FIC: The Wandering Kind (SPN, Sam/Dean) (2/7)
ONE/
PART TWO: Held a Stone Above My Bones
Dean lost some time.
Next thing Dean knew, Sam was on his knees in front of the Impala, his hands held out empty, his face pale. "I know it sounds crazy," Sam was saying. He was trying to sound calm and reasonable, Dean could tell, but his words kept tripping over top of each other. The gun that Dean was pressing against his forehead probably didn't help.
"Wait," Dean said. "Wait a goddamn minute. Tell me again."
"Demons - evil things are real," Sam said quickly. "And there are some things that, that are supposed to just be stories, but they're not --"
"What?" Dean interrupted. His grip tightened, the barrel of his gun jabbing the thin skin at Sam's temple. Some part of Dean's brain noted that Sam flinched.
"I'm telling the truth," Sam said desperately. "God - Dean, please, give me a chance to explain -"
"Christo."
Nothing happened. Sam's eyes blinked up at him, watery and clear.
Air made its way back into Dean's lungs. He lowered his gun, but just a fraction, starting to realize just how close he'd come to killing Sam. Sam's face had gone tight and he was shaking, but his eyes were still imploring and earnest. Dean swallowed, said, "Are you telling me that the woman by the car was a demon?"
"You know about demons? You, you're a hunter?"
"-What?" Dean wondered if it would be better to just pull the trigger.
"You never let me look in the trunk," Sam said. "I should have realized. Dean - I'm a hunter, too. I wasn't going to get you involved - I didn't know -"
"She disappeared," Dean interrupted. "When you touched her. No host, no body left behind, no cloud of smoke, justpoof. That's not what demons do. Explain that to me."
"I can't," said Sam. "It's something new."
"That sounds like so much bullshit, you have no idea." Dean raised his gun again, but Sam didn't back down.
"I'm telling the truth. You know I am. You've probably noticed a lot of weird stuff going on lately, too."
"What kind of weird," Dean asked flatly.
"Odd weather patterns," Sam said. "Cattle unrest, unexplained hauntings, people rising from the dead. Not your garden-variety supernatural occurrences. More like signs and portents."
"Maybe," Dean allowed, remembering Oklahoma.
"If you're a hunter - you know Ellen? Ellen Harvelle? The Roadhouse? She's my mom, she can vouch for me, and you already know I'm not possessed. Dean, why would I lie to you?"
Dean didn't recognize the name Ellen, but he could look her up easy enough. Still - "You expect me to believe that it's just coincidence?" Dean swallowed. "You, a hunter, just happen to hitch a ride with a hunter, and we just happen to meet a demon on the side of the road?"
"Yes," Sam said. "That's what happened."
Dean wanted to believe him. He really wanted to believe him.
Dean bowed his head and let his gun drop to his side, clicked the safety back on. He tried to ignore the little noise of relief that Sam made. He wouldn't have actually killed the kid, Dean told himself. Maybe just winged him a little.
"Okay," Dean said. He tried to look Sam in the face, couldn't quite do it. "Okay."
"All right," said Sam. He clambered to his feet and didn't bother to brush the gravel from his knees, just hovered there, right out of reach. "Thanks, man."
Dean snorted. "For what?"
Sam's mouth twitched. "For believing me? For not blowing my brains out just now?"
"Anytime," said Dean.
*
They drove on. Dean expected Sam to take off the first chance he got; it couldn't be fun to have some psychotic hunter stick his gun in your face. Sam seemed okay, though, if a little quiet. Then again, if Sam was a hunter, too, like he claimed, he probably had some experience with paranoid sons of bitches.
Dean still didn't know why he believed Sam, but he did. He made a half-hearted effort to be suspicious, watched Sam closely for the rest of the day, but when they stopped at another motel for the night, he asked for a room with two queens without even thinking about it.
The girl behind the counter handed them a couple of room keys - the real kind, not the little pieces of plastic. She was hot, with a great rack and legs up to there. Dean thought about trying to smile at her, but he was pretty sure that part of him was broken and shot to hell. He settled for a nod, and slid the other key across to Sam.
"Thanks," Sam said quietly. He raised his eyebrows in Dean's direction, but Dean couldn't interpret his expression.
"Hey, one of our regulars is putting on a puppet show tonight, out by the pool," the girl said to Sam, ignoring Dean completely. "You guys should check it out. It's seriously amazing, I don't know how he does it."
"Sure thing," said Sam. He cocked his head in Dean's direction. "We like puppets."
"'We like puppets'?" Dean repeated a few minutes later. "What the fuck, dude?"
"Hey, man, she was totally into you," Sam said. "I was just trying to help you out."
"Okay, first lesson: just because I show some appreciation for Master of Puppets does not mean I want to see a puppet show," said Dean. "And she was not into me. It may be hard to believe, but I have been around the block a time or twenty, my friend. I know when a girl is into me and when she's about to run screaming. She was mentally lacing up her sneakers."
"I just thought maybe you could use the distraction." Sam shrugged. "You know? It seems like you don't let off steam very much."
Dean wondered if that was supposed to be a dig about him being trigger-happy. He shoved the key in the lock a little too forcefully. "We've known each other for three days. Why is my life any of your business?"
"I don't know," said Sam. "It's not. But - I'm here. If you want to talk about it. I mean, we're kind of friends now, right?"
Dean shook his head and opened the motel room door.
"...Right," said Sam, and he stepped carefully around Dean and went inside.
