, as the time on Dean's clock wound down, they'd done it more often, trying to stay off the radar, even with the Feds off their backs. They still weren't very popular with other hunters, especially friends of Gordon's. And then those first few weeks Dean was gone, Sam hadn't given a damn about hot water or clean sheets, or even tepid water and slightly damp sheets. He'd lived like a homeless man, camping out wherever he stumbled to a stop.
Since Dean's been back, though, they've been living it up in motels again, and not just the ones that rent by the hour, or smell like crack houses. Dean's always had a knack for choosing the kitschiest, most ridiculous places to stay, and he seems to have regained it with his resurrection. Sam appreciates it more now, sees the humor in it when he used to just find it annoying.
"Rats, Dean."
Dean gives a theatrical shudder that's not even mostly show. Dean has faced--well, he still won't talk about what he's faced, and Sam's not ready to push him on it just yet, but not even counting hell, Dean's faced some pretty scary shit, and none of it seems to freak him out the way rats do. Sam knows there's a reason, but Dean's never been willing to share what it is.
"Good point. You okay to ride through for a couple hours? I know a place we could stay not too far from Lafayette."
Sam nods. They're twenty minutes out from the last rest stop, and he's not the one who just drank a thirty-two ounce cup of Coke.
*
The motel room is typical--they've stayed in hundreds, probably thousands of them over the years, so Sam doesn't really give it a second thought. It's nowhere near the most garish or the most disgusting place they've ever stayed. Sam finds himself a little disappointed. He'd been hoping for something like Kathy's Fantasy Castle in Biloxi, which looked like a cut-rate version of Cinderella's castle, or Fred's Fish'n'Sleep, up by Keuka Lake, which catered almost exclusively to fishermen and was decorated mainly with pictures of the clientele with their catches.
Dean heads right for the bathroom, doesn't even push the door all the way shut, and moans a little when he's done pissing. "Oh, man, I really needed that."
"Tiny bladder," Sam teases, even though Dean's been complaining about having to hold it for the past three hours.
"Whatever." He brushes past Sam back out to the car, and Sam goes into the bathroom to get himself a glass of water.
He's not really paying attention when he turns the water on, and he yelps in surprise when it burns his fingers. He looks down at the faucet again, and shakes his head. "Dammit, Dean, that's not funny."
"I'd say it's a little funny," Dean says, coming in with his duffle, "but I don't even know what you're talking about."
"The faucet! The hot water coming out when I turned on the cold."
Dean snorts. "Even though that is just the kind of fiendishly clever prank I would come up with, I didn't exactly have time to switch the fixtures around, did I? And the door was open the whole time." He sets his bag down on the bed and joins Sam in the bathroom, which isn't really big enough for both of them. "It's probably because I just used the hot water. Did you let it run for a bit?"
"Yes, Dean, I let it run. I'm not stupid. The water's still hot."
"That's debatable." Dean turns on the cold water, waits about fifteen seconds, and sticks his hand beneath it. Then he yanks it away as if it burns. "Huh. That is weird."
Sam gives a little "Ha!" of triumph.
Dean leans closer to the sink, studies it intently, forehead creased in concentration.
"It definitely has a 'c' on it," he says finally. "And that one has an 'h', so the fixtures haven't been switched."
Sam refrains from commenting on how he's pointing out the obvious. "You think it's our kind of thing?" He's still getting used to this again, aches with how much he's missed the normal give-and-take as they figure out what they're dealing with, the routine hauntings and the sad lingering ghosts that don't do much more than scare their loved ones before they get laid to rest for good. It's been all demons, all the time for a long time, and he's actually looking forward to something relatively easy to put down. Then he shakes his head, remembers Dad saying, No such thing as a routine haunting, Sammy. You start thinking like that, you're as good as dead.
Dean is still peering at the sink, so he doesn't notice the way Sam's gone all thoughtful. "Could be." He leans over to the right and turns on the cold water in the shower. "Huh."
"What?" Sam crowds in next to him.
"Feel that."
Sam sticks his hand under the faucet and jerks it back. "That's cold, Dean."
Dean laughs. The real, happy laughter Sam hasn't heard a whole lot of lately--not since he's been back, and not in the few weeks before he got taken. "Damn straight, skippy."
Sam sighs and wipes his hand on his jeans, because Dean is leaning against the towel rack.
