Fic: A Job Well Done (Sam/Dean, R)
Title: A Job Well Done
Author: bree_black
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Word Count: 2500
Summary: There's a reason Sam and Dean have always been self-employed. They don't take direction well. 6x22 coda. Crack-ish.
Notes: Fix-it fic #2, this one for my Sam/Dean side. Dedicated to lookturtles, who just saw the finale today and could use a little crack.
Dean collapses back on the motel bed with a groan. “Home sweet home,” he declares, and Sam can practically hear the grin in his voice.
“You want a drink?” Sam asks, already heading for what will undoubtedly be a fully-stocked mini-bar.
“I want a pizza,” Dean says, and Sam stops, surprised. Dean’s been drinking himself to sleep every night since they landed their new ‘job.’
“I think I can manage that,” Sam says casually, keeping his inner glee to himself. He knows better than to mention the change in drinking habits. He doesn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth. This is the kind of thing Dean needs to sort out himself, and they two of them don’t have a great history with addictions interventions.
“I want anchovies,” Dean says.
“You’re disgusting.”
“You love me,” Dean retorts. Sam can’t resist a glance over at the bed. Dean’s sprawled all over it, like he needs an entire king-size to stretch out properly. He’s still wearing his boots. Sam decides to let that slide just this once, since Dean drove six hours straight today.
“Most of the time,” Sam admits, and Dean chuckles, a low, warm sound that still makes Sam’s heart beat just a bit faster. It’s nice to hear it now; it makes Sam feels safe even though they’re smack in the middle of as much shit as always.
Then Dean’s phone beeps, and the moment is shattered.
“No,” Deans moans. “We just got here. No no no no no. I’m not answering.”
Sam sighs. “If you don’t he’ll just text me. And if I don’t answer it’ll be Bobby next.”
Dean sits up and searches his pockets for his phone. “Better not order that pizza yet,” he says, “we might need to go in to work.”
*I require six skulls from graves dug up under tonight’s full moon.
Five hours later Dean’s back hurts like a bitch and they’re still on grave number four. Sam’s digging faster than Dean is too, and for some reason that pisses him off. He’s tired, his stomach is growling pretty much consistently, and there’s grave dirt in his fucking underwear somehow.
“Do you think the Colt would work on him?” Dean growls, flinging another shovelful of dirt out of the hole.
“Shut up,” Sam snaps. “He could be listening.”
“He doesn’t need to be listening. Dude already knows I want to see him dead. Especially since he kept me from my anchovies.”
“If it’s any comfort, I wasn’t gonna order those anyway.” Then Sam’s shovel hits something solid. “Paydirt.”
Usually, Dean doesn’t mind digging up graves. He associates it with victory close at hand, with a salt and burn almost finished and getting to light something on fire. But usually Dean’s working a case and he knows what he’s fighting for. Collecting random skulls because an angel turned self-fashioned god orders him to via text message just doesn’t give him the same sense of satisfaction.
They put the skulls in the plastic laundry bag from the hotel, and stop on the side of the road on their way out of town. Dean throws the bag in the ditch, where it promptly sinks into six inches of water and sludge.
“Dean,” Sam scolds.
“Well if he wants the damn skulls so bad he can rinse them off,” Dean mutters. He knows Cas can basically blink them clean, but the tiny act of rebellion feels good anyway.
Sam texts Cas their coordinates and the bag disappears a moment later. It’s the sixth such random and completely unexplained task they’ve completed in as many weeks. Dean climbs back into the car and contemplates turning off his phone for the thousandth time. He wonders if Cas would just start sending orders straight to his brain if he did. Who would’ve thought working for Cas would turn out to be worse than working for Crowley?
“Pizza?” Sam says from his place in the passenger seat.
“Whatever,” Dean says with a shrug. He thinks he might actually be too exhausted to eat.
“And a blowjob?” Sam adds.
Dean brightens, sits up a little straighter. “Sure,” he says, “and in that case we can even leave off the anchovies.”
*Please ask Tom Johnson in New York City the favorite colour of his deceased wife.
“Holy shit, he said please.” Sam believes in appreciating the little things in life. It’s his own way of compensating for Dean.
“Well whoop de doo!” Dean claps his hands together in mock delight. “What terribly exciting task does his majesty have for us today?”