*
Somehow, they ended up at the puppet show anyway, along with a church group and a couple of families that were staying at the motel. The counter-girl came up and started flirting with Sam, and Dean took the opportunity to make his escape. He leaned against the fence on the opposite side of the pool, amusing himself by watching Sam's desperate attempts to dissuade the girl of her interest. Apparently, judging by Sam's pinched expression, talking to a pretty girl was equivalent to having a foot stuck in a bear trap.
Eventually, Dean got tired of watching Sam's awkward smiles and turned his attention to the puppet show. It wasn't too bad, actually; it was one of those old-style Punch and Judy sets with the elaborate marionettes, and the puppeteer was a friendly, overweight guy with a thick beard, wearing a Jerry Garcia T-shirt. Dean stared at the puppets - they were bigger than he'd expected, and more realistic - until he saw Sam approach out of the corner of his eye.
"Thanks for abandoning me, dude," Sam said. He sounded more amused than annoyed.
Dean grunted, and Sam leaned against the fence next to him, not touching, but so close that Dean could feel the warmth of his arm through the flannel.
"Just trying to help you out," Dean parroted back. Sam laughed under his breath.
They stood there for a long time, just soaking in the night, the stars slowly phasing in beyond the reach of the pool lights. It was the kind of night that made the weight ease, sent cool air breezing into your bones. Dean took a deep breath, his first in days, and tilted his head back to look at the sky. After a moment, he could feel Sam's eyes on him.
"What," said Dean.
Sam flinched a little and looked away. "Nothing," he said.
Dean didn't really believe that, but he let it drop. Maybe he didn't really want to know.
A kid gave a shriek as her brother pushed her in the pool, and Dean watched the laughing, spluttering girl as she clung to the concrete side and pulled her brother right in after her. The splashing distracted some of the onlookers from the puppets, but just for a minute, and then they turned back to the show. But Dean kept watching the kids, remembering when he'd been that age. Just him and his dad, but they'd made do. Dean had learned how to handle all the guns by the time he was twelve. He closed his eyes against the memory of his dad's voice.
"Hey," said Sam, startling Dean from his thoughts. "Look at those puppets. There's something…"
"Yeah?"
"Look at them - shit, Dean, they're moving on their own!"
Dean snapped to attention, craning his neck to stare at the puppet show. Sam was right - it was hard to tell from a distance, but there was too much give in the marionette strings, the tiny cords hanging loose while tiny puppet hands and feet still moved.
"What the fuck," Dean muttered
"You think it's haunted?"
"Maybe. But wouldn't the puppeteer guy have noticed?" Dean squinted for another minute, then turned back to Sam. "We'll go check it out after he's done. Ask a few questions, check for EMF."
"Okay," said Sam.
It took Dean a few minutes to realize how easily he'd said "we."
*
The puppeteer's name was Gabe, and he didn't have any answers for them - just an earnest expression and a couple of facial tics.
"It just happened one day," Gabe said. "They started moving on their own. But it's nothing bad, is it? I mean, they seem happy."
Sam coughed, and Dean elbowed him in the side. "They sure do," Dean said. "Mind if we take a look?"
Gabe showed them the trunk where he stored the puppets. Dean's EMF detector wasn't working - he'd probably forgotten to change the batteries or something, and in a fun stroke of luck he didn't have any spares - so he and Sam just had to crouch down and inspect the puppets by eye. They looked absolutely normal, except for the fact that they were alive.
A couple of puppets blinked up at Dean with tiny wooden eyelids, and he shuddered. "Jesus. That's not right."
"At least they can't talk," said Sam.
"But they can murder me in my sleep," said Dean. "Are we sure they're not possessed?"
"No reaction to holy water, and they didn't even flinch when we tried the exorcism. Gabe made them himself, which means it's unlikely they're haunted. They're just puppets. Well. Animate puppets."
Dean huffed a laugh. "What were you saying about the world getting weirder? Now we've got some run-of-the-mill living dolls."
"I guess we should burn them," Sam said slowly. "To be on the safe side."
"Yeah," said Dean.
They both stared at the puppets. The puppets stared back with nervous faces, and Dean could hear bits of wood clattering together softly, the sound of tangling strings.
"Although, I'm thinking that would break Gabe's heart," added Sam.
"They've been like this for months," said Dean. "No mysterious deaths, no unexplained occurrences? Aside from however they got like this to begin with?"
"None," said Sam. He was giving Dean a face that looked suspiciously like puppy-dog eyes.
Dean sighed. "Fine. Just don't blame me if they go all Bride of Chucky."
*
In thanks for not burning his dolls, Gabe gave Sam a fancy silver letter opener and his business card. Dean wondered if he should take offense - after all, it was him that decided not to burn the little fuckers, not Sam. But Sam hocked the letter opener at a 24-hour pawn shop and used the cash to buy cigarettes and beer, so Dean decided that everything turned out for the best in the end.
"You could always have killed a werewolf with it," Dean pointed out anyway. "Melted it down for bullets."
Sam's face twisted, like he had a bad taste in his mouth. "Yeah, guess so."
It was late, but neither of them seemed to have any inclination to go to sleep. They were staying in a non-smoking room at the motel, so Dean cracked the door open a smidge and Sam unwrapped one of the cheap plastic drinking cups to use as an ashtray. The beer bottles wound up in the bathroom sink, buried in melting ice from the ice machine to keep them cool.