"So the sink is haunted?"
"Or there's a valve that needs fixing." Dean shrugs. "I'll get the toolkit."
"Maybe we should ask the clerk if they've ever had the problem before."
Dean rolls his eyes. "I can pretty much guarantee that whatever I do won't make it worse."
If anyone else had said it, Sam would expect broken pipes and spraying water, but Dean's always had a knack for fixing things. Sam's sure he must have learned it somewhere--from Dad or Bobby or maybe one of the many shop teachers he spent a semester with during high school--but it's something Dean always just seems to know, and Sam's never been good at picking up. He remembers the hours he and Jess spent putting together furniture from Ikea, cursing the sketchy directions and the stupid Allen wrench. He'd gotten it done--no son of John Winchester's is completely useless with a wrench--but he's pretty sure Dean would have had it all put together in the time it had taken Sam to figure out the diagrams.
Dean stretches out under the sink with his toolkit, humming softly to himself for a few minutes, and Sam sits on the edge of the tub, prepared to hand him tools if he needs them.
When he's done poking around, he sits up carefully, narrowly avoiding bashing his head in on the underside of the sink.
"Yeah," he says. "Valve's rusted out." He grins. "I think it's time for a trip to Home Depot, Sammy."
*
The guy behind the desk "hmms" and "huhs" at them while Dean explains that the sink in their room is busted, and he'll fix it if the guy will take tonight off the bill. And pay for supplies.
Sam doesn't know why he's bothering--he was going to fix it anyway, more because he enjoys fixing things than because he cares one way or another about it being fixed--but the guy says, "Yeah, sure. I also got a tub that needs regrouting in sixteen. You up for that?"
"Sure," Dean answers, and they shake on it.
When they get to the nearest Home Depot, Sam says, "Okay, do we need to go over the rules, Dean?"
"What rules?" Dean looks studiously oblivious, like they haven't had this conversation every time they've gone to Home Depot.
"No power tools, no leaf blowers, no--"
Dean flips him off and grabs a cart, pushing his way through the automatic doors so quickly Sam has to take an extra step or two to catch up. He remembers when he used to have to run.
"We can probably pick up some extra salt while we're here, too," Dean says. "Why don't you go do that and I'll meet you by the plumbing supplies in fifteen minutes?"
Sam nods and grabs a cart of his own. He loads up on salt and while he's there, he picks up two extra shovels, the kind with the lightweight fiberglass handle that's cushioned--the handle on his favorite shovel was snapped by the last ghost he dug up, and he'd started using Dean's instead, but now that Dean's back, they need a second shovel and a spare. And anyway, it's on sale--winter is coming and people are preparing for snow.
He doesn't know why he bothers justifying the purchases, even to himself. It's all stolen money, and saying it's for a good cause doesn't change that. It's not even the worst crime he's committed, so he doesn't know why it still bothers him sometimes.
Of course, Dean is not anywhere near the plumbing section when Sam gets there. Dean is over by the power tools, just like he always is on the rare occasions Sam lets him loose in Home Depot.
"Look at her, Sammy," he says, holding up the floor model of a chainsaw. "Isn't she beautiful?" He pets the thing like it's a cat or a girl. "She's cordless, and the perfect size for--"
"No, Dean." Sam crosses his arms over his chest to show he means business. "Rule number one of going to Home Depot is no power tools. You know that."
"But Sam--" Dean's lower lip juts out and his eyes go wide. He looks up at Sam from under his lashes, just like a little kid asking for the latest toy for Christmas. Sam wonders if this is how he looks when he's giving Dean the earnest puppy-dog face. But he's better at saying no than Dean's ever been.
"No." Sam frowns repressively. "And stop anthropomorphizing it. It's creepy."
"If I stop anthropo-whatevering, can I have it?" Dean gives him a grin that wouldn't be out of place on a used car salesman. "It's on sale, Sam."
Sam doesn't know why that's supposed to make a difference, when the problem isn't money, but he finds himself unable to withstand the sheer earnestness of Dean's desire for a chainsaw, especially because it's so rare for Dean to actually ask for something he wants. And it's not like Dean was actually going to let him have the last word on it anyway.
"Fine." Sam gives in grudgingly.
Dean beams for the rest of the afternoon.
