SPN fic: Turn Off Your Cell Phone and Crack Out the Gatorade
I told you I was going to use Chasez lyrics for a story title one of these days. I don't make empty threats. Well, I often do, but not this time.
Title: Turn Off Your Cell Phone and Crack Out the Gatorade
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG
Word count: 2800
Warnings: None
AN: Written for whenthewarsover.
Prompt/Summary: The world doesn't end, so Sam and Dean do all the things they never did as kids--going to baseball games, and vacationing, and random ice cream stops for no reason. Only they discover it's more like dating than regaining their lost childhood. They're really kind of okay with that.
“Wait, really?” Dean asked, doubt making the tiny furrow between his eyes more pronounced. “That’s it?”
Castiel nodded gravely. “It is over.”
“And you’re saying we won? As in…” he trailed off and Sam had to agree with him there. He couldn’t think of anything to say, either.
“Dean,” Castiel said patiently. “You destroyed Lucifer. There is no more to do. Zachariah has fallen. The Apocalypse has been averted. It is finished." There was a slight emphasis on the last word.
“So, what are you saying, Cas?” Sam finally found his voice.
The patient look on Castiel’s face slipped a little. Sam's lips twitched, just a little. “I’m saying God’s work has been done. We have no more need of your services, Dean,” Castiel said, nodding in Dean’s direction. "Nor yours, Sam," he said, graciously including Sam with another inclination of his head.
"So -" Dean stopped again, tilting his head and pursing his lips. "Huh."
"You are free to do as you please," Castiel said.
"Well," Dean said. "We've never really been exactly free…"
"That's true," Sam agreed. "Not really."
Castiel sighed. "You may do whatever you choose and We won't stop you."
Sam and Dean exchanged glances.
"Huh," Sam said.
Castiel rolled his eyes, not very angelically, in Sam's opinion. "I must go. Heaven is expecting me."
'Wait, you're leaving?" Dean asked, looking taken aback.
"We have no more need of you," Castiel said painstakingly, as if he were talking to a three-year old. "I must receive another assignment."
"Wait, so Dean was just an assignment to you?" Sam asked incredulously, making indignant finger quotes. "Really?"
"Yes." Castiel nodded. Then something flickered in his eyes and his mouth twitched downward. "No." He shook his head. "But I must go." He looked at Dean for a moment longer, and Sam could have sworn there was almost an expression on his face, before he vanished with the soft sound of rustling wings.
Sam and Dean looked at each other in the resounding silence. Dean cocked his head again, and a brilliant smile slowly blossomed across his face.
"Huh," he said.
At first, they didn't know what to do with themselves. But, really, it wasn't as if the Apocalypse being averted meant there was a shortage of monsters and pissed-off spirits still skulking around, waiting to be dispatched.
"I guess we could keep hunting," Sam said uncertainly at breakfast.
"Absolutely," Dean replied. He stabbed at his pancakes. "Absolutely."
"Well, then," Sam said. "I'll try and find us something." He sipped his coffee.
"You do that, Sammy."
So Sam found them a poltergeist in Minnesota, about a day's drive from where they'd been when Castiel gave them the good news.
"From where he ditched us, you mean," Dean groused as he headed out on the highway.
"Dean," Sam sighed.
"No, it's fine. Really." They drove in silence for a mile or two, Dean drumming on the steering wheel, Sam staring at the yellow line in the middle of the road. "It's just - it's weird, is all. With no Big Bad hanging over our heads. No angels looking over our shoulders. No countdown until either of our deaths." He shook his head and looked at Sam plaintively. "What're we supposed to do with that?"
"There." Sam pointed at a sign on the side of the road. "That's what we're supposed to do. Turn here and follow that sign."
"Dude." Dean squinted at the sign. "The Biggest Ball of Twine in Minnesota? What the fuck?" Nevertheless, he turned the wheel of the Impala sharply, throwing gravel up behind them and making the car following them slam on its brakes. The kid driving it flipped them off as Dean barreled down the side road.
"Punk," Dean said, looking after the kid in his rear view mirror. "Driving a Honda. Loser!" he hollered out the window, and then grinned at Sam.