(illustration by guard_the_cards)
"Shit, it's been a while," Dean murmured after the first drag of smoke. It made him want to cough at first, but he took another puff and the urge passed. "You know, I haven't smoked since I was nineteen. My dad found out and he woulda killed me if I hadn't quit."
"What, really?" asked Sam, already on his second cigarette. He grinned at Dean through a haze of smoke, kicked back in his chair and rested his feet on the bed next to Dean. "He was a hunter, too, right? I wouldn't have thought that worrying about cancer was his style."
Dean shrugged, knocked a little more ash into the plastic cup. "I dunno. He didn't like the smell or something. And he didn't want me 'knocking holes in my lungs' when I might have to run for my life at any moment. So he said."
"Probably smart," said Sam. He used the end of his cigarette to light a third one and then stubbed it out on the cover of the motel's out-of-date telephone book. "For me, well, try growing up in a bar full of guys who don't care about anything except alcohol, nicotine, and killing monsters. It's kind of hard not to pick up some habits."
"The killing monsters, you picked that up as a habit, too?" Dean took a swig of beer and let out a loud belch.
"Eww. Gross, man," Sam laughed. "Uh, yeah. Yeah, I guess I did."
"You should laugh more," Dean said, not thinking until the words were already out. Sam gave him a weird look, but Dean pressed on. "I mean. It's not good for you to be a big old sourpuss all the time. You'll give yourself an ulcer."
Sam rolled his eyes. "Look who's talking." He stood up from his chair and stretched, then threw himself on the bed next to Dean. "Which reminds me, you always been like this? Or is the whole 'dark avenger' shtick a new development?"
Dean could actually feel his teeth starting to grind. "None of your goddamn beeswax."
"Says the guy that almost shot me today."
Dean glanced at the clock. More like yesterday now, but yeah. He cast a look over at Sam. Sam's mouth was turned down at the corners, pissed off. Apparently he hadn't been as okay with Dean's actions as he'd seemed. Dean couldn't really blame him.
"Listen," said Dean. He didn't know if he was going to try to apologize or what, but then Sam shook his head.
"Never mind," said Sam. "That's not fair of me. I know that there's nasty shit out there. I just - Jesus, Dean." He sighed and seemed to sink a little more into the comforter.
Dean took a drag off his cigarette. It was almost down to the filter, and he reached over Sam and squished the butt flat on the telephone book before speaking. "You keep asking me about all this shit, about my life. Why the hell do you care, anyway?"
"Could ask you the same," Sam murmured. He rolled over to face Dean, his nose about three inches from Dean's cheek. "But you do, don't you. You try to act like you don't, but you care."
Dean swallowed, wondering how the conversation was suddenly taking a turn for the oh hell no. "Seriously, man, shut up."
Sam shook his head vigorously, and Dean was reminded that Sam was well on his way to drunk. He cast an eye over at the table, where empty beer bottles littered the surface like so many valiant soldiers. Huh. That explained Sam being so pushy. It also explained why Dean was pretty okay with Sam breathing on his neck.
"Aside from the nearly killing me thing... I bought you beer, dude," Sam said, like he was reading Dean's mind. "That means you tell me stuff. It's like payback, you owe me."
"Yeah? I've never heard of that rule."
Sam blinked at him, his eyes so earnest that it made Dean want to hurl. "When did your dad die?"
"April," said Dean. "Maybe it was March. I. I don't know."
"And your mom, you said she died when you were little."
"Yeah." Dean's mouth was dry. "Just me by my lonesome, now." He forced a chuckle.
Sam's jaw went tight, and he looked at Dean until Dean wanted to hide under something, just lock himself in the bathroom until it stopped. The look wasn't quite pity - it was something a lot harder for Dean to take. It was kind of like compassion. Like mercy.
"Well, you don't have to be," Sam said.
*
The next day was painfully awkward. Dean had a pounding headache and Sam wouldn't look him in the eye. They hadn't even said anything the previous night that the other didn't already know, but Dean felt scrubbed raw; every little word or thought hurt like it was hitting bare nerves. He didn't know how Sam could make him come so unglued, just with a few little meaningless words.
You don't have to be. Dean didn't even know what the fuck that was supposed to mean.
"You wanna listen to something?" Dean asked. He didn't really want to hear any of his dad's music, but it was something to say, and another hour of silence in the car was going to make Dean go batty. He'd already had months of silence - he wasn't going to put up with it when there was actually someone living and breathing in the passenger seat.
Sam shrugged. "Yeah, that's fine." He didn't make a move to pull the box of tapes from under the seat, though, and Dean didn't feel like pressing it, suddenly overwhelmed by the memory of his father flipping through the tapes. He remembered his dad's hands, grimy from gun oil, the way he'd rest them solidly on the steering wheel or Dean's shoulder.
Dean swallowed and ignored Sam's sidelong gaze.
But then, like an act of God: as they were passing through yet another little town, Dean spotted a record store. The sign out front read Swann's Records and CD's, and under that, Cassette tapes 5 for $1.
"Holy shit!" Dean yelped. Sam gave a start and looked at Dean like he was crazy, but Dean just pulled into the first parking spot he could find, and jumped out of the car. "Hell yes, Sammyboy. We are getting us some good music. You with me?"
Sam still looked startled, but at Dean's words, he started to grin. "I'm with you," he said.