The joke is a defense mechanism, Sam knows. They both dread every text Cas sends them. So far it’s been pretty simple stuff, small things Cas can’t or won’t do himself. Collecting objects for rituals that require human labor, killing monsters without magical assistance, and basically anything that actually requires talking to people. But Sam holds his breath every time one of their phones beeps, because one of these days it might be a jar full of kitten blood they’re supposed to hand over.
It’s Sam’s fault they have this job. Faced with the choice between death or an eternity in Purgatory, Sam had used all his pre-law training to convince the former-angel that three human employees with their skill set could be useful. Dean had been impressed at the time, but that’s sort of worn off by now.
“We need to find out the favourite colour of Tom Johnson’s dead wife. He lives in New York.”
Dean frowns around his mouthful of M&Ms. “What the fuck. How many guys with that name do you think live in that city? And doesn’t his wife have a name too? That’s fuckin’ sexist.”
Sam snorts. “Yeah, I’m sure that’s why you’re pissed. It has nothing to do with the fact that we’ll be spending days with the phonebook.”
Dean tosses an M&M at Sam’s head. “Well it would be easier if we had both their names.”
“I can text back and ask him to be more specific.” They don’t always get an answer when they do this, but it seems worth a shot.
“No,” Dean says. “I have a better idea."
*There are 73 men named Tom Johnson with dead wives in NYC. The list of their favorite colors is waiting at the front desk of the Red Oak motel.
Dean is balls deep in Sam’s ass and the closest he’s been to happy in as long as he can remember the next time his phone beeps.
Sam groans, and not in the blissed-out-getting-fucked-out-of-his-mind way he he’d been a minute earlier. “Fuck. He has the worst timing.”
Dean’s beginning to suspect Cas is doing this on purpose, actually. Last week he and Sam had been in the middle of taking a shower that was getting dirty faster than it was getting them clean when Cas had texted to demand they explain the plot of City of Angels.
Sam shifts, but Dean slaps him sharply on the left ass cheek. “Don’t move. I’m not done with you yet.” He reaches over to the bedside table where he’s left his phone.
*Please locate Bigfoot.
Dean finds it hard to type with fingers slippery with sweat and lube, but he knows the answer to this one from Dad’s journal.
*Washington.
They’ve barely managed to find their rhythm when the phone beeps again.
*Be more specific.
*Find him yourself.
Dean tosses the phone across the room and goes back to fucking in earnest, and he’s pretty damn impressed when he manages to make Sam come less than five minutes later, even considering the distraction. His own orgasm follows shortly after, and it’s not until ten minutes later, when his heart beat has slowed almost to normal, that he realizes he should be scared.
They sit up all night eating chocolate and overpriced chips they never have to pay for from the mini bar and watching old Seinfeld reruns, waiting for a lightning bolt to strike them or something. It's kind of anti climactic.
*Tell Sarah Palin to stop claiming she knows anything about me.
*We don’t exactly have her home phone number. Is this urgent?
*No. I merely find her irritating.
*You really need to grow a thicker skin. On it.
“So get this one. Cas wants Sarah Palin to stop misrepresenting him.”
Dean chokes on his cola and spits a mouthful across the room. Thankfully, the carpet is already pretty stained. “Talk about mission impossible,” he says. “It’s a good thing we don’t get paid for this shit.”
They sort of do get paid, actually. The crap they eat from the mini-bars never shows up on the bill when they check out of their rooms, the diners they visit never run out of pie, and Dean hasn’t had to fill the Impala’s gas tank in six months. That last one has actually saved them a small fortune, according to Sam’s calculations, but he doesn’t mention it to Dean.
“I think he might be running out of people to smite or something,” Sam says.
“I don’t know. If it were me Sarah Palin would be closer to the top of the list than the bottom,” Dean says. “Does he want us to get on that one right away?”
“Naw, I think we can afford to take the night off,” Sam says. He climbs onto the bed next to Dean, switching off the TV as he passes.
“I was watching that,” Dean whines.
Sam leans over Dean, face hovering just inches from his brother’s. “Oh yeah. Well I guess you’ll just need to find some other way to entertain yourself.”
“I guess I could manage that,” Dean responds. He pushes himself up on his elbows to meet Sam’s lips with his own, but Sam pulls away just in time.
“I changed my mind,” he says. “I really like that episode.”
Twenty minutes later Dean finally manages to pin Sam to the bed, panting and sweaty and red-faced. Dean holds Sam’s head still while he kisses him, deep and slow and thorough, but Sam’s had enough of fighting anyway.
*Where are you?