***
[three]
The tension in the car is so thick Sam feels like he's choking on it, but he knows they won't talk about it anymore, whether it is Sam's demon blood or Dean's overreaction to finding out he's been using the powers it gives him. They've already surpassed Dean's daily recommended allowance for open and honest conversation, so it's all going to have to wait.
It never fails to amaze him how Dean compartmentalizes--when they're on the job, he shoves down all the interpersonal drama and focuses. It's not healthy, and lately, he hasn't been as successful as he used to be (lately, their interpersonal drama has taken on a sick apocalyptic tinge, so Sam can't really blame him), but it's something Sam's come to admire about him, even as he tries to break it down. He's not bad at it himself, but Dean's the master. He'd probably be thrilled if Sam told him, but Sam never will, because one, totally unhealthy, and two, right now he's still too pissed off about Dean's self-righteousness over him using his powers. (He still can't believe Dean dragged God into it; even with proof, he's still not sure Dean actually believes God exists, so it's dirty pool to use him in an argument.) His jaw is still sore (he selfishly hopes Dean's knuckles are, too); they're stuck in stop-and-go traffic on I70, because Dean still refuses to drive through Kansas if he can avoid it, even when it's the most direct route, and Sam can't take another round of No Sleep 'til Hammersmith.
He pops the tape out of the player and says, "Can we stop early tonight? There's a Star Trek marathon on SciFi."
Dean glances over, wary. "Original flavor or extra wimpy?"
Sam clenches his jaw so tightly he thinks he might be straining something. "The movies," he says, and braces himself.
Dean doesn't disappoint. He throws back his head and yells, "KHAN!" grinning like he thinks he's clever, even though he's been doing that since before Sam knew who Khan was. "I think we deserve that after sitting in this freaking traffic all afternoon. Man, Uhura was hot. I totally would've tapped that."
"So you've said, Dean. Many, many times."
"Oh, like you wouldn't have? You know Kirk would have. Probably did. Actually, I think there's a porno."
Sam cuts him off before he can start going into detail. "I'm pretty sure they had rules against fraternization. Not that a cowboy like Kirk ever paid attention to the rules."
"Oh, so he should have been like Picard?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"He pined after the redheaded doctor lady forever and never got any action."
"They decided not to rush into anything. Unlike Kirk, who never met a woman he didn't want to fuck."
"Smart man, Captain Kirk. He was awesome."
"Sure, he was all shoot first and ask questions later. Real great way to make friends across the galaxy."
"Yeah."
"What?"
"I bet the ladies had no complaints."
"That's not what I meant, Dean, and you know it. God, not everything is about sex." Sam shakes his head and sucks his teeth in annoyance.
Dean gives him the ducky lips, like he knows he's being annoying and he thinks it's funny.
Traffic moves about five feet and then stops again. There are ambulance lights flashing in the distance and an endless line of brake lights snaking out ahead of them.
Sam rolls the window down, breathes in the exhaust-tainted air, and settles in for the long haul. "Kirk never could have handled Q."
Dean shoots him another glance, and Sam knows Dean knows what he's doing, but he goes along with it. "And Picard always sent Riker off to do his dirty work."
The argument sustains them for nearly half an hour--they're both a little rusty on the details at this point, since it's been years since either of them gave either version of Star Trek much thought--but by the time traffic starts moving again, the tension in the car has subsided to bearable levels, and Sam breathes a little easier.
***
[four]
Dean dumps all his clothes out onto the bed, searching for something, and Sam wrinkles his nose at the smell.
"Dude, we so need to do laundry," he says.
"Thank you, Captain Obvious."
"Unless you want to wear your lederhosen for the next few days."
"Shut up."
Dean starts separating the halfway decent from the probably salvageable from the even Clorox isn't going to save them. For once, the salvageable pile is larger than the rag pile, and he starts sorting again, lights and darks, which makes Sam laugh. Dean doesn't let Sam do his laundry anymore, not since he turned all Dean's stuff pink.
"It was an honest mistake," he says, lying through his teeth. "I didn't see that one red sock."
"The one red sock that neither of us even owns, Sam. That was sabotage, pure and simple."
It had been, it's true, but Sam had been really tired of having to do the laundry every month. His own dirty clothes were bad enough, but Dean's were downright disgusting--covered in caked on blood and dirt and grease and other substances Sam didn't want to think too much about, the pungent smell of his brother's sweat and fear assaulting him with every breath.