They entered the store and Dean made a beeline right for the big crates of cassette tapes. Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust, but Dean didn't care - he saw Back in Black on the very top of the stack, and underneath that was Highway to Hell, Physical Graffiti, and fucking Zeppelin II.
Sam came over after a minute, eying Dean's armful of tapes like they might jump out and bite him. "Maybe you should keep it down," he said. "You're making the owner nervous."
Dean flashed the owner a smile, then went back to cooing over his finds. Sam plucked a tape from his grasp.
"The Greatest Hits of Journey?" Sam choked.
"Shut up," Dean scowled. "It costs less than a quarter, man."
Sam wrinkled his nose and looked in the crates. It took less than a second for him to yelp, "No way!" and carefully extract a tape from the piles. Dean cast an appraising eye: Nirvana's Nevermind. Could be worse.
"Okay," said Sam, full-on grinning. "You've got me. This was an awesome idea."
"I do have them from time to time." Dean grabbed the tape from Sam and added it to his pile. "It's on me."
"Thanks," said Sam. "So we know there'll be at least one decent thing to listen to in the car."
Dean snorted. "We'll see about that, bitch."
Sam burst out laughing. "Jerk. God, you - you remind me so much of Jo, right now."
"Who's Joe?"
"My little sister," said Sam.
Something about Sam's tone seemed off. "I guess you haven't seen her lately, huh," said Dean. "What's she like?"
"A total pain in the butt," Sam said. "She likes to be annoying and make my life hell. And she loves REO Speedwagon. Come to think of it, you two would probably get along really well."
"Fuck you, man. I'm still trying to deal with the fact that I remind you of a girl." Dean dumped his purchases on the counter, and the owner sighed heavily and started writing out a receipt. "Cause last time I checked, I really, really wasn't."
"Not like I'd know." Sam raised his eyebrows. "I mean, your eyelashes are kind of girly."
Dean felt something coil in his gut. "You been noticing my eyelashes?"
"Kind of hard not to," said Sam. And as Dean watched, he started to flush a slow, deep red.
Before Dean could figure out a reply, the store owner shoved the bag full of cassettes at Dean's chest. "That'll be three dollars and eighteen cents," he said.
"I love her to death, though," Sam blurted, startling Dean while he was counting out his pennies. "Jo, I mean. She drives me crazy, but - she's kind of awesome, too. You know?"
"Yeah," said Dean. "I get that."
(illustration by guard_the_cards)
*
They finally reached California in the dead of night, which was kind of anticlimactic. Dean could barely keep his eyes open, and he knew it'd be either dumb or suicide to keep driving. He turned down the volume on the tape deck -- and if I say to you tomorrow, take my hand, child, come with me -- and said, "Hey. Hey, Sammy."
Sam grunted at him. "Don't call me Sammy."
"Whatever," said Dean. "Samantha. Keep an eye out for any motel signs." Sam gave a snort, but nodded.
The first motel they found was a run-down little place called Paradise Rooms and Suites, complete with lime green walls, pineapple-shaped soap, and free HBO. Dean settled in with the remote, and Sam stretched his freakishly tall self across the other bed.
It was weird how comfortable Dean felt with Sam there, like Sam was filling some sort of gap that his dad left. Sure, Sam was another warm body in the car, someone to share the motel bathroom. But Sam wasn't just some hitchhiker - he laughed at Dean's jokes, or at least groaned in the right places; he was witty, crazy-smart, and knew his way around a shotgun; and he even seemed to give a shit about what happened to the world, when Dean had spent months trying not to care.
It didn't matter, though, because Dean shouldn't be getting used to this; they had reached California, and it was probably going to be the last night Dean spent with Sam. Tomorrow they'd be rolling into Palo Alto, and Sam would stride off into the sunset, leaving Dean exactly where he'd been before.
Sam felt Dean looking, and glanced up at him. "What?"
"Nothing," said Dean. He started flipping channels. "Fuckers, can you believe it? Free HBO, and there's still not anything good on."
"Hold on a second, go back." Sam squinted at the TV screen as Dean hit a button on the remote. "What's that?"
"Another brave suitor has met his fate tonight," read a local news anchor. The woman looked uncomfortable underneath her heavy make-up. "Joseph Bellick was the seventh young man to propose to Mayor Keller's daughter Louise - and he was the seventh to fail the trials she lay out for him. A community mourns. Details after the weather. "
"Wait," said Dean. "What?"
They watched the details after the weather, but there wasn't much detail to be had. Dean cursed at the TV when they started discussing high school basketball scores.
Sam's mouth twitched. "I take it we'll be staying here longer than we planned?"
Dean already had his boots back on. They probably had some local newspapers in the motel office, or something with more information. He paused and looked at Sam, but Sam didn't look too torn up about the prospect of staying to check this out.
"Yeah, looks like," Dean said.
"Cool," said Sam.
*
That night, despite being bone-tired, Dean popped wood for the first time in months. He stood in the shower for at least five minutes, staring down at his inexplicable erection, before he finally wrapped his hand around his dick and started to stroke. He rubbed at his nipples with his other hand, imagining a gentle mouth there, and bit his lip at the feeling of pleasure that washed over him. It had been a long time.
It was only a minute or two before Dean was shooting off, and if he was thinking of Sam while he did it, well, nobody could ever blame a man for the shit that pops into his head while he's choking the chicken.
Except, of course, that Dean knew it was more than that. And, maybe... Maybe Sam was more than that. Dean closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the shower wall until the water ran cold.