Dean’s heart skips a beat when he reads the text. Shit. It had taken him ten minutes or so to check his phone, but he hadn’t heard the beep over the noise of the crowd. He elbows Sam in the side and wordlessly holds out the phone.
Sam sets down his hot dog and reaches for it, shading the screen from the sun so he can read it. His eyes go wide.
Dean answers as fast as his fingers will let him.
*Fenway Park. Boston.
Castiel appears next to them almost before Dean presses send, without even a fluttering noise. It’s been nearly ten months since they’ve seen him in person, but he looks exactly the same, trench coat and all.
For two long minutes no one says anything. Dean and Sam both stare at Cas, and Cas just sits on Dean’s right and frowns down at the field. They’re in the nosebleeds and the series is already decided so the section’s pretty empty, but Dean looks over his shoulder to make sure no one’s noticed Cas’ sudden arrival anyway.
“What is the purpose of this activity?” Cas finally says. It’s a crazy thing to think about his megalomaniac boss, but Dean has kind of missed that gravelly voice.
“It’s a game,” Sam explains. “For fun.”
“To pass the time until you die,” Cas says.
“Sure.” Sam’s glance at Dean says what-the-fuck, and Dean just shrugs back.
“I understand. You may teach me the rules while Dean fetches me a hot dog.”
Dean scowls, but he bites back any comment. In text messages Cas has been more patient lately, but face-to-face it would be all too convenient to finger-snap them into oblivion. He stands, stretching his cramped legs.
“Do you want anything while I’m up, Sam?” Dean says sweetly. Sam recognizes insincerity when he hears it and shakes his head.
Dean picks the shortest concession line and tells the poor cashier to hurry it the fuck up. The poor kid looks kind of terrified and Dean feels guilty, but he doesn’t like leaving Sam alone with Cas. He doesn’t wait for his change and rushes back to his seat, only stopping to grab a handful of condiment packets because he doesn’t know what Cas likes.
When he gets up the stairs and back to their section, Sam has moved on to explaining the function of mascots, and Cas’ lips are stained blue from drinking Sam’s slushee.
*Ambriel lost the Staff of Moses today.
*That sucks man. Did you punish him severely?
*I have reassigned your Sarah Palin case to him.
*Oh. Thanks for letting us know.
*You are welcome.
When Cas appears in the back seat of the car it gives Sam a weird kind of deja vu. That probably wouldn’t happen if Cas changed his clothes once in awhile.
“Hello,” he says.
“Hi,” Dean answers. He didn’t even flinch when Cas appeared and Sam is sort of impressed. “Do you need something?”
Cas is silent for a long beat. Sam looks over his shoulder and sees that he’s plucking at a spot of dirt on his coat.
“I think that I am bored,” he says finally. “Ruling Heaven is very tedious.”
Dean barks out a joyful laugh. “Life as an omniscient being not living up your expectations?”
“That’s just the problem,” he answers. “I see everything, but I don’t get to do any of it.”
Sam looks over at Dean, and Dean looks back, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That sucks, dude,” Sam says sympathetically. “Well you came to the right place.”
Cas sits up straighter in the back seat. He accidentally meets Sam’s eyes in the rearview mirror, then looks down again quickly. “I did?”
“The engine’s making a weird noise,” Dean says casually. “Fix it for us and I’ll teach you how to hustle pool.”
The engine roars, and Dean startles and lifts his foot off the accelerator.
“Sorry,” Cas says. “It is working perfectly, now.”
“I can hear that,” Dean says, settling back into his seat and pressing on the gas again.
“Sammy, keep your eyes peeled for a pool hall.”
A week later, Dean is lying awake listening to Sam’s breathing like a total fucking sap when his phone beeps. He sighs and rolls over careful, disentangling his arm from around Sam’s waist. His phone glows cheerily on the bedside table. He hasn’t charged the battery in over a year, but it doesn’t seem to mind.
*What is Lady Gaga?
Dean blinks twice, then turns to look at Sam sleeping peacefully next to him in the warm, comfortable bed. Then he types.
*Tomorrow.
He waits for the next beep. It would be just like Cas to need this answer immediately.
*OK. Sleep well, Dean.
*Goodnight, Cas.
Dean switches off his phone and lets it drop to the floor next to the bed. Then he slides back down under the covers, carefully maneuvering his arm back around Sam’s body. For the first time in what feels like years, he actually does sleep well.
***
Coda to this coda here. (Sam/Dean/Cas, PG13).