"I still can't believe you couldn't find my suit," Dean says, moving on. "Now we've gotta buy a new one, and I hate trying that shit on."
"You just hate getting felt up by the tailors when they measure your inseam."
"It's always some wrinkled old guy who smells like cabbage or cheese. He doesn't need to know I dress left, Sam." He sounds so offended that Sam has to bite back a smile.
"I didn't need to know either."
Dean huffs at him. "Whatever. There was a laundromat next to the Starbucks, so you can have your frilly coffee and maybe some free wi-fi while we do laundry."
"I'm not going with you."
"I think you are."
"Dean--"
"Sam." There's real fear and anger vibrating beneath the regular annoyance in Dean's tone, and Sam knows he's thinking about waking up all those times to find Sam gone.
"Fine." It's Sam's turn to huff as he shuts down the laptop and flings himself off the bed. His own laundry is definitely in need of doing, so it won't be a wasted couple of hours, but he really wishes Dean would just trust him again. He knows he doesn't deserve it, but he misses the surety of it, the warm knowledge that Dean believed in him. Now he's afraid to look at Dean's face for too long, afraid he'll see hate or disgust or that the fear that Dean carries won't be so much for him anymore as of him. He doesn't think he could stand that.
*
Sam buys himself a latte and a couple of hazelnut biscotti, which he knows Dean will end up eating even as he mocks Sam for buying them, and easily finds a wi-fi connection in the laundromat. Dean is schmoozing the lady behind the counter, who must be sixty if she's a day, all bleached blonde hair and blue eye shadow, the kind of woman who, when they were growing up, used to occasionally sneak them treats because they looked like motherless boys.
He comes back with a jug of Tide he didn't have to pay for and a grin that's more sad than happy. Sam doesn't know what to do with that, so he looks back down at the laptop, where he's reading an interview with J.J. Abrams about the Star Trek reboot. After their conversation in the car, he's pretty sure Dean's going to want to see it, probably to bitch about it the whole time. And check out Uhura.
They're the only people in the place, and it's quiet except for the hum of the machines; there's a television mounted above the counter, tuned to some soap opera, but the sound is off.
"Is Joshua still speaking to us?"
Sam looks up, startled. "Uh, I think so. Why?"
"I don't have his number." Dean's fiddling with the buttons on his phone and frowning.
"It's in Dad's journal. Did you need it for something?"
"No, I just--" Dean doesn't look up at him, shrugs a shoulder.
"You just what, Dean?" Sam lets his annoyance at being interrupted for nothing show, and then wishes he hadn't when Dean clams up.
"Nothing. Never mind." His voice is neutral, locked down tighter than a drum.
"Dean?"
"Nothing," Dean repeats. "It's stupid."
Sam lowers the laptop screen and gives Dean his full attention. "Obviously, it's not nothing or you wouldn't have brought it up."
"I don't have Joshua's number in my phone. That's it."
"It's a new phone, Dean. If you've got anybody but me and Bobby in there, I'd be surprised."
Dean's mouth twists in what's supposed to be a grin but fails miserably. "Yeah. I guess you're right." He gets up and starts pacing in front of the two washers he's got going (one for lights, one for darks), worrying at his thumbnail with his teeth.
It takes Sam a minute to put everything together; he's so used to thinking of Dean as self-sufficient--bulletproof--even now, that he'd never even thought about Dean needing people. Well, other people. But aside from Bobby, the only people they talk to these days are victims, angels, or demons.
"I've got Ellen's number," he says, handing over his phone. "And Jo's." He tries not to think of how the list of names in his own address book has gotten shorter over the years, Stanford friends falling by the wayside and family friends dying violently. "And I know you've got Pam's."
"You bet your ass I do." Dean's smile perks up at that, reaches his eyes, even, making them crinkle, and he takes the phone. "Thanks, Sammy."
Sam smiles back. "No problem."
***
[five]
Sam had hoped that Dean's roadside confession would have alleviated his guilt a little, maybe keep him from drinking so much, let him sleep a little more peacefully, but he can't really see a difference. He knows talking about stuff is supposed to help, but he's pretty sure Freud and Jung never dealt with people who saw the kinds of things they see in a day, let alone what Dean went through in hell.