/ THREE/ FOUR/ FIVE/ SIX/ SEVEN
PART TWO: Held a Stone Above My Bones
Dean lost some time.
Next thing Dean knew, Sam was on his knees in front of the Impala, his hands held out empty, his face pale. "I know it sounds crazy," Sam was saying. He was trying to sound calm and reasonable, Dean could tell, but his words kept tripping over top of each other. The gun that Dean was pressing against his forehead probably didn't help.
"Wait," Dean said. "Wait a goddamn minute. Tell me again."
"Demons - evil things are real," Sam said quickly. "And there are some things that, that are supposed to just be stories, but they're not --"
"What?" Dean interrupted. His grip tightened, the barrel of his gun jabbing the thin skin at Sam's temple. Some part of Dean's brain noted that Sam flinched.
"I'm telling the truth," Sam said desperately. "God - Dean, please, give me a chance to explain -"
"Christo."
Nothing happened. Sam's eyes blinked up at him, watery and clear.
Air made its way back into Dean's lungs. He lowered his gun, but just a fraction, starting to realize just how close he'd come to killing Sam. Sam's face had gone tight and he was shaking, but his eyes were still imploring and earnest. Dean swallowed, said, "Are you telling me that the woman by the car was a demon?"
"You know about demons? You, you're a hunter?"
"-What?" Dean wondered if it would be better to just pull the trigger.
"You never let me look in the trunk," Sam said. "I should have realized. Dean - I'm a hunter, too. I wasn't going to get you involved - I didn't know -"
"She disappeared," Dean interrupted. "When you touched her. No host, no body left behind, no cloud of smoke, justpoof. That's not what demons do. Explain that to me."
"I can't," said Sam. "It's something new."
"That sounds like so much bullshit, you have no idea." Dean raised his gun again, but Sam didn't back down.
"I'm telling the truth. You know I am. You've probably noticed a lot of weird stuff going on lately, too."
"What kind of weird," Dean asked flatly.
"Odd weather patterns," Sam said. "Cattle unrest, unexplained hauntings, people rising from the dead. Not your garden-variety supernatural occurrences. More like signs and portents."
"Maybe," Dean allowed, remembering Oklahoma.
"If you're a hunter - you know Ellen? Ellen Harvelle? The Roadhouse? She's my mom, she can vouch for me, and you already know I'm not possessed. Dean, why would I lie to you?"
Dean didn't recognize the name Ellen, but he could look her up easy enough. Still - "You expect me to believe that it's just coincidence?" Dean swallowed. "You, a hunter, just happen to hitch a ride with a hunter, and we just happen to meet a demon on the side of the road?"
"Yes," Sam said. "That's what happened."
Dean wanted to believe him. He really wanted to believe him.
Dean bowed his head and let his gun drop to his side, clicked the safety back on. He tried to ignore the little noise of relief that Sam made. He wouldn't have actually killed the kid, Dean told himself. Maybe just winged him a little.
"Okay," Dean said. He tried to look Sam in the face, couldn't quite do it. "Okay."
"All right," said Sam. He clambered to his feet and didn't bother to brush the gravel from his knees, just hovered there, right out of reach. "Thanks, man."
Dean snorted. "For what?"
Sam's mouth twitched. "For believing me? For not blowing my brains out just now?"
"Anytime," said Dean.
*
They drove on. Dean expected Sam to take off the first chance he got; it couldn't be fun to have some psychotic hunter stick his gun in your face. Sam seemed okay, though, if a little quiet. Then again, if Sam was a hunter, too, like he claimed, he probably had some experience with paranoid sons of bitches.
Dean still didn't know why he believed Sam, but he did. He made a half-hearted effort to be suspicious, watched Sam closely for the rest of the day, but when they stopped at another motel for the night, he asked for a room with two queens without even thinking about it.
The girl behind the counter handed them a couple of room keys - the real kind, not the little pieces of plastic. She was hot, with a great rack and legs up to there. Dean thought about trying to smile at her, but he was pretty sure that part of him was broken and shot to hell. He settled for a nod, and slid the other key across to Sam.
"Thanks," Sam said quietly. He raised his eyebrows in Dean's direction, but Dean couldn't interpret his expression.
"Hey, one of our regulars is putting on a puppet show tonight, out by the pool," the girl said to Sam, ignoring Dean completely. "You guys should check it out. It's seriously amazing, I don't know how he does it."
"Sure thing," said Sam. He cocked his head in Dean's direction. "We like puppets."
"'We like puppets'?" Dean repeated a few minutes later. "What the fuck, dude?"
"Hey, man, she was totally into you," Sam said. "I was just trying to help you out."
"Okay, first lesson: just because I show some appreciation for Master of Puppets does not mean I want to see a puppet show," said Dean. "And she was not into me. It may be hard to believe, but I have been around the block a time or twenty, my friend. I know when a girl is into me and when she's about to run screaming. She was mentally lacing up her sneakers."
"I just thought maybe you could use the distraction." Sam shrugged. "You know? It seems like you don't let off steam very much."
Dean wondered if that was supposed to be a dig about him being trigger-happy. He shoved the key in the lock a little too forcefully. "We've known each other for three days. Why is my life any of your business?"
"I don't know," said Sam. "It's not. But - I'm here. If you want to talk about it. I mean, we're kind of friends now, right?"
Dean shook his head and opened the motel room door.
"...Right," said Sam, and he stepped carefully around Dean and went inside.