Okay, I should be done with the fix-it fic spamming now! :)
Author: bree_black
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Word Count: 2500
Summary: There's a reason Sam and Dean have always been self-employed. They don't take direction well. 6x22 coda. Crack-ish.
Notes: Fix-it fic #2, this one for my Sam/Dean side. Dedicated to lookturtles, who just saw the finale today and could use a little crack.
Dean collapses back on the motel bed with a groan. “Home sweet home,” he declares, and Sam can practically hear the grin in his voice.
“You want a drink?” Sam asks, already heading for what will undoubtedly be a fully-stocked mini-bar.
“I want a pizza,” Dean says, and Sam stops, surprised. Dean’s been drinking himself to sleep every night since they landed their new ‘job.’
“I think I can manage that,” Sam says casually, keeping his inner glee to himself. He knows better than to mention the change in drinking habits. He doesn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth. This is the kind of thing Dean needs to sort out himself, and they two of them don’t have a great history with addictions interventions.
“I want anchovies,” Dean says.
“You’re disgusting.”
“You love me,” Dean retorts. Sam can’t resist a glance over at the bed. Dean’s sprawled all over it, like he needs an entire king-size to stretch out properly. He’s still wearing his boots. Sam decides to let that slide just this once, since Dean drove six hours straight today.
“Most of the time,” Sam admits, and Dean chuckles, a low, warm sound that still makes Sam’s heart beat just a bit faster. It’s nice to hear it now; it makes Sam feels safe even though they’re smack in the middle of as much shit as always.
Then Dean’s phone beeps, and the moment is shattered.
“No,” Deans moans. “We just got here. No no no no no. I’m not answering.”
Sam sighs. “If you don’t he’ll just text me. And if I don’t answer it’ll be Bobby next.”
Dean sits up and searches his pockets for his phone. “Better not order that pizza yet,” he says, “we might need to go in to work.”
*I require six skulls from graves dug up under tonight’s full moon.
Five hours later Dean’s back hurts like a bitch and they’re still on grave number four. Sam’s digging faster than Dean is too, and for some reason that pisses him off. He’s tired, his stomach is growling pretty much consistently, and there’s grave dirt in his fucking underwear somehow.
“Do you think the Colt would work on him?” Dean growls, flinging another shovelful of dirt out of the hole.
“Shut up,” Sam snaps. “He could be listening.”
“He doesn’t need to be listening. Dude already knows I want to see him dead. Especially since he kept me from my anchovies.”
“If it’s any comfort, I wasn’t gonna order those anyway.” Then Sam’s shovel hits something solid. “Paydirt.”
Usually, Dean doesn’t mind digging up graves. He associates it with victory close at hand, with a salt and burn almost finished and getting to light something on fire. But usually Dean’s working a case and he knows what he’s fighting for. Collecting random skulls because an angel turned self-fashioned god orders him to via text message just doesn’t give him the same sense of satisfaction.
They put the skulls in the plastic laundry bag from the hotel, and stop on the side of the road on their way out of town. Dean throws the bag in the ditch, where it promptly sinks into six inches of water and sludge.
“Dean,” Sam scolds.
“Well if he wants the damn skulls so bad he can rinse them off,” Dean mutters. He knows Cas can basically blink them clean, but the tiny act of rebellion feels good anyway.
Sam texts Cas their coordinates and the bag disappears a moment later. It’s the sixth such random and completely unexplained task they’ve completed in as many weeks. Dean climbs back into the car and contemplates turning off his phone for the thousandth time. He wonders if Cas would just start sending orders straight to his brain if he did. Who would’ve thought working for Cas would turn out to be worse than working for Crowley?
“Pizza?” Sam says from his place in the passenger seat.
“Whatever,” Dean says with a shrug. He thinks he might actually be too exhausted to eat.
“And a blowjob?” Sam adds.
Dean brightens, sits up a little straighter. “Sure,” he says, “and in that case we can even leave off the anchovies.”
*Please ask Tom Johnson in New York City the favorite colour of his deceased wife.
“Holy shit, he said please.” Sam believes in appreciating the little things in life. It’s his own way of compensating for Dean.
“Well whoop de doo!” Dean claps his hands together in mock delight. “What terribly exciting task does his majesty have for us today?”
The joke is a defense mechanism, Sam knows. They both dread every text Cas sends them. So far it’s been pretty simple stuff, small things Cas can’t or won’t do himself. Collecting objects for rituals that require human labor, killing monsters without magical assistance, and basically anything that actually requires talking to people. But Sam holds his breath every time one of their phones beeps, because one of these days it might be a jar full of kitten blood they’re supposed to hand over.