He tries not to treat Dean differently, tries not to walk on eggshells around him, but he's always been bad at it, always forgets that Dean's a lot more complicated than he looks on the surface, and the fact that he's watched Sam like a hawk his entire life means he knows him a lot better than Sam gives him credit for, even if Sam thinks Dean doesn't necessarily understand him. He doesn't necessarily understand Dean either, so he can't blame him (though sometimes he still does).
"Stop thinking so much," Dean says, tapping Sam's forehead with two fingers, an imitation of Castiel's patented move. "Your face is going to freeze that way." His voice is rough, holds the slightest hint of a slur, and he smells like beer and cigarettes and sex.
Sam wrinkles his nose. "Maybe you should shower." He pulls the bottle of Advil out of his bag and tosses it at Dean, who catches it easily, reflexively. Not that drunk, then. "And take a few of those before you hit the sack. We've gotta be out of here early tomorrow, and if you're hung over, I'm driving. And you know what that means."
"A steady diet of fucking emo," Dean says, grimacing and pulling a clean t-shirt and boxers out of his duffle. "Listening to cats fuck would be more appealing."
"Hey, they're your rules."
"I don't know where I went wrong with you, Sammy." Dean shakes his head, scrubs a hand over his eyes. "I could maybe live with the fake country crap, but the whiny-droney shit makes me want to stab myself in the face."
Sam flips him off as Dean pulls the door to the bathroom closed behind him.
There's nothing on TV this time of night--infomercials and Sports Center and bad movies. Sam runs through the limited number of channels mindlessly, stopping on some cartoon when he finds a listing on eBay for a grimoire Bobby's been looking for. He gets involved in bidding and forgets about the television, so when Dean comes out of the bathroom and says, "Jesus, Sam, turn that shit off," Sam doesn't even know what he's watching.
He looks up to see cartoon rats with glowing red eyes and laughs. "It's a cartoon, Dean."
"I fucking hate rats, Sam. Turn it off or I will."
Sam turns the TV off and holds up his hands. "Whatever, man. It's just a cartoon."
Dean glares as he climbs into bed, so Sam shuts the laptop down and turns off the light. He doesn't want to deal with Dean in this mood.
He's almost asleep when Dean says, "You wouldn't remember--you weren't more than two or three, I guess--but we lived in this rundown shack somewhere in West Virginia for a few months when I was in first grade, and at night I could hear them in the walls, scratching."
Sam holds his breath and freezes in place, even though he wants to roll over and watch Dean in the darkness. He's afraid if he moves, Dean will stop talking.
"I already knew how to shoot, but Dad didn't let me keep a gun under my pillow then, because you slept in the bed with me, and you were just a baby."
So were you, Sam wants to say, but doesn't. Can't.
"One night, I woke up to go to the bathroom, and I knew those freaking rats were there, but I couldn't see them, so I figured they couldn't see me, or you. But when I got back to bed, there was one climbing up the blankets, trying to get to you.
"I freaked out, of course, and yelled for Dad. He'd fallen asleep in the living room, and he came running in and told me to pick you up and leave the room, and I--I didn't want to go near that rat, but I had to get you out of there, so I grabbed you and booked it, but I stood in the hallway and watched him shoot it. There were rat guts and blood and fur all over our bed, Sam, and you wouldn't stop crying." His voice is calm, like he's telling a story that happened to someone else, but Sam can hear the echoes of fear in it. He wonders if this is one of the things Alastair used to torture Dean in hell, if the memory is fresh because of that, or because Dean's always blamed himself for things that weren't his fault.
"Dad packed us up and moved us out that night. We ended up somewhere in Georgia, I think. I'm not sure. After that, I asked Dad to let me sleep with a gun or a knife, but he didn't let me until you were old enough to sleep in a separate bed. I always kept one close by, though. It was bad enough I had to share the bed with you. I wasn't gonna share with goddamn fucking rats, too." His voice breaks a little, and Sam feels like he's been hollowed out, huge stinging ache in his chest and behind his eyes.
"Thanks," he says, his own voice hoarse and thick. He finally rolls over to face Dean's bed. Though he can't see Dean's expression, he can imagine it easily enough.
Dean chokes out a laugh, and Sam wonders how much he had to drink. "For what?"