*
Somehow, they ended up at the puppet show anyway, along with a church group and a couple of families that were staying at the motel. The counter-girl came up and started flirting with Sam, and Dean took the opportunity to make his escape. He leaned against the fence on the opposite side of the pool, amusing himself by watching Sam's desperate attempts to dissuade the girl of her interest. Apparently, judging by Sam's pinched expression, talking to a pretty girl was equivalent to having a foot stuck in a bear trap.
Eventually, Dean got tired of watching Sam's awkward smiles and turned his attention to the puppet show. It wasn't too bad, actually; it was one of those old-style Punch and Judy sets with the elaborate marionettes, and the puppeteer was a friendly, overweight guy with a thick beard, wearing a Jerry Garcia T-shirt. Dean stared at the puppets - they were bigger than he'd expected, and more realistic - until he saw Sam approach out of the corner of his eye.
"Thanks for abandoning me, dude," Sam said. He sounded more amused than annoyed.
Dean grunted, and Sam leaned against the fence next to him, not touching, but so close that Dean could feel the warmth of his arm through the flannel.
"Just trying to help you out," Dean parroted back. Sam laughed under his breath.
They stood there for a long time, just soaking in the night, the stars slowly phasing in beyond the reach of the pool lights. It was the kind of night that made the weight ease, sent cool air breezing into your bones. Dean took a deep breath, his first in days, and tilted his head back to look at the sky. After a moment, he could feel Sam's eyes on him.
"What," said Dean.
Sam flinched a little and looked away. "Nothing," he said.
Dean didn't really believe that, but he let it drop. Maybe he didn't really want to know.
A kid gave a shriek as her brother pushed her in the pool, and Dean watched the laughing, spluttering girl as she clung to the concrete side and pulled her brother right in after her. The splashing distracted some of the onlookers from the puppets, but just for a minute, and then they turned back to the show. But Dean kept watching the kids, remembering when he'd been that age. Just him and his dad, but they'd made do. Dean had learned how to handle all the guns by the time he was twelve. He closed his eyes against the memory of his dad's voice.
"Hey," said Sam, startling Dean from his thoughts. "Look at those puppets. There's something…"
"Yeah?"
"Look at them - shit, Dean, they're moving on their own!"
Dean snapped to attention, craning his neck to stare at the puppet show. Sam was right - it was hard to tell from a distance, but there was too much give in the marionette strings, the tiny cords hanging loose while tiny puppet hands and feet still moved.
"What the fuck," Dean muttered
"You think it's haunted?"
"Maybe. But wouldn't the puppeteer guy have noticed?" Dean squinted for another minute, then turned back to Sam. "We'll go check it out after he's done. Ask a few questions, check for EMF."
"Okay," said Sam.
It took Dean a few minutes to realize how easily he'd said "we."
*
The puppeteer's name was Gabe, and he didn't have any answers for them - just an earnest expression and a couple of facial tics.
"It just happened one day," Gabe said. "They started moving on their own. But it's nothing bad, is it? I mean, they seem happy."
Sam coughed, and Dean elbowed him in the side. "They sure do," Dean said. "Mind if we take a look?"
Gabe showed them the trunk where he stored the puppets. Dean's EMF detector wasn't working - he'd probably forgotten to change the batteries or something, and in a fun stroke of luck he didn't have any spares - so he and Sam just had to crouch down and inspect the puppets by eye. They looked absolutely normal, except for the fact that they were alive.
A couple of puppets blinked up at Dean with tiny wooden eyelids, and he shuddered. "Jesus. That's not right."
"At least they can't talk," said Sam.
"But they can murder me in my sleep," said Dean. "Are we sure they're not possessed?"
"No reaction to holy water, and they didn't even flinch when we tried the exorcism. Gabe made them himself, which means it's unlikely they're haunted. They're just puppets. Well. Animate puppets."
Dean huffed a laugh. "What were you saying about the world getting weirder? Now we've got some run-of-the-mill living dolls."
"I guess we should burn them," Sam said slowly. "To be on the safe side."
"Yeah," said Dean.
They both stared at the puppets. The puppets stared back with nervous faces, and Dean could hear bits of wood clattering together softly, the sound of tangling strings.
"Although, I'm thinking that would break Gabe's heart," added Sam.
"They've been like this for months," said Dean. "No mysterious deaths, no unexplained occurrences? Aside from however they got like this to begin with?"
"None," said Sam. He was giving Dean a face that looked suspiciously like puppy-dog eyes.
Dean sighed. "Fine. Just don't blame me if they go all Bride of Chucky."
*
In thanks for not burning his dolls, Gabe gave Sam a fancy silver letter opener and his business card. Dean wondered if he should take offense - after all, it was him that decided not to burn the little fuckers, not Sam. But Sam hocked the letter opener at a 24-hour pawn shop and used the cash to buy cigarettes and beer, so Dean decided that everything turned out for the best in the end.
"You could always have killed a werewolf with it," Dean pointed out anyway. "Melted it down for bullets."
Sam's face twisted, like he had a bad taste in his mouth. "Yeah, guess so."
It was late, but neither of them seemed to have any inclination to go to sleep. They were staying in a non-smoking room at the motel, so Dean cracked the door open a smidge and Sam unwrapped one of the cheap plastic drinking cups to use as an ashtray. The beer bottles wound up in the bathroom sink, buried in melting ice from the ice machine to keep them cool.