Sam turned to watch the other car disappear out of sight. He wasn't used to seeing a lot of other cars on the road with them. That hardly ever happened. "Do you think -"
Dean shook his head. "Nah, just some dumb kid." The winding road ended on the outskirts of a small town, where they were confronted with a sign that proclaimed Welcome to Darwin, Minnesota.
Following Main Street to the town center, there it was. A pagoda-shaped edifice made of glass and wood. Sam assumed that the gigantic brown blob inside was the ball of twine.
Negotiating the badly paved parking lot, Dean guided the car around some truly impressive potholes and brought her to a stop. "Face it, Sam. We're just not that interesting anymore. No one's after us."
Sam had to admit Dean was probably right. He couldn't decide if he felt relieved at that, or slightly disgruntled. He'd kind of gotten used to all the attention.
Dean peered out through the windshield at the twine ball. "This is awesome, Sammy." He hopped out of the car, grinning like a kid let loose in a candy store.
This was the kind of stuff they'd hardly ever had time to do, well, ever. Not lately, and certainly not when they were growing up. Dad always said they had somewhere they had to be in a hurry, and Sam had quit asking around the same time that he found out what Dad's job really was.
"There's a monster needs killing, Sam. You think more people should die because you want to stop for ice cream?"
When he put it that way, it was hard for Sam to come up with an argument.
Sometimes Dean would talk wistfully of baseball games, or fishing, and as a matter of fact, Dad had taught them to fish, as part of survival training. Those were some of Sam's fonder childhood recollections. He wished he had more of them.
Sam shook his head, clearing it of memories, and concentrated on the expression on Dean's face as he moved closer to the pagoda, where he polished a spot on the glass with his sleeve and peered inside at the mangy looking ball of twine.
Next day, they dispatched the poltergeist without too much trouble, except for Dean dislocating his shoulder. It was the same shoulder he'd dislocated half a dozen times before and Sam was able to pop it back into place easily.
That didn't mean it wouldn't be sore for a day or two, but there was no way Dean was going to admit something like that, not even under pain of - Sam firmly pulled his mind away from thoughts of death or torture. They were done with that shit now.
"What do you mean, you want to hang around here a couple more days? What the hell, Sam?" Dean squinted up at him, trying to pretend he wasn't cradling his arm against his chest.
They were about a day's drive from the Twine Ball, for which Sam was pretty grateful. Otherwise, Dean would find a way to go back and see it again. But there were plenty of things to do in the little town they were in now, and Sam was determined to let Dean rest for a while, whether he wanted to or not.
"I already paid for the room for two more days," Sam said smugly.
Dean's shoulders sagged in defeat and he grimaced in pain, catching himself at it and quickly smoothing out his face, but not before Sam saw. Sam silently congratulated himself on his successful plan.
"I saw a dollar movie theater down the street. What do you think?" He smiled hopefully at Dean.
"Depends on what's playing," Dean grumped. But Sam knew he'd won, and he carefully hustled his brother into his jacket and out the door before Dean could put his foot down and insist on leaving town in spite of how miserable he felt.
Sam bought a large bucket of popcorn and he even let Dean get that slimy fake butter he loved so much on it. They sat alone in the dim theater in the middle of the day, watching The Dark Knight for what was probably Dean's tenth time, sharing popcorn while Dean quoted dialogue back at the screen. Their fingers brushed together when they reached for the popcorn at the same time, and Dean's hand was warm and a little slippery from all the grease. Sam found himself going back for more popcorn just so he could touch Dean again, even though the damn fake butter was leaving an oily film on the roof of his mouth, and he didn't think that was weird at all. Really.
He didn't even feel like complaining about the petroleum product residue he'd be tasting for days, no matter how many times he brushed his teeth.
They left the theater laughing, their shoulders bumping companionably together, and Sam felt the rift between them heal just a little bit further. They didn't talk about any of the things that had gone down much anymore, but Sam still counted as a win any day where Dean's eyes stayed clear and free of shadows.
The next day was Sunday, and the local church softball league had a game. Sam saw the flyer on the wall by the door of the diner when they went for breakfast. Over eggs and hash browns, he said, "Hey, Dean, wanna go to a ballgame?"
