fic: words for snow
NOW I CAN REST.
Words For Snow
Sam/Dean, PG, 4160~ words. Future!fic.
*
Regina Spektor - Samson
Dean’s standing in line, staring real hard at a jar filled with glittery pens with feathers on the end - because, seriously, what the fuck - when he spots the keychain out of the corner of his eye. There’s a whole row of them hanging from the display on top of the counter, hard to miss. He probably would have spotted them sooner if there hadn’t been all those freaking feathers.
“Huh,” Dean says.
He shuffles forwards as the line moves, dumps his armful of cold soda and bags of skittles on the countertop. The cashier smiles vaguely at his left eyebrow as she rings it all through.
“Wait,” Dean says, grabbing one of the keychains off of the rack and adding it to the pile. “Present for my little brother,” he explains, because even he has standards.
“Whatever,” the cashier - Molly - tells his eyebrow.
Dean rolls his eyes, grabs his bag and heads back out to the parking lot. The tarmac is shimmering with skin-prickling heat. Midday goddamn sun in the clear, blue sky.
“Hey,” he says, rapping his knuckles on the back of his baby’s roof. Rubs a thumb across the edge of the door. Freaking hot.
Sam sticks his head out of the wide-open window, looking for all the world like a big, dumb dog. One of those really hairy ones. He smiles with all white teeth, and the driver’s door is already opened by the time Dean gets around. Big, hairy, well-trained dog.
“Got you a present,” Dean says, slumping into his seat. “’Cause I’m awesome.” He rifles through the bag for the keychain’s brightly coloured packaging, finds it and grabs it and - duh - throws it at Sam’s face.
Sam catches it, because he’s a dick. He turns the thing over in his hands, and then glances up at Dean with an eyebrow raised.
“It’s Mr. T,” Dean says. “I know you like Mr. T, everybody likes Mr. T. Even Cas likes Mr. T. Seriously,” he adds, as the eyebrow takes on a sceptical quirk, “he used to watch The A Team all the freaking time, when you were - you know. Anyway. It’s Mr. goddamn T and I’m goddamn awesome.”
Sam shrugs - okay, whatever, it seems to say - and rips the packaging apart. No matter how stupidly tall Sam gets, he still opens shit up like he’s an uncoordinated five-year-old at Christmas; it’s great.
Shut up, fool, Mr. T says, when Sam presses one of the buttons. Another. Quit your jibba jabba.
Sam stares down at the keychain. Then he stares up at Dean.
“I just thought - what with the whole-” Dean waves a hand, shrugs one shoulder. “You know.”
Sam’s face breaks into a grin. Don’t gimme no back talk, sucka, Mr. T says, which just makes Sam’s hairy dog grin get all the wider.
Dean isn’t relieved - shut the fuck up, he isn’t relieved - because he knew it was awesome and he knew Sam would like it, so the grin he throws back is just an acknowledgement of his own amazing gift-giving skills, pure and simple.
“Told you so,” he says, turning the ignition. Her engine purrs into life, smooth sounding.
First name mister, middle name period, last name T.
“Careful, Sammy,” Dean cautions brightly, pulling out onto the highway. “Castiel might start takin’ an interest.”
Sam throws the empty packaging at his head and misses.
Dean just laughs.
Fifty miles outside of Bartlesville, in a diner called Mary Lou’s. Dean’s pretty sure something like 80% of these old-style, mom-and-pop diners are ran by a Mary Lou, and they all look exactly the freaking same.
Sam might not be talking anymore, but he still manages to charm them all, somehow. He points out his salad on the menu, smiles awkwardly up at Mary Lou from under his hair. Dimples, dimples. Mary Lou’s a goner. Dean leans back in his seat to watch the show.
“Sure thing, hon,” she says, scribbling Sam’s order down under his. “You need anything else just-” her eyes flicker nervously to Dean. “-you just holler.” She blushes, at that, but with an apologetic smile. Keeps her cool as she walks away.
“Not bad,” Dean muses, watching her go.
Sam chokes on his mouthful of ice water. Pity Mary Lou ain’t here to see it.
“Gosh, Sam, you’re so dreamy,” Dean sighs, grabbing a couple napkins from the dispenser and holding them out. Sam wheezes at him in a weirdly articulate, shut the fuck up fucker kind of way.
“Seriously, did you forget how to swallow? Is your head filled up with so much useless crap about, I dunno - poetry and corpses - that you can’t swallow anymore? Is that it? I only ask,” he adds, as Sam, scowling, grabs the napkins out of his hand, “’cause I’m concerned. For your, y’know, well being.”
Shut up, fool, Mr. T suggests.
Once Sam’s done hacking, and done trying to dump his hacked-on napkins into Dean’s coffee - a brief fight ensued, which Dean won fair and square by stamping on Sam’s toes - he jerks his head in Mary Lou’s direction and raises an eyebrow.
“Huh?” Dean says.
Sam raises the other eyebrow, smirking a little. Well? he mouths.
“What, me and Mary Lou?”
Sam shrugs.
“Nah, man,” Dean says. “I think she likes the strong, silent type.”
Ghouls are the worst. Second worst, but Dean’s talking second to fucking Lucifer here, so for anyone with a halfway normal, non-Winchester-cursed life, ghouls are the worst. And they all flock to Seattle for some reason. A) They like the damp. B) They’re passive-aggressive bitches who like to get Dean damp before he wastes them. C) All of the above.
Even in the summer. Dean doesn’t know how the fuck they manage it. Freaky-ass weather-forecasting rain powers, or something. He’s dripping wet and dripping ghoul juice by the time he’s gotten the Impala parked and made it into the warmth of their motel room.
“Hey,” he begins, but the room’s empty.