(illustration by guard_the_cards)
"Shit, it's been a while," Dean murmured after the first drag of smoke. It made him want to cough at first, but he took another puff and the urge passed. "You know, I haven't smoked since I was nineteen. My dad found out and he woulda killed me if I hadn't quit."
"What, really?" asked Sam, already on his second cigarette. He grinned at Dean through a haze of smoke, kicked back in his chair and rested his feet on the bed next to Dean. "He was a hunter, too, right? I wouldn't have thought that worrying about cancer was his style."
Dean shrugged, knocked a little more ash into the plastic cup. "I dunno. He didn't like the smell or something. And he didn't want me 'knocking holes in my lungs' when I might have to run for my life at any moment. So he said."
"Probably smart," said Sam. He used the end of his cigarette to light a third one and then stubbed it out on the cover of the motel's out-of-date telephone book. "For me, well, try growing up in a bar full of guys who don't care about anything except alcohol, nicotine, and killing monsters. It's kind of hard not to pick up some habits."
"The killing monsters, you picked that up as a habit, too?" Dean took a swig of beer and let out a loud belch.
"Eww. Gross, man," Sam laughed. "Uh, yeah. Yeah, I guess I did."
"You should laugh more," Dean said, not thinking until the words were already out. Sam gave him a weird look, but Dean pressed on. "I mean. It's not good for you to be a big old sourpuss all the time. You'll give yourself an ulcer."
Sam rolled his eyes. "Look who's talking." He stood up from his chair and stretched, then threw himself on the bed next to Dean. "Which reminds me, you always been like this? Or is the whole 'dark avenger' shtick a new development?"
Dean could actually feel his teeth starting to grind. "None of your goddamn beeswax."
"Says the guy that almost shot me today."
Dean glanced at the clock. More like yesterday now, but yeah. He cast a look over at Sam. Sam's mouth was turned down at the corners, pissed off. Apparently he hadn't been as okay with Dean's actions as he'd seemed. Dean couldn't really blame him.
"Listen," said Dean. He didn't know if he was going to try to apologize or what, but then Sam shook his head.
"Never mind," said Sam. "That's not fair of me. I know that there's nasty shit out there. I just - Jesus, Dean." He sighed and seemed to sink a little more into the comforter.
Dean took a drag off his cigarette. It was almost down to the filter, and he reached over Sam and squished the butt flat on the telephone book before speaking. "You keep asking me about all this shit, about my life. Why the hell do you care, anyway?"
"Could ask you the same," Sam murmured. He rolled over to face Dean, his nose about three inches from Dean's cheek. "But you do, don't you. You try to act like you don't, but you care."
Dean swallowed, wondering how the conversation was suddenly taking a turn for the oh hell no. "Seriously, man, shut up."
Sam shook his head vigorously, and Dean was reminded that Sam was well on his way to drunk. He cast an eye over at the table, where empty beer bottles littered the surface like so many valiant soldiers. Huh. That explained Sam being so pushy. It also explained why Dean was pretty okay with Sam breathing on his neck.
"Aside from the nearly killing me thing... I bought you beer, dude," Sam said, like he was reading Dean's mind. "That means you tell me stuff. It's like payback, you owe me."
"Yeah? I've never heard of that rule."
Sam blinked at him, his eyes so earnest that it made Dean want to hurl. "When did your dad die?"
"April," said Dean. "Maybe it was March. I. I don't know."
"And your mom, you said she died when you were little."
"Yeah." Dean's mouth was dry. "Just me by my lonesome, now." He forced a chuckle.
Sam's jaw went tight, and he looked at Dean until Dean wanted to hide under something, just lock himself in the bathroom until it stopped. The look wasn't quite pity - it was something a lot harder for Dean to take. It was kind of like compassion. Like mercy.
"Well, you don't have to be," Sam said.
*
The next day was painfully awkward. Dean had a pounding headache and Sam wouldn't look him in the eye. They hadn't even said anything the previous night that the other didn't already know, but Dean felt scrubbed raw; every little word or thought hurt like it was hitting bare nerves. He didn't know how Sam could make him come so unglued, just with a few little meaningless words.
You don't have to be. Dean didn't even know what the fuck that was supposed to mean.
"You wanna listen to something?" Dean asked. He didn't really want to hear any of his dad's music, but it was something to say, and another hour of silence in the car was going to make Dean go batty. He'd already had months of silence - he wasn't going to put up with it when there was actually someone living and breathing in the passenger seat.
Sam shrugged. "Yeah, that's fine." He didn't make a move to pull the box of tapes from under the seat, though, and Dean didn't feel like pressing it, suddenly overwhelmed by the memory of his father flipping through the tapes. He remembered his dad's hands, grimy from gun oil, the way he'd rest them solidly on the steering wheel or Dean's shoulder.
Dean swallowed and ignored Sam's sidelong gaze.
But then, like an act of God: as they were passing through yet another little town, Dean spotted a record store. The sign out front read Swann's Records and CD's, and under that, Cassette tapes 5 for $1.
"Holy shit!" Dean yelped. Sam gave a start and looked at Dean like he was crazy, but Dean just pulled into the first parking spot he could find, and jumped out of the car. "Hell yes, Sammyboy. We are getting us some good music. You with me?"
Sam still looked startled, but at Dean's words, he started to grin. "I'm with you," he said.
They entered the store and Dean made a beeline right for the big crates of cassette tapes. Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust, but Dean didn't care - he saw Back in Black on the very top of the stack, and underneath that was Highway to Hell, Physical Graffiti, and fucking Zeppelin II.