Dean paused, mid-swallow. "A what?" he croaked, struggling with his mouthful of toast.
"When was the last time we just sat in the sun and didn't think about anything?" Sam asked softly. He looked earnestly at Dean.
"What, did you turn into an old man when I wasn't looking? Sit in the sun. What the fuck, Sammy?" But behind the bluster, Sam could see the longing in Dean's eyes, and he just smiled down at his grapefruit.
There was a concession stand where they bought hotdogs and peanuts and potato chips, enough food to keep even Dean satisfied, and they climbed to the top of the bleachers and settled in for the game. The rhythm of baseball was soothing and it was warm and peaceful in the sun. Chirping birds, buzzing insects, voices floating on the warm summer breeze, the smell of popcorn wafting over them, the whole nine yards.
Sam couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so content. It had been a long time coming, and they sure as hell deserved it.
"Dude," he said, elbowing Dean in the side.
Dean elbowed him back without taking his eyes off the game. "Whadaya want, Sammy?" he asked lazily.
"Nothing," Sam said, elbowing Dean again, and smiling at the scowl that was directed his way.
"Watch the game, then, dipshit," said Dean, shoving his hotdog in his mouth. Sam watched, fascinated, as Dean's tongue came out to catch the little bit of mustard smeared over his bottom lip.
Sam blinked. Was that weird, to be interested in Dean's tongue like that?
Huh.
Brow furrowed, Sam turned his attention back to the bald guy with the beer belly who was currently at bat. Guy swung at the ball like a motherfucker and hit it a ton. In fact, it almost reached the adjacent parking lot, and Dean suddenly straightened up out of his lazy slouch.
"Son of a bitch! Fucker almost hit my car, Sam!" Dean sprayed little flecks of hotdog down the front of his shirt in his indignation.
Sam didn't think he was supposed to find that as endearing as he did. He patted Dean on the arm and said, "Dude, it's fine. Your car's fine. Calm down."
Dean subsided, scowling down at the players on the field, watching the parking lot nervously during every at-bat after that.
Sam paid careful attention to Dean for the rest of the afternoon. He felt he should, after the whole tongue thing. His brother was reasonably attractive. Sam knew Dean had always thought so, but Sam hadn't really given it much consideration until now.
Big green eyes, long, spiky eyelashes, a dusting of freckles, that slight kink in his nose, full lips, straight, white teeth. Yeah, Sam could see it. And Dean was built, too. Nothing like Sam himself was, of course, but still. Sam had always liked the way the muscles of Dean's back moved under his skin.
And Dean's can-do, kick-ass attitude was pretty impressive, too, especially considering what he'd been through in the last, oh, all of his life since he was four years old.
All in all, Sam would have to say his brother was really something.
Which made the rest of the afternoon and evening a little weird. Dean caught him staring a couple of times.
"Dude, do I have spinach in my teeth, or what?" he asked, raising his eyebrows at Sam.
Sam snorted. "Like you've ever eaten spinach in your life."
As he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, Sam had to wonder just what the hell was going on in his head now, and if maybe Bobby could find a cure for it.
Not that he was going to ask.
They were headed to upstate Michigan, hot on the trail of a woman in white, when Dean looked over from behind the wheel and spoke.
"You wanna stop for some Ice cream, Sammy?"
Cognitive dissonance rendered Sam speechless. Just for a moment, he was five years old again, bored and hungry in the back seat of the Impala, Dad driving with the single-mindedness of purpose that colored everything he did, from salting spirits to changing the oil in the car.
They'd passed a Dairy Queen and Dean was trying to get Dad to stop. He actually had stopped, but mostly, if Sam remembered correctly, because Dean had convinced him that the trip would go faster in the long run if they fed Sam ice cream to keep him occupied and happy.
"What am I, five?" Sam blurted now, staring over at Dean.
To his surprise, the tips of Dean's ears flushed pink. "Hey," he said defensively. "I just thought you might want -" he waved in the general direction of a small ice cream shop on the main street of the little town they were passing through. "Never mind, if you're gonna be a bitch about it."