The room’s empty and the shower’s running and there’s one of Sam’s billion post-it notes stuck to the bathroom door.
TOO SLOW.
PROMISE I’LL LEAVE YOU
SOME HOT WATER. :)
“Goddammit, Sam,” Dean yells.
The shower runs.
“You’re a bitch and I hate you,” Dean continues, kicking the door. “Also I hope you slip over and die.”
Shower, running.
“You drank demon blood,” he shouts through the keyhole. “You owe me a million first showers for that shit. You owe me foot rubs. You should be out here right now baking me a fucking cake.”
He might just be imagining it, but he’s pretty sure he can hear Sam laughing over the shower noises now.
He tears the post-it up and dumps all the pieces in one of Sam’s socks, all the same.
Really, what are newly de-black dogged parks good for, if not opportune napping.
Birds are singing, honest to God. Dean’s right on the edge of it, dozing with that fuzzy sleep-taste in his mouth and grass prickling under his neck and his edges well-warmed in the summer sunlight, when he feels Sam fiddling with his bootlaces.
Dean grunts, eyes blinking open and then screwing up again, the multi-coloured afterimage of the sun burnt into his retinas, the silhouette of Sam tugging his boots off a dark shape on the insides of his eyelids.
Boots off, Sam pauses at the socks, and then flicks Dean’s ankle.
“Oh yeah,” Dean snorts. “Like your feet smell of roses after chasing that beast all afternoon.”
Another flick delivered, but softer this time. Dean counts it a victory.
“You’re not off the hook yet, you know,” he says, as Sam peels his socks off and - after a second’s hesitation - pulls Dean’s feet into his lap. “Fucking smartass.”
He drifts back into sleep.
For some reason, kids always make the most vicious ghosts. Dean figures it’s something to do with the immaturity and emotions and shit. Also, if he’d died when he was seven, he would’ve been pretty fucking pissed as well. Allison Trevors, aged seven-and-a-half, is really fucking pissed about it.
He’s always felt like an asshole, digging up a child’s grave, though. It’s pretty far down the rungs of the fucked up shit ladder. And seriously high up the ‘oh god I hope the cops don’t catch us doing this’ ladder.
“Hey, Sam,” he yells. Shovel to dirt. “So a cucumber and a pickle get into a conversation. Pickle says, ‘my life sucks, man, every time I get big, fat and juicy I get seasoned and stuck in a jar.’” Shovel to dirt. Sam’s keeping look out, maybe can’t even hear him, but he goes on anyway. “So cucumber says, ‘screw you, my life sucks more. I get big, fat and juicy, they chop me up and put in a salad.’”
Shovel to dirt. Just a couple more inches, he figures. “So then a dick walks by, and it says-”
Quit your jibba jabba, Mr. T says, from overhead. Shut up, fool. Quit your jibba jabba.
Dean spins around - and then jesus christ he ducks, narrowly missing a swipe from Allison’s tiny, too-sharp nails. He rolls over in the grave dirt, grabs up his shotgun, and she’s diving back in for another go at the slicing and dicing as he fires the rocksalt into her face.
Where she disappears, Sam’s standing at the edge of the grave, lowering his own shotgun. Mr. T hangs securely from the yarn around his neck.
“You see?” Dean climbs to his feet, dusting himself off. “Mr. T is hilarious and useful.”
Sam rolls his eyes, lips quirking. Don’t gimme no back talk, sucka.
“You love my backtalk,” Dean says. He puts his shotgun back to the side and grabs his shovel again. To dirt. Sam’s still lingering on the edge of the grave, so Dean grins up at him. “So anyway, then the dick comes by…”
Boston on the jukebox, the rattle of a game of pool behind them. No more hustling these days. They’re sat at the bar and Dean’s drinking something green, because it was Sam’s turn to order and he’s gotten into this habit of just closing his eyes and pointing.
“You know something, man,” Dean says. He dips his finger into the mysterious green drink, licks it. Lime flavoured. “You know something. I have never pissed my name into snow. Not even - not even once. Remember that time when we stayed in that cabin up in Minnesota? You were, I dunno, eleven. You had really bad hair - even worse than now, ‘cause you put a fuckin’ bowl on your head and tried to cut it yourself, Christ funniest night of my life, you remember that?”
He remembers, belatedly, to look up, away from his drink - it’s really fucking green - and towards Sam. Sam shrugs, waving a hand uncertainly.
“Yeah, I guess when you got a childhood full of bad hair remembering the specifics gets kinda tricky.” He grins at Sam’s offended expression, drinks a mouthful of his mysterious green thing. Lime, a hint of - what? Liquorice? Boston’s endnote fades out, and a couple seconds later Gimme Shelter starts up. “My point is, it was pretty snowy there. Not freeze your dick off snowy, but snowy enough to piss on. So I was gonna - cause, I dunno, I was fifteen. What fifteen-year-old guy doesn’t wanna piss on snow, right? I’d got my junk out and everything, then Dad sticks his head round the door and he just - looks at me and my dick for a second - that look, the you’re doing somethin’ stupid and I’m beyond caring look, that one - and then he just tells me to put it away and come clean the guns. I fuckin’ shrivelled.”
Sam rests his head in his hands.
“Exactly, man,” Dean says. “Exactly. Kinda put me off the whole experience.”
He downs the rest of the green drink in one gulp. Definitely liquorice. Watches as Sam fumbles a pen out of his pocket and sets to work on a napkin. Even writing drunken comments about failed pissing stories, he frowns with concentration.
YOU’RE UNIQUE.
“Damn right,” Dean says. It’s his turn now, so he catches the barman’s eye, holds two fingers up and mouths beer. He folds Sam’s napkin up and sticks it in his pocket.