It’s Sam’s fault they have this job. Faced with the choice between death or an eternity in Purgatory, Sam had used all his pre-law training to convince the former-angel that three human employees with their skill set could be useful. Dean had been impressed at the time, but that’s sort of worn off by now.
“We need to find out the favourite colour of Tom Johnson’s dead wife. He lives in New York.”
Dean frowns around his mouthful of M&Ms. “What the fuck. How many guys with that name do you think live in that city? And doesn’t his wife have a name too? That’s fuckin’ sexist.”
Sam snorts. “Yeah, I’m sure that’s why you’re pissed. It has nothing to do with the fact that we’ll be spending days with the phonebook.”
Dean tosses an M&M at Sam’s head. “Well it would be easier if we had both their names.”
“I can text back and ask him to be more specific.” They don’t always get an answer when they do this, but it seems worth a shot.
“No,” Dean says. “I have a better idea."
*There are 73 men named Tom Johnson with dead wives in NYC. The list of their favorite colors is waiting at the front desk of the Red Oak motel.
Dean is balls deep in Sam’s ass and the closest he’s been to happy in as long as he can remember the next time his phone beeps.
Sam groans, and not in the blissed-out-getting-fucked-out-of-his-mind way he he’d been a minute earlier. “Fuck. He has the worst timing.”
Dean’s beginning to suspect Cas is doing this on purpose, actually. Last week he and Sam had been in the middle of taking a shower that was getting dirty faster than it was getting them clean when Cas had texted to demand they explain the plot of City of Angels.
Sam shifts, but Dean slaps him sharply on the left ass cheek. “Don’t move. I’m not done with you yet.” He reaches over to the bedside table where he’s left his phone.
*Please locate Bigfoot.
Dean finds it hard to type with fingers slippery with sweat and lube, but he knows the answer to this one from Dad’s journal.
*Washington.
They’ve barely managed to find their rhythm when the phone beeps again.
*Be more specific.
*Find him yourself.
Dean tosses the phone across the room and goes back to fucking in earnest, and he’s pretty damn impressed when he manages to make Sam come less than five minutes later, even considering the distraction. His own orgasm follows shortly after, and it’s not until ten minutes later, when his heart beat has slowed almost to normal, that he realizes he should be scared.
They sit up all night eating chocolate and overpriced chips they never have to pay for from the mini bar and watching old Seinfeld reruns, waiting for a lightning bolt to strike them or something. It's kind of anti climactic.
*Tell Sarah Palin to stop claiming she knows anything about me.
*We don’t exactly have her home phone number. Is this urgent?
*No. I merely find her irritating.
*You really need to grow a thicker skin. On it.
“So get this one. Cas wants Sarah Palin to stop misrepresenting him.”
Dean chokes on his cola and spits a mouthful across the room. Thankfully, the carpet is already pretty stained. “Talk about mission impossible,” he says. “It’s a good thing we don’t get paid for this shit.”
They sort of do get paid, actually. The crap they eat from the mini-bars never shows up on the bill when they check out of their rooms, the diners they visit never run out of pie, and Dean hasn’t had to fill the Impala’s gas tank in six months. That last one has actually saved them a small fortune, according to Sam’s calculations, but he doesn’t mention it to Dean.
“I think he might be running out of people to smite or something,” Sam says.
“I don’t know. If it were me Sarah Palin would be closer to the top of the list than the bottom,” Dean says. “Does he want us to get on that one right away?”
“Naw, I think we can afford to take the night off,” Sam says. He climbs onto the bed next to Dean, switching off the TV as he passes.
“I was watching that,” Dean whines.
Sam leans over Dean, face hovering just inches from his brother’s. “Oh yeah. Well I guess you’ll just need to find some other way to entertain yourself.”
“I guess I could manage that,” Dean responds. He pushes himself up on his elbows to meet Sam’s lips with his own, but Sam pulls away just in time.
“I changed my mind,” he says. “I really like that episode.”
Twenty minutes later Dean finally manages to pin Sam to the bed, panting and sweaty and red-faced. Dean holds Sam’s head still while he kisses him, deep and slow and thorough, but Sam’s had enough of fighting anyway.
*Where are you?