Dean was embarrassed, Sam realized, and he felt like an asshole. "No, no, ice cream sounds good." Dean shook his head. "Dean," Sam said firmly. "Come on. I want some ice cream."
Dean wheeled the Impala around to the only empty parking space on the block, and they got out of the car without talking, just crossed the street and entered the cool, brightly lit interior of the shop.
Dean was chewing on his bottom lip as he studied the menu and Sam had a sudden urge to tell him to quit it, he was gonna break the skin, mess up his lip, get it all chapped.
There was that weird fascination with Dean's mouth again.
After Dean gave the skinny black kid behind the counter his order - three scoops of Rocky Road, as always - he turned to Sam. "Whatever you want, Sammy. My treat."
Trying not to stare at his brother as if he'd just grown another head, Sam ordered his usual one scoop of chocolate chip and waited for Dean's usual comment about Sam's predictability. Like Dean wasn't predictable when it came to ice cream.
But Dean didn't say anything, just paid for the ice cream and handed Sam's cone to him with a smirk. "There ya go, Sam."
"Uh, thanks," Sam managed.
There was a bench on the sidewalk outside the shop, so they sat and ate their ice cream in the late afternoon sunshine. Dean's tongue flicked around the cone, chasing drips, and Sam watched it for a while, his own ice cream forgotten, melting and running down his hand.
Then, before he could think better of it, he said, "Dean, are we dating?"
There was silence as Dean swiped his tongue over his ice cream, then he licked his lips and said, "Maybe." He didn't look at Sam.
Sam nodded, glad to have confirmation. "I thought we might be." He pondered for a bit. "That's cool," he said.
Dean finally dragged his gaze away from his ice cream and looked Sam full in the eye.
"It's cool?"
Sam nodded again. "Yeah." He smiled, and then frowned. "Isn't it?" he asked, wondering if he'd been reading things wrong.
Dean leaned toward Sam, keeping a careful grip on his cone, and kissed him right on the mouth. His lips were cold and sticky and sweet.
Sam understood his recent obsession with Dean's mouth a little better now. He pulled back, just for a minute, before moving in for another taste.
"Huh," he said.
Dean's lips curved into a smile under Sam's. "I know, right?"
Title: Turn Off Your Cell Phone and Crack Out the Gatorade
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG
Word count: 2800
Warnings: None
AN: Written for whenthewarsover.
Prompt/Summary: The world doesn't end, so Sam and Dean do all the things they never did as kids--going to baseball games, and vacationing, and random ice cream stops for no reason. Only they discover it's more like dating than regaining their lost childhood. They're really kind of okay with that.
“Wait, really?” Dean asked, doubt making the tiny furrow between his eyes more pronounced. “That’s it?”
Castiel nodded gravely. “It is over.”
“And you’re saying we won? As in…” he trailed off and Sam had to agree with him there. He couldn’t think of anything to say, either.
“Dean,” Castiel said patiently. “You destroyed Lucifer. There is no more to do. Zachariah has fallen. The Apocalypse has been averted. It is finished." There was a slight emphasis on the last word.
“So, what are you saying, Cas?” Sam finally found his voice.
The patient look on Castiel’s face slipped a little. Sam's lips twitched, just a little. “I’m saying God’s work has been done. We have no more need of your services, Dean,” Castiel said, nodding in Dean’s direction. "Nor yours, Sam," he said, graciously including Sam with another inclination of his head.
"So -" Dean stopped again, tilting his head and pursing his lips. "Huh."
"You are free to do as you please," Castiel said.
"Well," Dean said. "We've never really been exactly free…"
"That's true," Sam agreed. "Not really."
Castiel sighed. "You may do whatever you choose and We won't stop you."
Sam and Dean exchanged glances.
"Huh," Sam said.
Castiel rolled his eyes, not very angelically, in Sam's opinion. "I must go. Heaven is expecting me."
'Wait, you're leaving?" Dean asked, looking taken aback.
"We have no more need of you," Castiel said painstakingly, as if he were talking to a three-year old. "I must receive another assignment."
"Wait, so Dean was just an assignment to you?" Sam asked incredulously, making indignant finger quotes. "Really?"