Silence, for a while, just drinking. Someone loses their game of pool and makes a lot of noise about it. Going to California starts playing on the jukebox.
“I’ve never,” Dean says. The label on the beer bottle is peeling at one edge, and he tugs it further. “I’ve never eaten jell-o off a hooker’s stomach.” To his side, Sam splutters, coughs, wipes a hand across his face. Dean smirks down at the tearing label and nudges Sam with his shoulder. “Don’t be a prude, Sammy. Sex is a natural and beautiful act.”
Sam grabs his pen again, and then Dean’s hand. WITH JELLO? he scrawls on the back of it.
“Jell-o’s natural and beautiful too.” He keeps his face straight for as long as he can - which is pretty damn long, considering how much he’s had to drink tonight - but in the end, laughter wins out. Face scrunched up, eyes watering, full-on head thrown back laughter.
When he straightens up again, wipes at his eyes, Sam’s mouth is twitching like he wants to say something. Like he really wishes he could. The shape of it twists up in Dean’s gut, sudden and souring, brakes hit and an abrupt U-turn.
“Hey,” he says, ignoring it. “I know this game’s all about you gettin’ off on my sexy baritone, but I think it’s about damn time you took a turn.”
Sam closes his mouth, rolls his eyes, but then he pulls Dean’s clean hand towards him across the bar top. Just stares down at it, for a little while, frowning like he always does. Then he writes.
I NEVER REGRETTED IT.
Right there in the centre of Dean’s palm, ink cobwebbing into all the tiny creases, the intersection of his lifeline. He stares down at it. Sam turns away from him and to the bar. He waves the barman down, closing his eyes and pointing like he always does now.
“Seriously,” Dean says, eventually. He swallows. “Seriously, we were havin’ a piss and hooker jell-o moment. Why’d ya have to ruin it?”
Sam at least has the decency to look sheepish, when he turns back to him, presses a glass of something vivid orange into his ink-stained hands.
Later - after however many drinks, and there were shots, and there were a handful more of Dean’s favourite songs drifting through the air, and a couple guys started arguing too loud ‘til they took it outside, and a girl with red hair took home the guy three stools down from them, and Dean stared at the strands of hair tucked behind Sam’s right ear - Later, with an arm slung over Sam’s shoulder and his face against Sam’s collarbone, walking back to their motel.
“I thought you’d died,” Dean says. “Jesus, all that fuckin’ blood, nobody can survive that. Thought -impossible. Nobody can.”
Sam huffs out a breath, which means But I did.
“Was gonna kill - someone. Anyone. Y’know? With the same fuckin’ knife.” He closes his eyes, feels the air move around him. Hopes like hell he doesn’t throw up. Hopes like hell.
“Miss your stupid fuckin’ voice,” he says.
Franklin, New Hampshire, closeted in the library. Sam thinks it’s a glaistig. Dean’s never even heard of glaistigs before now, but that’s what Sam thinks it is, because his brain’s full of poetry and weird facts about corpses and also random Scottish mythology apparently. But because Sam only thinks it is - doesn’t know for sure - they have to research it.
Honestly, Dean isn’t a dumb guy - he’s not smart in the kind of way Sam is, and he sure as hell isn’t gay for old newspapers, but he’s got brains - but at this point he’s just looking at the freaking pictures.
He eyes the children’s section. Kids like Scotland, right? Then he pulls out his cell:
‘i can c u’
Sam’s a few aisles away, frowning intently at a book’s index, so engrossed in it that he jumps when his phone vibrates. Dean snickers, ducking his head down to look at his book again. Not too long later:
‘might be because I’m six feet away.’
‘what r u wearing’
‘lacy blue panties.’
Dean drops his head down onto his dictionary of Celtic Mythology, words blurring together as he muffles his laughter in pages GL to GU. When he can look up again, Sam’s moved a couple aisles further away. From the excited look on his face, he’s found the old newspapers.
‘lend glaistig a pair? half woman half goat. anyone needs to feel pretty its her’
‘you’re so considerate.’
Sam disappears around a corner, following whatever research-y scent he’s caught.
‘hey come back wanna c ur panties’
Dean leans back in his chair, waits one - two - three seconds, and then Sam sticks his head back around the corner, cell already in hand. He looks satisfyingly scandalised as he thumbs out his text. Dean’s cell, roughly bookmarking his page, beeps.
‘dinner and a movie first,’ Dean reads. He can’t keep the grin off his face as he scrolls down and hits reply.
‘i’ll wine & dine you babe.’
Sam rolls his eyes, head disappearing back around the corner. Not fast enough to hide his smile, though. Nowhere near fast enough to hide his smile.
Black. Sleeping blackness growing light around the edges shifting fading into dark blue into sunlight colours shining through his eyelids. Cotton sheets. Smells like coffee. Smells like good morning waking up now coffee.
“Mrrg,” Dean says, peeling his eyes open.
Coffee cup in his face. Sam’s face behind the coffee cup, grinning wide.
Dean rubs his fists into his eyes, then holds his hands out. One important word. “Gimme.”
Sam gimmes, placing the coffee cup carefully between Dean’s outstretched hands. He pokes the tip of Dean’s nose.
“Fuckin’ hate you,” Dean mutters into his coffee.
You love me, Sam mouths back.
They’re on the downtime between hunts when Dean finally gets sick of it. It had to happen sooner or later. Honestly, he’s surprised it wasn’t sooner.
“Your hair’s gotta go, man” he blurts out. “I think things are living in it. As in, I think Bigfoot’s relocated with the wife and kids. Seriously, they’ve relocated to your head.”
Sam drops his sandwich. He licks a drop of mustard off his thumb, eyeing Dean like some kind of startled - Bigfoot, Dean’s mind supplies - fluffy woodland creature. Then he grabs a notepad.