Dean’s heart skips a beat when he reads the text. Shit. It had taken him ten minutes or so to check his phone, but he hadn’t heard the beep over the noise of the crowd. He elbows Sam in the side and wordlessly holds out the phone.
Sam sets down his hot dog and reaches for it, shading the screen from the sun so he can read it. His eyes go wide.
Dean answers as fast as his fingers will let him.
*Fenway Park. Boston.
Castiel appears next to them almost before Dean presses send, without even a fluttering noise. It’s been nearly ten months since they’ve seen him in person, but he looks exactly the same, trench coat and all.
For two long minutes no one says anything. Dean and Sam both stare at Cas, and Cas just sits on Dean’s right and frowns down at the field. They’re in the nosebleeds and the series is already decided so the section’s pretty empty, but Dean looks over his shoulder to make sure no one’s noticed Cas’ sudden arrival anyway.
“What is the purpose of this activity?” Cas finally says. It’s a crazy thing to think about his megalomaniac boss, but Dean has kind of missed that gravelly voice.
“It’s a game,” Sam explains. “For fun.”
“To pass the time until you die,” Cas says.
“Sure.” Sam’s glance at Dean says what-the-fuck, and Dean just shrugs back.
“I understand. You may teach me the rules while Dean fetches me a hot dog.”
Dean scowls, but he bites back any comment. In text messages Cas has been more patient lately, but face-to-face it would be all too convenient to finger-snap them into oblivion. He stands, stretching his cramped legs.
“Do you want anything while I’m up, Sam?” Dean says sweetly. Sam recognizes insincerity when he hears it and shakes his head.
Dean picks the shortest concession line and tells the poor cashier to hurry it the fuck up. The poor kid looks kind of terrified and Dean feels guilty, but he doesn’t like leaving Sam alone with Cas. He doesn’t wait for his change and rushes back to his seat, only stopping to grab a handful of condiment packets because he doesn’t know what Cas likes.
When he gets up the stairs and back to their section, Sam has moved on to explaining the function of mascots, and Cas’ lips are stained blue from drinking Sam’s slushee.
*Ambriel lost the Staff of Moses today.
*That sucks man. Did you punish him severely?
*I have reassigned your Sarah Palin case to him.
*Oh. Thanks for letting us know.
*You are welcome.
When Cas appears in the back seat of the car it gives Sam a weird kind of deja vu. That probably wouldn’t happen if Cas changed his clothes once in awhile.
“Hello,” he says.
“Hi,” Dean answers. He didn’t even flinch when Cas appeared and Sam is sort of impressed. “Do you need something?”
Cas is silent for a long beat. Sam looks over his shoulder and sees that he’s plucking at a spot of dirt on his coat.
“I think that I am bored,” he says finally. “Ruling Heaven is very tedious.”
Dean barks out a joyful laugh. “Life as an omniscient being not living up your expectations?”
“That’s just the problem,” he answers. “I see everything, but I don’t get to do any of it.”
Sam looks over at Dean, and Dean looks back, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That sucks, dude,” Sam says sympathetically. “Well you came to the right place.”
Cas sits up straighter in the back seat. He accidentally meets Sam’s eyes in the rearview mirror, then looks down again quickly. “I did?”
“The engine’s making a weird noise,” Dean says casually. “Fix it for us and I’ll teach you how to hustle pool.”
The engine roars, and Dean startles and lifts his foot off the accelerator.
“Sorry,” Cas says. “It is working perfectly, now.”
“I can hear that,” Dean says, settling back into his seat and pressing on the gas again.
“Sammy, keep your eyes peeled for a pool hall.”
A week later, Dean is lying awake listening to Sam’s breathing like a total fucking sap when his phone beeps. He sighs and rolls over careful, disentangling his arm from around Sam’s waist. His phone glows cheerily on the bedside table. He hasn’t charged the battery in over a year, but it doesn’t seem to mind.
*What is Lady Gaga?
Dean blinks twice, then turns to look at Sam sleeping peacefully next to him in the warm, comfortable bed. Then he types.
*Tomorrow.
He waits for the next beep. It would be just like Cas to need this answer immediately.
*OK. Sleep well, Dean.
*Goodnight, Cas.
Dean switches off his phone and lets it drop to the floor next to the bed. Then he slides back down under the covers, carefully maneuvering his arm back around Sam’s body. For the first time in what feels like years, he actually does sleep well.
***
Coda to this coda here. (Sam/Dean/Cas, PG13).
Okay, I should be done with the fix-it fic spamming now! :)