Sam came over after a minute, eying Dean's armful of tapes like they might jump out and bite him. "Maybe you should keep it down," he said. "You're making the owner nervous."
Dean flashed the owner a smile, then went back to cooing over his finds. Sam plucked a tape from his grasp.
"The Greatest Hits of Journey?" Sam choked.
"Shut up," Dean scowled. "It costs less than a quarter, man."
Sam wrinkled his nose and looked in the crates. It took less than a second for him to yelp, "No way!" and carefully extract a tape from the piles. Dean cast an appraising eye: Nirvana's Nevermind. Could be worse.
"Okay," said Sam, full-on grinning. "You've got me. This was an awesome idea."
"I do have them from time to time." Dean grabbed the tape from Sam and added it to his pile. "It's on me."
"Thanks," said Sam. "So we know there'll be at least one decent thing to listen to in the car."
Dean snorted. "We'll see about that, bitch."
Sam burst out laughing. "Jerk. God, you - you remind me so much of Jo, right now."
"Who's Joe?"
"My little sister," said Sam.
Something about Sam's tone seemed off. "I guess you haven't seen her lately, huh," said Dean. "What's she like?"
"A total pain in the butt," Sam said. "She likes to be annoying and make my life hell. And she loves REO Speedwagon. Come to think of it, you two would probably get along really well."
"Fuck you, man. I'm still trying to deal with the fact that I remind you of a girl." Dean dumped his purchases on the counter, and the owner sighed heavily and started writing out a receipt. "Cause last time I checked, I really, really wasn't."
"Not like I'd know." Sam raised his eyebrows. "I mean, your eyelashes are kind of girly."
Dean felt something coil in his gut. "You been noticing my eyelashes?"
"Kind of hard not to," said Sam. And as Dean watched, he started to flush a slow, deep red.
Before Dean could figure out a reply, the store owner shoved the bag full of cassettes at Dean's chest. "That'll be three dollars and eighteen cents," he said.
"I love her to death, though," Sam blurted, startling Dean while he was counting out his pennies. "Jo, I mean. She drives me crazy, but - she's kind of awesome, too. You know?"
"Yeah," said Dean. "I get that."
(illustration by guard_the_cards)
*
They finally reached California in the dead of night, which was kind of anticlimactic. Dean could barely keep his eyes open, and he knew it'd be either dumb or suicide to keep driving. He turned down the volume on the tape deck -- and if I say to you tomorrow, take my hand, child, come with me -- and said, "Hey. Hey, Sammy."
Sam grunted at him. "Don't call me Sammy."
"Whatever," said Dean. "Samantha. Keep an eye out for any motel signs." Sam gave a snort, but nodded.
The first motel they found was a run-down little place called Paradise Rooms and Suites, complete with lime green walls, pineapple-shaped soap, and free HBO. Dean settled in with the remote, and Sam stretched his freakishly tall self across the other bed.
It was weird how comfortable Dean felt with Sam there, like Sam was filling some sort of gap that his dad left. Sure, Sam was another warm body in the car, someone to share the motel bathroom. But Sam wasn't just some hitchhiker - he laughed at Dean's jokes, or at least groaned in the right places; he was witty, crazy-smart, and knew his way around a shotgun; and he even seemed to give a shit about what happened to the world, when Dean had spent months trying not to care.
It didn't matter, though, because Dean shouldn't be getting used to this; they had reached California, and it was probably going to be the last night Dean spent with Sam. Tomorrow they'd be rolling into Palo Alto, and Sam would stride off into the sunset, leaving Dean exactly where he'd been before.
Sam felt Dean looking, and glanced up at him. "What?"
"Nothing," said Dean. He started flipping channels. "Fuckers, can you believe it? Free HBO, and there's still not anything good on."
"Hold on a second, go back." Sam squinted at the TV screen as Dean hit a button on the remote. "What's that?"
"Another brave suitor has met his fate tonight," read a local news anchor. The woman looked uncomfortable underneath her heavy make-up. "Joseph Bellick was the seventh young man to propose to Mayor Keller's daughter Louise - and he was the seventh to fail the trials she lay out for him. A community mourns. Details after the weather. "
"Wait," said Dean. "What?"
They watched the details after the weather, but there wasn't much detail to be had. Dean cursed at the TV when they started discussing high school basketball scores.
Sam's mouth twitched. "I take it we'll be staying here longer than we planned?"
Dean already had his boots back on. They probably had some local newspapers in the motel office, or something with more information. He paused and looked at Sam, but Sam didn't look too torn up about the prospect of staying to check this out.
"Yeah, looks like," Dean said.
"Cool," said Sam.
*
That night, despite being bone-tired, Dean popped wood for the first time in months. He stood in the shower for at least five minutes, staring down at his inexplicable erection, before he finally wrapped his hand around his dick and started to stroke. He rubbed at his nipples with his other hand, imagining a gentle mouth there, and bit his lip at the feeling of pleasure that washed over him. It had been a long time.
It was only a minute or two before Dean was shooting off, and if he was thinking of Sam while he did it, well, nobody could ever blame a man for the shit that pops into his head while he's choking the chicken.
Except, of course, that Dean knew it was more than that. And, maybe... Maybe Sam was more than that. Dean closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the shower wall until the water ran cold.
/ THREE/ FOUR/ FIVE/ SIX/ SEVEN