1. SOMETIMES I WORRY ABOUT YOU.
2. OKAY.
Dean blinks down at the sheet of paper. He’d kinda been expecting more of a fight. Maybe wrestling Sam onto a chair, having to tie him to it. Screaming and sobbing. That sort of thing.
“Okay,” he says, dropping his own sandwich back onto its wrapper. “Now?”
Sam shrugs and nods, making his own personal ‘shower’ hand action. Dean’s never told him - and he’s never going to - but it kinda looks like he’s sprinkling fairy dust onto his head.
Shower turns on. Dean grabs his chair and drags it into the centre of the motel room. They’ve got a pair of scissors somewhere, for spontaneous hair-cutting times like these, or for when money’s too short to waste on things like hair cuts. By the time Dean’s found them, in one of the duffles in the Impala, and rustled up a comb as well, Sam’s done showering. He ambles out of the bathroom, roughly towelling his hair. It’s past shoulder length, when wet.
Dean can’t remember the last time Sam got it cut, but he figures it was probably before everything ended. Too damn long.
“Sit,” he says.
Sam sits. Dean grabs the damp towel from him and drops it around his shoulders. He combs Sam’s hair quickly and can’t help smirking as Sam makes disgruntled little noises whenever he reaches a knot.
“Seriously,” he says, “how old are you? Do I need to get you a lollipop?”
He can feel Sam roll his eyes. Don’t ask him how; he just can.
“Okay, kiddo, gonna start cutting now. Don’t be scared of the scissors,” he adds, ruffling Sam’s hair. “I know they seem scary, but I promise they’re gentle.”
Sam flicks his stomach. Dean starts snipping.
He likes using his hands; he always has. Okay, usually it’s more the kind of thing that involves his baby’s engine or a broken radio, but using his hands is using his hands. There’s something weirdly soothing about these repetitive movements: runs comb through hair, separates a strand, trims it down. It’s not fantastic, ‘cause, yeah, he likes using his hands but that doesn’t make him a freaking hairdresser, but Sam’s hair is getting shorter and Sam’s a warm, still presence to the touch.
“I feel like I should be asking you about your vacation,” he mutters. “Going anywhere nice this summer? Tilt your head down,” he adds, pressing a hand to the back of Sam’s neck. Sam snorts, lowering his head so Dean can trim the hair at the nape, and he does a reasonably tidy job of it too.
He’s multi-talented, apparently.
“Okay, I think we got rid of Bigfoot now,” he says, shifting around to the side to get at Sam’s bangs. Sam glances across at him, head tilting sceptically. “Yeah, easy for you to say, you didn’t have to look at it every day.”
Bangs trimmed - a bit lopsided, but who’s gonna know? - he brushes them back behind Sam’s ear. And there’s the scar. Ear to ear, almost.
He’s never really looked at it too closely, not lately. At first, when it was still healing, he could barely look away, but - not lately. The long hair hid it, kind of. Maybe that’s why Sam let it get so long in the first place.
“It’s fading,” he says, trailing a finger down. “Think you’ll ever be able to-”
Sam shakes his head, gently. Consolatory smile. Like Dean’s the one needs consoling.
“Yeah, I guess not.” He sighs, crouching down. Folds his arms on Sam’s thigh. “I was ready to kill Ruby, you know. I’d almost been starting to trust her, and then - then she did that. I grabbed the knife right out of her hand.” It’s exhausting just remembering. He drops his chin into his arms and, within seconds, Sam’s hand is curling around the back of his neck. “No fucking way, I thought - no fucking way someone can survive that. I thought you were dead.”
Sam taps his ear gently.
I was, he mouths, when Dean looks up. And then, I’m sorry.
“Right, right, blood sacrifice. I know.” He pauses, rubs a hand across his face. “Next time we gotta save the world, man, tell me what you’re planning. I mean - Bam, you break the final seal, bam, oh great it’s Lucifer, bam, he’s possessed you, bam, you’re dead. It was a pretty stressful coupla minutes.”
I’m sorry.
“Asshole.”
Sam smiles down at him, with his stupid lopsided hair and his big, dumb dog face and the thin white scar across his throat. A soft look in his eyes. He draws Dean up into kneeling by the collar of his shirt, smooths a hand down the side of his face. Foreheads tipped together.
I’m sorry, Sam mouths again, too close for Dean to see it, but he can feel it; the movement in the air, the slightest brush of their lips. He breathes out. Sam breathes in.
I should be scared right now, Dean thinks, distantly. I should be fucking terrified.
He isn’t, though.
One tiny little shift into place brings their lips together. Tiny like tectonic plates. Sam breathes out, Dean breathes in, and there’s a second where he thinks oh fuck because he’s got it all wrong, but then Sam’s grip tightens almost painful on the back of his neck and his mouth falls open and suddenly it’s kissing. The slow easy pressure of their lips moving together, the slide of tongues, the friction-heat of it coiling from his mouth right down to his spine. One hand on Sam’s knee still, the other open on his stomach. Loose curls of hair between his fingers.
Sam mouths something against Dean’s lips, but he already knows it. Doesn’t need to see it or feel it. Doesn’t need to hear it.
He just knows it.
Route 66, with all the windows rolled down, riding in the slipstream of the sunset light. Dean could drive this with his eyes closed, nothing but the wind and the speed and the engine’s vibrations, Rush on the stereo. The world’s a golden glow.
Shut up, fool.
“I wish I’d never gotten you that, now.”
I pity the fool.
“Pity your face.”
Don’t gimme no backtalk, sucka.
“Jesus, I can’t believe I was upset when I thought you’d died again.”
Sam throws his head back and he laughs, and he laughs, and he laughs.
And the road before them is long and empty and perfect.
