Blue Skies From Rain Part 5 - Chapter 24

[lovesrain44]

 

They walked in the darkness, along the road, away from the town of Morris, going in the direction the train would have been going had not the tracks turned north. The air was a seeping grey color from the lights of the town and the streetlights that accompanied them a little way into the country, after which it turned pitch dark. Although it wasn’t raining, there was a constant mist that soaked into them. They stuck to walking along the road, which dipped and rose, going down into heavily treed copses, thick with dank, chilly air, and then up again where the wind whistled past their ears.

Sam stuck close to Dean’s side, glad for the darkness and the late hour or he suspected that Dean might make them walk single file, for safety’s sake had it been daylight. Dean might even make them struggle through the woods, if it occurred to him that the narrow road had no ditches and offered no cover. Two men walking at this hour, late for midnight, early for dawn, would be quite noticeable.

It was better walking, though, because it helped his shakiness go away and cleared his head. He realized he felt much better now that the train part was over; Dean was smart to have thought of it, but it had almost been too much. Not that he would tell Dean that, he didn’t want to make Dean worry or feel bad that he’d made Sam do something difficult. Sam imagined that a lot of things might be difficult, especially when Dean decided that they needed to split up and go their own ways. Sam shook his head, feeling water sliding down his neck and the side of his face even though it wasn’t raining.

“You with me, Sam?” asked Dean. His voice sounded clogged as though the damp were finally getting to him.

Sam looked over at Dean and listened to their boots crunching and sliding on the gravel on the pavement for a minute. He knew he was tired, tired of walking, of being in the weather, tired of being hungry. But when he looked over at Dean, he realized that Dean’s shoulders were drooping and that Dean’s head hung low, his chin almost to his chest. Sam had been willing to walk forever, had been prepared to grit his teeth and walk as long as Dean said to walk. They’d needed to hurry, in case Henriksen had caught up with them. But now, looking at Dean, Sam realized that they needed to stop. Sam had had some rest on the train, but Dean had stood guard all that while. It was one thing not to stop even if Sam complained, which he hadn’t been going to do anyway. It was another to keep going when Dean was about ready to drop. Dean might not like it, but they needed to stop.

“Dean,” he said.

“Uh?” asked Dean.

“We need to stop,” said Sam. “I’m, uh, really tired, and my feet hurt. Can we stop? Can we find a shed or something?”

“Sam,” said Dean, and his voice grated on the edge of irritation.

Sam grasped Dean’s elbow and tugged to make him listen. Dean’s jacket was soaked. “You can’t go on fumes, Dean, and you’ve been going all day and all night. There’s no point in this. No one is following us and the car will be there when we get there.” At Dean’s continued silence, he asked, “Won’t it?”

“Maybe,” said Dean, his voice wavering.

He was uncertain, and he was too tired to make sense of the situation. Sam needed to make sense of it for him.

“We’ve only passed a house or two, so there aren’t very many of them. I vote we stop at the first place we come to, one of your sheds if we can find it, and get some rest. Out of this weather. We’ve been going all night, we need to rest. Both of us, and not just me.” Then he added, for good measure, “It’s fair.”

“You cold?” asked Dean. “You want your jacket back?” He stopped like he was ready to take it off.

Sam stopped too, letting go of Dean’s arm. “No, Dean. You keep it, but we need to stop. Okay?”

Dean made a little sound like he was struggling with this idea. He shook his head. Maybe he’d settled his mind to walk until they got there but Sam knew it wouldn’t be safe. If they were tired, they wouldn’t be able to keep going or figure out how to get the car out once they got there. They couldn’t be alert, like Dean always was, alert for trouble.

“C’mon, Dean. Be sensible.”

“Okay,” said Dean, finally, giving in, but he sounded unhappy. “We’ll walk until we find a place, and then rest. Just an hour or two, something short.”

Sam nodded, agreeing. It was better than nothing. He brushed his shoulder against Dean’s and started walking, Dean close at his side, with the drizzle thinning a bit, leaving behind a razor sharp wind.

They walked along the road that settled itself beside a river that rushed with a low, dull sound along the banks. Then they came to a series of bends and dips in the road, but the copse had been thinned out for a series of farms. On the left side of the street was a huge barn that loomed in the darkness, spotted with floodlights on every corner. On the right side, nestled in the bottom of a small dip, was a smaller barn, with only one floodlight, and beyond that, a house, lit up by a single porch light. Sam nudged Dean in the direction of the smaller barn, using his whole body, making him move the way Sam wanted him to go.

Dean didn’t protest, which just proved how tired he was. They tried to stay quiet across the gravel drive, staying out of the floodlight as they neared the barn. It was wooden and painted red, but there were no white stripes to make it charming. It was a working barn, with smells of wet hay and manure and other odors that Sam didn’t know by name. The gravel thickened beneath his feet into mud, and Sam went right up to the door.

From inside, there was movement and low bleats, and the hum of an engine. Sam tried the door, Dean close at his side, and it opened easily under his hand. At which point they were greeted by a soft woof. and Sam felt something furry whap against his legs as he crossed the threshold. A large cream-colored dog of mixed parentage danced around their feet, and absently, Sam petted it, half of his mind wondering why it didn’t try to bite them. The other half, was just glad to be out of the rain.