"Yes." Castiel nodded. Then something flickered in his eyes and his mouth twitched downward. "No." He shook his head. "But I must go." He looked at Dean for a moment longer, and Sam could have sworn there was almost an expression on his face, before he vanished with the soft sound of rustling wings.
Sam and Dean looked at each other in the resounding silence. Dean cocked his head again, and a brilliant smile slowly blossomed across his face.
"Huh," he said.
At first, they didn't know what to do with themselves. But, really, it wasn't as if the Apocalypse being averted meant there was a shortage of monsters and pissed-off spirits still skulking around, waiting to be dispatched.
"I guess we could keep hunting," Sam said uncertainly at breakfast.
"Absolutely," Dean replied. He stabbed at his pancakes. "Absolutely."
"Well, then," Sam said. "I'll try and find us something." He sipped his coffee.
"You do that, Sammy."
So Sam found them a poltergeist in Minnesota, about a day's drive from where they'd been when Castiel gave them the good news.
"From where he ditched us, you mean," Dean groused as he headed out on the highway.
"Dean," Sam sighed.
"No, it's fine. Really." They drove in silence for a mile or two, Dean drumming on the steering wheel, Sam staring at the yellow line in the middle of the road. "It's just - it's weird, is all. With no Big Bad hanging over our heads. No angels looking over our shoulders. No countdown until either of our deaths." He shook his head and looked at Sam plaintively. "What're we supposed to do with that?"
"There." Sam pointed at a sign on the side of the road. "That's what we're supposed to do. Turn here and follow that sign."
"Dude." Dean squinted at the sign. "The Biggest Ball of Twine in Minnesota? What the fuck?" Nevertheless, he turned the wheel of the Impala sharply, throwing gravel up behind them and making the car following them slam on its brakes. The kid driving it flipped them off as Dean barreled down the side road.
"Punk," Dean said, looking after the kid in his rear view mirror. "Driving a Honda. Loser!" he hollered out the window, and then grinned at Sam.
Sam turned to watch the other car disappear out of sight. He wasn't used to seeing a lot of other cars on the road with them. That hardly ever happened. "Do you think -"
Dean shook his head. "Nah, just some dumb kid." The winding road ended on the outskirts of a small town, where they were confronted with a sign that proclaimed Welcome to Darwin, Minnesota.
Following Main Street to the town center, there it was. A pagoda-shaped edifice made of glass and wood. Sam assumed that the gigantic brown blob inside was the ball of twine.
Negotiating the badly paved parking lot, Dean guided the car around some truly impressive potholes and brought her to a stop. "Face it, Sam. We're just not that interesting anymore. No one's after us."
Sam had to admit Dean was probably right. He couldn't decide if he felt relieved at that, or slightly disgruntled. He'd kind of gotten used to all the attention.
Dean peered out through the windshield at the twine ball. "This is awesome, Sammy." He hopped out of the car, grinning like a kid let loose in a candy store.
This was the kind of stuff they'd hardly ever had time to do, well, ever. Not lately, and certainly not when they were growing up. Dad always said they had somewhere they had to be in a hurry, and Sam had quit asking around the same time that he found out what Dad's job really was.
"There's a monster needs killing, Sam. You think more people should die because you want to stop for ice cream?"
When he put it that way, it was hard for Sam to come up with an argument.
Sometimes Dean would talk wistfully of baseball games, or fishing, and as a matter of fact, Dad had taught them to fish, as part of survival training. Those were some of Sam's fonder childhood recollections. He wished he had more of them.
Sam shook his head, clearing it of memories, and concentrated on the expression on Dean's face as he moved closer to the pagoda, where he polished a spot on the glass with his sleeve and peered inside at the mangy looking ball of twine.
Next day, they dispatched the poltergeist without too much trouble, except for Dean dislocating his shoulder. It was the same shoulder he'd dislocated half a dozen times before and Sam was able to pop it back into place easily.
That didn't mean it wouldn't be sore for a day or two, but there was no way Dean was going to admit something like that, not even under pain of - Sam firmly pulled his mind away from thoughts of death or torture. They were done with that shit now.