Elbow - On a Day Like This
*
Words For Snow
Sam/Dean, PG, 4160~ words. Future!fic.
*
Regina Spektor - Samson
Dean’s standing in line, staring real hard at a jar filled with glittery pens with feathers on the end - because, seriously, what the fuck - when he spots the keychain out of the corner of his eye. There’s a whole row of them hanging from the display on top of the counter, hard to miss. He probably would have spotted them sooner if there hadn’t been all those freaking feathers.
“Huh,” Dean says.
He shuffles forwards as the line moves, dumps his armful of cold soda and bags of skittles on the countertop. The cashier smiles vaguely at his left eyebrow as she rings it all through.
“Wait,” Dean says, grabbing one of the keychains off of the rack and adding it to the pile. “Present for my little brother,” he explains, because even he has standards.
“Whatever,” the cashier - Molly - tells his eyebrow.
Dean rolls his eyes, grabs his bag and heads back out to the parking lot. The tarmac is shimmering with skin-prickling heat. Midday goddamn sun in the clear, blue sky.
“Hey,” he says, rapping his knuckles on the back of his baby’s roof. Rubs a thumb across the edge of the door. Freaking hot.
Sam sticks his head out of the wide-open window, looking for all the world like a big, dumb dog. One of those really hairy ones. He smiles with all white teeth, and the driver’s door is already opened by the time Dean gets around. Big, hairy, well-trained dog.
“Got you a present,” Dean says, slumping into his seat. “’Cause I’m awesome.” He rifles through the bag for the keychain’s brightly coloured packaging, finds it and grabs it and - duh - throws it at Sam’s face.
Sam catches it, because he’s a dick. He turns the thing over in his hands, and then glances up at Dean with an eyebrow raised.
“It’s Mr. T,” Dean says. “I know you like Mr. T, everybody likes Mr. T. Even Cas likes Mr. T. Seriously,” he adds, as the eyebrow takes on a sceptical quirk, “he used to watch The A Team all the freaking time, when you were - you know. Anyway. It’s Mr. goddamn T and I’m goddamn awesome.”
Sam shrugs - okay, whatever, it seems to say - and rips the packaging apart. No matter how stupidly tall Sam gets, he still opens shit up like he’s an uncoordinated five-year-old at Christmas; it’s great.
Shut up, fool, Mr. T says, when Sam presses one of the buttons. Another. Quit your jibba jabba.
Sam stares down at the keychain. Then he stares up at Dean.
“I just thought - what with the whole-” Dean waves a hand, shrugs one shoulder. “You know.”
Sam’s face breaks into a grin. Don’t gimme no back talk, sucka, Mr. T says, which just makes Sam’s hairy dog grin get all the wider.
Dean isn’t relieved - shut the fuck up, he isn’t relieved - because he knew it was awesome and he knew Sam would like it, so the grin he throws back is just an acknowledgement of his own amazing gift-giving skills, pure and simple.
“Told you so,” he says, turning the ignition. Her engine purrs into life, smooth sounding.
First name mister, middle name period, last name T.
“Careful, Sammy,” Dean cautions brightly, pulling out onto the highway. “Castiel might start takin’ an interest.”
Sam throws the empty packaging at his head and misses.
Dean just laughs.
Fifty miles outside of Bartlesville, in a diner called Mary Lou’s. Dean’s pretty sure something like 80% of these old-style, mom-and-pop diners are ran by a Mary Lou, and they all look exactly the freaking same.
Sam might not be talking anymore, but he still manages to charm them all, somehow. He points out his salad on the menu, smiles awkwardly up at Mary Lou from under his hair. Dimples, dimples. Mary Lou’s a goner. Dean leans back in his seat to watch the show.
“Sure thing, hon,” she says, scribbling Sam’s order down under his. “You need anything else just-” her eyes flicker nervously to Dean. “-you just holler.” She blushes, at that, but with an apologetic smile. Keeps her cool as she walks away.
“Not bad,” Dean muses, watching her go.
Sam chokes on his mouthful of ice water. Pity Mary Lou ain’t here to see it.
“Gosh, Sam, you’re so dreamy,” Dean sighs, grabbing a couple napkins from the dispenser and holding them out. Sam wheezes at him in a weirdly articulate, shut the fuck up fucker kind of way.
“Seriously, did you forget how to swallow? Is your head filled up with so much useless crap about, I dunno - poetry and corpses - that you can’t swallow anymore? Is that it? I only ask,” he adds, as Sam, scowling, grabs the napkins out of his hand, “’cause I’m concerned. For your, y’know, well being.”
Shut up, fool, Mr. T suggests.
Once Sam’s done hacking, and done trying to dump his hacked-on napkins into Dean’s coffee - a brief fight ensued, which Dean won fair and square by stamping on Sam’s toes - he jerks his head in Mary Lou’s direction and raises an eyebrow.
“Huh?” Dean says.
Sam raises the other eyebrow, smirking a little. Well? he mouths.
“What, me and Mary Lou?”
Sam shrugs.
“Nah, man,” Dean says. “I think she likes the strong, silent type.”
Ghouls are the worst. Second worst, but Dean’s talking second to fucking Lucifer here, so for anyone with a halfway normal, non-Winchester-cursed life, ghouls are the worst. And they all flock to Seattle for some reason. A) They like the damp. B) They’re passive-aggressive bitches who like to get Dean damp before he wastes them. C) All of the above.
Even in the summer. Dean doesn’t know how the fuck they manage it. Freaky-ass weather-forecasting rain powers, or something. He’s dripping wet and dripping ghoul juice by the time he’s gotten the Impala parked and made it into the warmth of their motel room.
“Hey,” he begins, but the room’s empty.
The room’s empty and the shower’s running and there’s one of Sam’s billion post-it notes stuck to the bathroom door.