"For, you know, keeping the rats away." It sounds dumb when he says it out loud, but he has no clue what else to say. He hates how often Dean puts him in that position; how often he puts himself there.
"Oh. Well. It was my job, Sammy. You were just a baby. Kinda cute, but totally useless except for eating, sleeping, and shitting." He laughs again, and this time it sounds less like dying. "Not much has changed."
"Very funny."
"Go to sleep, Sam."
"You, too, Dean."
"I'm totally not letting you drive tomorrow."
"We'll see about that."
Sam falls asleep listening to the sound of Dean breathing in the next bed, familiar as his own heartbeat, and if he doesn't exactly feel safe (he can't remember the last time he did), he at least feels safer than he has in a long time.
***
[six]
Dean's reading the newspaper when Sam comes out of the bathroom. He dresses to the accompaniment of pages rattling and Dean's thinky murmurs as he finds something that could be a case. Or maybe just an ad for a two-for-one drink special at a strip club. Sam can never be sure, though Dean will often share either possibility with him, despite his protests.
When he's done dressing, he sits down at the laptop and does his own morning news roundup. Google reader and RSS feeds have made this part of the job a lot less painful than it used to be--he can skim through obituaries from all over the country in a few minutes, and has Google alerts set up to send him links to stories about weird or unexplained deaths or accidents. After he's skimmed and saved everything that looks like a possible case, he reads the national and international news, and if Dean's not pushing him out the door, he reads the Arts & Leisure section of the New York Times.
Dean gets up to refill his coffee cup--Sam is always glad when they stay in a place with a complimentary coffee maker--and leaves his paper open to the sports section. Sam glances at the headlines--it's mostly hockey and football this time of year, and he wonders when the Big Game is this year. He'd never been a big football fan, but he'd gone when he was at school, because it was what his friends did, and he'd wanted to fit in.
He wonders if Dean reads the sports scores the way he reads reviews of foreign films he'll never get to see. It's not that he's even all that interested, though he'd gone through a French New Wave phase in college, and The 400 Blows is still one of his favorite movies--he'd convinced Dean to watch it one night when it was on PBS, and Dean had been disappointed it wasn't a porno, and then disturbed at how easily Antoine's parents gave him up--so much as they open up a window on a world he used to want to be a part of. Reading about them gives him a glimpse of the life he'll never have. The life he isn't even sure he really wants anymore.
He doesn't think Dean's harboring any lingering desire for a pro ball career, but looking back, Sam realizes there was a time he might have been able to have one, if they hadn't had to move around so much, if injuries from the hunt hadn't kept him from playing his senior year. Sam doesn't ask, though, because he knows no matter what answer Dean gives, it won't be one he wants to hear.
"We could stop at the diner before we leave," Dean says, folding up the newspaper and shoving it into the outside pocket of his duffle, "or we could just pick up some bacon, egg, and cheese sandwiches on the way out of town, and stop to eat when we get to--" He stops, waiting for Sam to fill in the location.
"Richfield, Minnesota," Sam supplies. "Sounds like it might be a black dog." He shoves his feet into his sneakers. "Sandwiches are fine by me. Why don't I go down to the deli and you can pick me up after you've checked out?"
"Nah, I'll drive you," Dean says. "Checking out won't take a minute."
Sam shrugs and shoulders his duffle. "I'll wait by the car then."
Dean hesitates for a second, then says, "Okay."
He's been a little clingier than usual since the ghost fever, and not for the usual reasons. Not that Sam can blame him. He's just glad Dean doesn't know about his encounter with the bolt of lightning in Concrete.
He stays where Dean can see him through the office window, leans against the car, arms crossed over his chest against the wind, and waits.
"I think I want Canadian bacon today," Dean says as he saunters to the car, bowlegs making him look like some kind of misplaced cowboy. Sam thinks Dean would probably be delighted with the comparison; Dean's always seen himself as a handsome drifter in the young Clint Eastwood mode. "Or possibly sausage."
"Your obsession with pork products scares me sometimes."
Dean puts the key into the ignition and starts the car. He grins at Sam, wide and bright. "Only sometimes?"
And Sam laughs, wishing it was always this easy.
end
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[eta] You can read about Dean's further adventures with the chainsaw here. [/eta]
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Feedback is adored.
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