"What do you mean, you want to hang around here a couple more days? What the hell, Sam?" Dean squinted up at him, trying to pretend he wasn't cradling his arm against his chest.
They were about a day's drive from the Twine Ball, for which Sam was pretty grateful. Otherwise, Dean would find a way to go back and see it again. But there were plenty of things to do in the little town they were in now, and Sam was determined to let Dean rest for a while, whether he wanted to or not.
"I already paid for the room for two more days," Sam said smugly.
Dean's shoulders sagged in defeat and he grimaced in pain, catching himself at it and quickly smoothing out his face, but not before Sam saw. Sam silently congratulated himself on his successful plan.
"I saw a dollar movie theater down the street. What do you think?" He smiled hopefully at Dean.
"Depends on what's playing," Dean grumped. But Sam knew he'd won, and he carefully hustled his brother into his jacket and out the door before Dean could put his foot down and insist on leaving town in spite of how miserable he felt.
Sam bought a large bucket of popcorn and he even let Dean get that slimy fake butter he loved so much on it. They sat alone in the dim theater in the middle of the day, watching The Dark Knight for what was probably Dean's tenth time, sharing popcorn while Dean quoted dialogue back at the screen. Their fingers brushed together when they reached for the popcorn at the same time, and Dean's hand was warm and a little slippery from all the grease. Sam found himself going back for more popcorn just so he could touch Dean again, even though the damn fake butter was leaving an oily film on the roof of his mouth, and he didn't think that was weird at all. Really.
He didn't even feel like complaining about the petroleum product residue he'd be tasting for days, no matter how many times he brushed his teeth.
They left the theater laughing, their shoulders bumping companionably together, and Sam felt the rift between them heal just a little bit further. They didn't talk about any of the things that had gone down much anymore, but Sam still counted as a win any day where Dean's eyes stayed clear and free of shadows.
The next day was Sunday, and the local church softball league had a game. Sam saw the flyer on the wall by the door of the diner when they went for breakfast. Over eggs and hash browns, he said, "Hey, Dean, wanna go to a ballgame?"
Dean paused, mid-swallow. "A what?" he croaked, struggling with his mouthful of toast.
"When was the last time we just sat in the sun and didn't think about anything?" Sam asked softly. He looked earnestly at Dean.
"What, did you turn into an old man when I wasn't looking? Sit in the sun. What the fuck, Sammy?" But behind the bluster, Sam could see the longing in Dean's eyes, and he just smiled down at his grapefruit.
There was a concession stand where they bought hotdogs and peanuts and potato chips, enough food to keep even Dean satisfied, and they climbed to the top of the bleachers and settled in for the game. The rhythm of baseball was soothing and it was warm and peaceful in the sun. Chirping birds, buzzing insects, voices floating on the warm summer breeze, the smell of popcorn wafting over them, the whole nine yards.
Sam couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so content. It had been a long time coming, and they sure as hell deserved it.
"Dude," he said, elbowing Dean in the side.
Dean elbowed him back without taking his eyes off the game. "Whadaya want, Sammy?" he asked lazily.
"Nothing," Sam said, elbowing Dean again, and smiling at the scowl that was directed his way.
"Watch the game, then, dipshit," said Dean, shoving his hotdog in his mouth. Sam watched, fascinated, as Dean's tongue came out to catch the little bit of mustard smeared over his bottom lip.
Sam blinked. Was that weird, to be interested in Dean's tongue like that?
Huh.
Brow furrowed, Sam turned his attention back to the bald guy with the beer belly who was currently at bat. Guy swung at the ball like a motherfucker and hit it a ton. In fact, it almost reached the adjacent parking lot, and Dean suddenly straightened up out of his lazy slouch.
"Son of a bitch! Fucker almost hit my car, Sam!" Dean sprayed little flecks of hotdog down the front of his shirt in his indignation.
Sam didn't think he was supposed to find that as endearing as he did. He patted Dean on the arm and said, "Dude, it's fine. Your car's fine. Calm down."
Dean subsided, scowling down at the players on the field, watching the parking lot nervously during every at-bat after that.