TOO SLOW.
PROMISE I’LL LEAVE YOU
SOME HOT WATER. :)
“Goddammit, Sam,” Dean yells.
The shower runs.
“You’re a bitch and I hate you,” Dean continues, kicking the door. “Also I hope you slip over and die.”
Shower, running.
“You drank demon blood,” he shouts through the keyhole. “You owe me a million first showers for that shit. You owe me foot rubs. You should be out here right now baking me a fucking cake.”
He might just be imagining it, but he’s pretty sure he can hear Sam laughing over the shower noises now.
He tears the post-it up and dumps all the pieces in one of Sam’s socks, all the same.
Really, what are newly de-black dogged parks good for, if not opportune napping.
Birds are singing, honest to God. Dean’s right on the edge of it, dozing with that fuzzy sleep-taste in his mouth and grass prickling under his neck and his edges well-warmed in the summer sunlight, when he feels Sam fiddling with his bootlaces.
Dean grunts, eyes blinking open and then screwing up again, the multi-coloured afterimage of the sun burnt into his retinas, the silhouette of Sam tugging his boots off a dark shape on the insides of his eyelids.
Boots off, Sam pauses at the socks, and then flicks Dean’s ankle.
“Oh yeah,” Dean snorts. “Like your feet smell of roses after chasing that beast all afternoon.”
Another flick delivered, but softer this time. Dean counts it a victory.
“You’re not off the hook yet, you know,” he says, as Sam peels his socks off and - after a second’s hesitation - pulls Dean’s feet into his lap. “Fucking smartass.”
He drifts back into sleep.
For some reason, kids always make the most vicious ghosts. Dean figures it’s something to do with the immaturity and emotions and shit. Also, if he’d died when he was seven, he would’ve been pretty fucking pissed as well. Allison Trevors, aged seven-and-a-half, is really fucking pissed about it.
He’s always felt like an asshole, digging up a child’s grave, though. It’s pretty far down the rungs of the fucked up shit ladder. And seriously high up the ‘oh god I hope the cops don’t catch us doing this’ ladder.
“Hey, Sam,” he yells. Shovel to dirt. “So a cucumber and a pickle get into a conversation. Pickle says, ‘my life sucks, man, every time I get big, fat and juicy I get seasoned and stuck in a jar.’” Shovel to dirt. Sam’s keeping look out, maybe can’t even hear him, but he goes on anyway. “So cucumber says, ‘screw you, my life sucks more. I get big, fat and juicy, they chop me up and put in a salad.’”
Shovel to dirt. Just a couple more inches, he figures. “So then a dick walks by, and it says-”
Quit your jibba jabba, Mr. T says, from overhead. Shut up, fool. Quit your jibba jabba.
Dean spins around - and then jesus christ he ducks, narrowly missing a swipe from Allison’s tiny, too-sharp nails. He rolls over in the grave dirt, grabs up his shotgun, and she’s diving back in for another go at the slicing and dicing as he fires the rocksalt into her face.
Where she disappears, Sam’s standing at the edge of the grave, lowering his own shotgun. Mr. T hangs securely from the yarn around his neck.
“You see?” Dean climbs to his feet, dusting himself off. “Mr. T is hilarious and useful.”
Sam rolls his eyes, lips quirking. Don’t gimme no back talk, sucka.
“You love my backtalk,” Dean says. He puts his shotgun back to the side and grabs his shovel again. To dirt. Sam’s still lingering on the edge of the grave, so Dean grins up at him. “So anyway, then the dick comes by…”
Boston on the jukebox, the rattle of a game of pool behind them. No more hustling these days. They’re sat at the bar and Dean’s drinking something green, because it was Sam’s turn to order and he’s gotten into this habit of just closing his eyes and pointing.
“You know something, man,” Dean says. He dips his finger into the mysterious green drink, licks it. Lime flavoured. “You know something. I have never pissed my name into snow. Not even - not even once. Remember that time when we stayed in that cabin up in Minnesota? You were, I dunno, eleven. You had really bad hair - even worse than now, ‘cause you put a fuckin’ bowl on your head and tried to cut it yourself, Christ funniest night of my life, you remember that?”
He remembers, belatedly, to look up, away from his drink - it’s really fucking green - and towards Sam. Sam shrugs, waving a hand uncertainly.
“Yeah, I guess when you got a childhood full of bad hair remembering the specifics gets kinda tricky.” He grins at Sam’s offended expression, drinks a mouthful of his mysterious green thing. Lime, a hint of - what? Liquorice? Boston’s endnote fades out, and a couple seconds later Gimme Shelter starts up. “My point is, it was pretty snowy there. Not freeze your dick off snowy, but snowy enough to piss on. So I was gonna - cause, I dunno, I was fifteen. What fifteen-year-old guy doesn’t wanna piss on snow, right? I’d got my junk out and everything, then Dad sticks his head round the door and he just - looks at me and my dick for a second - that look, the you’re doing somethin’ stupid and I’m beyond caring look, that one - and then he just tells me to put it away and come clean the guns. I fuckin’ shrivelled.”
Sam rests his head in his hands.
“Exactly, man,” Dean says. “Exactly. Kinda put me off the whole experience.”
He downs the rest of the green drink in one gulp. Definitely liquorice. Watches as Sam fumbles a pen out of his pocket and sets to work on a napkin. Even writing drunken comments about failed pissing stories, he frowns with concentration.
YOU’RE UNIQUE.
“Damn right,” Dean says. It’s his turn now, so he catches the barman’s eye, holds two fingers up and mouths beer. He folds Sam’s napkin up and sticks it in his pocket.
Silence, for a while, just drinking. Someone loses their game of pool and makes a lot of noise about it. Going to California starts playing on the jukebox.
“I’ve never,” Dean says. The label on the beer bottle is peeling at one edge, and he tugs it further. “I’ve never eaten jell-o off a hooker’s stomach.” To his side, Sam splutters, coughs, wipes a hand across his face. Dean smirks down at the tearing label and nudges Sam with his shoulder. “Don’t be a prude, Sammy. Sex is a natural and beautiful act.”
Sam grabs his pen again, and then Dean’s hand. WITH JELLO? he scrawls on the back of it.
“Jell-o’s natural and beautiful too.” He keeps his face straight for as long as he can - which is pretty damn long, considering how much he’s had to drink tonight - but in the end, laughter wins out. Face scrunched up, eyes watering, full-on head thrown back laughter.
When he straightens up again, wipes at his eyes, Sam’s mouth is twitching like he wants to say something. Like he really wishes he could. The shape of it twists up in Dean’s gut, sudden and souring, brakes hit and an abrupt U-turn.
“Hey,” he says, ignoring it. “I know this game’s all about you gettin’ off on my sexy baritone, but I think it’s about damn time you took a turn.”
Sam closes his mouth, rolls his eyes, but then he pulls Dean’s clean hand towards him across the bar top. Just stares down at it, for a little while, frowning like he always does. Then he writes.
I NEVER REGRETTED IT.
Right there in the centre of Dean’s palm, ink cobwebbing into all the tiny creases, the intersection of his lifeline. He stares down at it. Sam turns away from him and to the bar. He waves the barman down, closing his eyes and pointing like he always does now.
“Seriously,” Dean says, eventually. He swallows. “Seriously, we were havin’ a piss and hooker jell-o moment. Why’d ya have to ruin it?”
Sam at least has the decency to look sheepish, when he turns back to him, presses a glass of something vivid orange into his ink-stained hands.
Later - after however many drinks, and there were shots, and there were a handful more of Dean’s favourite songs drifting through the air, and a couple guys started arguing too loud ‘til they took it outside, and a girl with red hair took home the guy three stools down from them, and Dean stared at the strands of hair tucked behind Sam’s right ear - Later, with an arm slung over Sam’s shoulder and his face against Sam’s collarbone, walking back to their motel.
“I thought you’d died,” Dean says. “Jesus, all that fuckin’ blood, nobody can survive that. Thought -impossible. Nobody can.”
Sam huffs out a breath, which means But I did.
“Was gonna kill - someone. Anyone. Y’know? With the same fuckin’ knife.” He closes his eyes, feels the air move around him. Hopes like hell he doesn’t throw up. Hopes like hell.
“Miss your stupid fuckin’ voice,” he says.
Franklin, New Hampshire, closeted in the library. Sam thinks it’s a glaistig. Dean’s never even heard of glaistigs before now, but that’s what Sam thinks it is, because his brain’s full of poetry and weird facts about corpses and also random Scottish mythology apparently. But because Sam only thinks it is - doesn’t know for sure - they have to research it.
Honestly, Dean isn’t a dumb guy - he’s not smart in the kind of way Sam is, and he sure as hell isn’t gay for old newspapers, but he’s got brains - but at this point he’s just looking at the freaking pictures.
He eyes the children’s section. Kids like Scotland, right? Then he pulls out his cell:
‘i can c u’
Sam’s a few aisles away, frowning intently at a book’s index, so engrossed in it that he jumps when his phone vibrates. Dean snickers, ducking his head down to look at his book again. Not too long later:
‘might be because I’m six feet away.’
‘what r u wearing’
‘lacy blue panties.’
Dean drops his head down onto his dictionary of Celtic Mythology, words blurring together as he muffles his laughter in pages GL to GU. When he can look up again, Sam’s moved a couple aisles further away. From the excited look on his face, he’s found the old newspapers.
‘lend glaistig a pair? half woman half goat. anyone needs to feel pretty its her’
‘you’re so considerate.’
Sam disappears around a corner, following whatever research-y scent he’s caught.
‘hey come back wanna c ur panties’
Dean leans back in his chair, waits one - two - three seconds, and then Sam sticks his head back around the corner, cell already in hand. He looks satisfyingly scandalised as he thumbs out his text. Dean’s cell, roughly bookmarking his page, beeps.
‘dinner and a movie first,’ Dean reads. He can’t keep the grin off his face as he scrolls down and hits reply.
‘i’ll wine & dine you babe.’
Sam rolls his eyes, head disappearing back around the corner. Not fast enough to hide his smile, though. Nowhere near fast enough to hide his smile.
Black. Sleeping blackness growing light around the edges shifting fading into dark blue into sunlight colours shining through his eyelids. Cotton sheets. Smells like coffee. Smells like good morning waking up now coffee.
“Mrrg,” Dean says, peeling his eyes open.
Coffee cup in his face. Sam’s face behind the coffee cup, grinning wide.
Dean rubs his fists into his eyes, then holds his hands out. One important word. “Gimme.”
Sam gimmes, placing the coffee cup carefully between Dean’s outstretched hands. He pokes the tip of Dean’s nose.
“Fuckin’ hate you,” Dean mutters into his coffee.
You love me, Sam mouths back.
They’re on the downtime between hunts when Dean finally gets sick of it. It had to happen sooner or later. Honestly, he’s surprised it wasn’t sooner.
“Your hair’s gotta go, man” he blurts out. “I think things are living in it. As in, I think Bigfoot’s relocated with the wife and kids. Seriously, they’ve relocated to your head.”
Sam drops his sandwich. He licks a drop of mustard off his thumb, eyeing Dean like some kind of startled - Bigfoot, Dean’s mind supplies - fluffy woodland creature. Then he grabs a notepad.