Sam paid careful attention to Dean for the rest of the afternoon. He felt he should, after the whole tongue thing. His brother was reasonably attractive. Sam knew Dean had always thought so, but Sam hadn't really given it much consideration until now.
Big green eyes, long, spiky eyelashes, a dusting of freckles, that slight kink in his nose, full lips, straight, white teeth. Yeah, Sam could see it. And Dean was built, too. Nothing like Sam himself was, of course, but still. Sam had always liked the way the muscles of Dean's back moved under his skin.
And Dean's can-do, kick-ass attitude was pretty impressive, too, especially considering what he'd been through in the last, oh, all of his life since he was four years old.
All in all, Sam would have to say his brother was really something.
Which made the rest of the afternoon and evening a little weird. Dean caught him staring a couple of times.
"Dude, do I have spinach in my teeth, or what?" he asked, raising his eyebrows at Sam.
Sam snorted. "Like you've ever eaten spinach in your life."
As he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, Sam had to wonder just what the hell was going on in his head now, and if maybe Bobby could find a cure for it.
Not that he was going to ask.
They were headed to upstate Michigan, hot on the trail of a woman in white, when Dean looked over from behind the wheel and spoke.
"You wanna stop for some Ice cream, Sammy?"
Cognitive dissonance rendered Sam speechless. Just for a moment, he was five years old again, bored and hungry in the back seat of the Impala, Dad driving with the single-mindedness of purpose that colored everything he did, from salting spirits to changing the oil in the car.
They'd passed a Dairy Queen and Dean was trying to get Dad to stop. He actually had stopped, but mostly, if Sam remembered correctly, because Dean had convinced him that the trip would go faster in the long run if they fed Sam ice cream to keep him occupied and happy.
"What am I, five?" Sam blurted now, staring over at Dean.
To his surprise, the tips of Dean's ears flushed pink. "Hey," he said defensively. "I just thought you might want -" he waved in the general direction of a small ice cream shop on the main street of the little town they were passing through. "Never mind, if you're gonna be a bitch about it."
Dean was embarrassed, Sam realized, and he felt like an asshole. "No, no, ice cream sounds good." Dean shook his head. "Dean," Sam said firmly. "Come on. I want some ice cream."
Dean wheeled the Impala around to the only empty parking space on the block, and they got out of the car without talking, just crossed the street and entered the cool, brightly lit interior of the shop.
Dean was chewing on his bottom lip as he studied the menu and Sam had a sudden urge to tell him to quit it, he was gonna break the skin, mess up his lip, get it all chapped.
There was that weird fascination with Dean's mouth again.
After Dean gave the skinny black kid behind the counter his order - three scoops of Rocky Road, as always - he turned to Sam. "Whatever you want, Sammy. My treat."
Trying not to stare at his brother as if he'd just grown another head, Sam ordered his usual one scoop of chocolate chip and waited for Dean's usual comment about Sam's predictability. Like Dean wasn't predictable when it came to ice cream.
But Dean didn't say anything, just paid for the ice cream and handed Sam's cone to him with a smirk. "There ya go, Sam."
"Uh, thanks," Sam managed.
There was a bench on the sidewalk outside the shop, so they sat and ate their ice cream in the late afternoon sunshine. Dean's tongue flicked around the cone, chasing drips, and Sam watched it for a while, his own ice cream forgotten, melting and running down his hand.
Then, before he could think better of it, he said, "Dean, are we dating?"
There was silence as Dean swiped his tongue over his ice cream, then he licked his lips and said, "Maybe." He didn't look at Sam.
Sam nodded, glad to have confirmation. "I thought we might be." He pondered for a bit. "That's cool," he said.
Dean finally dragged his gaze away from his ice cream and looked Sam full in the eye.
"It's cool?"
Sam nodded again. "Yeah." He smiled, and then frowned. "Isn't it?" he asked, wondering if he'd been reading things wrong.
Dean leaned toward Sam, keeping a careful grip on his cone, and kissed him right on the mouth. His lips were cold and sticky and sweet.
Sam understood his recent obsession with Dean's mouth a little better now. He pulled back, just for a minute, before moving in for another taste.
"Huh," he said.
Dean's lips curved into a smile under Sam's. "I know, right?"