1. SOMETIMES I WORRY ABOUT YOU.
2. OKAY.
Dean blinks down at the sheet of paper. He’d kinda been expecting more of a fight. Maybe wrestling Sam onto a chair, having to tie him to it. Screaming and sobbing. That sort of thing.
“Okay,” he says, dropping his own sandwich back onto its wrapper. “Now?”
Sam shrugs and nods, making his own personal ‘shower’ hand action. Dean’s never told him - and he’s never going to - but it kinda looks like he’s sprinkling fairy dust onto his head.
Shower turns on. Dean grabs his chair and drags it into the centre of the motel room. They’ve got a pair of scissors somewhere, for spontaneous hair-cutting times like these, or for when money’s too short to waste on things like hair cuts. By the time Dean’s found them, in one of the duffles in the Impala, and rustled up a comb as well, Sam’s done showering. He ambles out of the bathroom, roughly towelling his hair. It’s past shoulder length, when wet.
Dean can’t remember the last time Sam got it cut, but he figures it was probably before everything ended. Too damn long.
“Sit,” he says.
Sam sits. Dean grabs the damp towel from him and drops it around his shoulders. He combs Sam’s hair quickly and can’t help smirking as Sam makes disgruntled little noises whenever he reaches a knot.
“Seriously,” he says, “how old are you? Do I need to get you a lollipop?”
He can feel Sam roll his eyes. Don’t ask him how; he just can.
“Okay, kiddo, gonna start cutting now. Don’t be scared of the scissors,” he adds, ruffling Sam’s hair. “I know they seem scary, but I promise they’re gentle.”
Sam flicks his stomach. Dean starts snipping.
He likes using his hands; he always has. Okay, usually it’s more the kind of thing that involves his baby’s engine or a broken radio, but using his hands is using his hands. There’s something weirdly soothing about these repetitive movements: runs comb through hair, separates a strand, trims it down. It’s not fantastic, ‘cause, yeah, he likes using his hands but that doesn’t make him a freaking hairdresser, but Sam’s hair is getting shorter and Sam’s a warm, still presence to the touch.
“I feel like I should be asking you about your vacation,” he mutters. “Going anywhere nice this summer? Tilt your head down,” he adds, pressing a hand to the back of Sam’s neck. Sam snorts, lowering his head so Dean can trim the hair at the nape, and he does a reasonably tidy job of it too.
He’s multi-talented, apparently.
“Okay, I think we got rid of Bigfoot now,” he says, shifting around to the side to get at Sam’s bangs. Sam glances across at him, head tilting sceptically. “Yeah, easy for you to say, you didn’t have to look at it every day.”
Bangs trimmed - a bit lopsided, but who’s gonna know? - he brushes them back behind Sam’s ear. And there’s the scar. Ear to ear, almost.
He’s never really looked at it too closely, not lately. At first, when it was still healing, he could barely look away, but - not lately. The long hair hid it, kind of. Maybe that’s why Sam let it get so long in the first place.
“It’s fading,” he says, trailing a finger down. “Think you’ll ever be able to-”
Sam shakes his head, gently. Consolatory smile. Like Dean’s the one needs consoling.
“Yeah, I guess not.” He sighs, crouching down. Folds his arms on Sam’s thigh. “I was ready to kill Ruby, you know. I’d almost been starting to trust her, and then - then she did that. I grabbed the knife right out of her hand.” It’s exhausting just remembering. He drops his chin into his arms and, within seconds, Sam’s hand is curling around the back of his neck. “No fucking way, I thought - no fucking way someone can survive that. I thought you were dead.”
Sam taps his ear gently.
I was, he mouths, when Dean looks up. And then, I’m sorry.
“Right, right, blood sacrifice. I know.” He pauses, rubs a hand across his face. “Next time we gotta save the world, man, tell me what you’re planning. I mean - Bam, you break the final seal, bam, oh great it’s Lucifer, bam, he’s possessed you, bam, you’re dead. It was a pretty stressful coupla minutes.”
I’m sorry.
“Asshole.”
Sam smiles down at him, with his stupid lopsided hair and his big, dumb dog face and the thin white scar across his throat. A soft look in his eyes. He draws Dean up into kneeling by the collar of his shirt, smooths a hand down the side of his face. Foreheads tipped together.
I’m sorry, Sam mouths again, too close for Dean to see it, but he can feel it; the movement in the air, the slightest brush of their lips. He breathes out. Sam breathes in.
I should be scared right now, Dean thinks, distantly. I should be fucking terrified.
He isn’t, though.
One tiny little shift into place brings their lips together. Tiny like tectonic plates. Sam breathes out, Dean breathes in, and there’s a second where he thinks oh fuck because he’s got it all wrong, but then Sam’s grip tightens almost painful on the back of his neck and his mouth falls open and suddenly it’s kissing. The slow easy pressure of their lips moving together, the slide of tongues, the friction-heat of it coiling from his mouth right down to his spine. One hand on Sam’s knee still, the other open on his stomach. Loose curls of hair between his fingers.
Sam mouths something against Dean’s lips, but he already knows it. Doesn’t need to see it or feel it. Doesn’t need to hear it.
He just knows it.
Route 66, with all the windows rolled down, riding in the slipstream of the sunset light. Dean could drive this with his eyes closed, nothing but the wind and the speed and the engine’s vibrations, Rush on the stereo. The world’s a golden glow.
Shut up, fool.
“I wish I’d never gotten you that, now.”
I pity the fool.
“Pity your face.”
Don’t gimme no backtalk, sucka.
“Jesus, I can’t believe I was upset when I thought you’d died again.”
Sam throws his head back and he laughs, and he laughs, and he laughs.
And the road before them is long and empty and perfect.
Elbow - On a Day Like This
*