As they stepped into the low-ceilinged room, Sam didn’t flick on the light, if there was one, but ahead, through another doorway, was a soft orange glow, which was, surprisingly, warmer than the air around it.

“A heater, maybe,” said Dean, his shoulder brushing Sam’s side as he leaned to pet the dog, too. “Fierce dog,” he told it. “Evil attack dog.”

With a thumping wag of its tail, the dog trotted ahead of them, as if it was showing the way. They followed the dog through the doorway and into the part of the barn where the roof was high and lined with windows. The glowing light came from a smaller room, and when Sam looked in, he saw the orange heater and a golden, furry creature nestled in some hay, its legs folded under it, and a pair of little furry golden creatures cuddled up next to it. The hum had come from the heater, and maybe a generator somewhere that Sam couldn’t see.

He felt Dean’s chin on his shoulder, looking.

“This is too perfect,” said Dean. “Unlocked door, happy dog, heater. Some kind of spell?”

“Spell?” asked Sam. He had no idea what Dean was talking about.

“Never mind,” said Dean. “Look, there’s a stack of hay bales, as ordered.”

Dean moved away, and Sam turned to look. By the glow of the heater he could see that there was a series of wooden stalls, topped by green-painted metal bars through which he could see more of the furry creatures, who looked at Sam and Dean with dark, unblinking eyes. Bits of hay trailed through their fur and out of their mouths as they stood very still and waited for their visitors to do something. Between the row of stalls was an area that was open to the floor, stacked with hay bales and a dark spill of hay that smelled dusty.

“Bedtime,” said Sam. He grabbed both of Dean’s shoulders and pushed him toward the hay. Dean stumbled as he went, and Sam stayed close by his side as they piled the hay up into a mattress. Then he took off his jacket and laid it down on top of the hay. He sat down beside it and patted it.

“Here,” he said. “I got you a pillow.”

“What about you?” asked Dean.

“We’ll share it and your jacket can be our cover.” Sam started to unlace his boots, the thick, wet laces clumsy in his hands, when he realized that Dean hadn’t moved. Instead he was standing on his feet, swaying slightly, as if not really aware of how tired he was. His chin was practically to his chest, and his hands were clenching and unclenching at his sides, but he probably didn’t realize he was doing that either. His eyes were half-closed as he looked at Sam through his lashes. His freckles stood out against his white face.

“Hey, Dean, you okay? Come lay down. Here.” Sam patted the jacket again.

It took Dean a moment to respond, and finally he blinked like someone had shone a bright light in his eyes. Sam could see that Dean’s jaw was tight, but that he smiled trying to relax it. He didn’t say anything as he sat down and started unlacing his boots too, concentrating on this task as if Sam wasn’t there. Then Sam nudged him, gently, letting his hand linger on Dean’s arm.

“It’s going to be okay,” said Sam. “We’ll make it in plenty of time.”

“That’s not it, it’s-” Dean stopped halfway through his sentence, then, as he was taking off his boots and wet, rain-greyed socks, he shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I don’t know what I was going to say. Tired, I guess, so you were right.”

“I win,” said Sam. He laid out their socks across the hay at their feet and then helped Dean out of his jacket and laid back in the hay. He felt the scratch of it on his bare feet, the dust settle on his skin, and wondered where the dog had gone. But it was clean and dry and almost warm, as the warmth of the heater leeched out from the little nursery. He sighed and watched Dean as he laid down next to Sam, facing him in the hay. Sam pulled his jacket over them both as much as he could. The light was on the orange side, glowy and kind, but it seemed to Sam that Dean looked exhausted. There were shadows in his face, beneath his eyes, next to his mouth. Sam reached out and traced one of them with a fingertip.

“I want to-” he started, but Dean reached up his hand to take Sam’s hand in his, stopping him.

“Sam, we need to sleep, you said so yourself.”

“But, I could-”

Dean almost laughed then, pulling Sam’s palm up to his mouth so he could kiss it. Then he tucked Sam’s hand around his own neck, and Sam scooted close. Hip to hip, their foreheads touching.

“We need to sleep,” said Dean. “I need to sleep. But we’ll get a motel tomorrow night, if all goes according to plan. And then we can-” Dean drew a huge breath. “Well, we won’t have to go to sleep right away. Okay?”

Dean was making him a promise, and he always kept them. Sam knew that.

“Besides, I’m not about to take off my pants in the hay. It’s too scratchy.”

“But you’d look good naked in the hay.” Sam said this mostly to tease, so he could press in even closer, and sneak a kiss. “In fact you’d look good naked anywhere.”

“It’ll get everywhere,” said Dean, trying to be stern, though Sam thought he could hear the smile in his voice. “Places I don’t want it going. Places it should not go. So, no.”

Dean was about to push Sam away, there was a look on his face, his mouth scowling, and Sam didn’t want to press it. Not really, not with Dean so tired, and yes, the hay was already poking him in the ankle. So he kissed Dean again and tucked his head into Dean’s shoulder, so Dean could slip his arm around Sam. He took a deep breath, matching his breathing to Dean’s, and let Dean’s heat soak into him, lay still to let it soak back into Dean again. He kissed Dean’s neck, and closed his eyes. Made himself relax and not pester Dean, or worry about the morning, which would come soon enough. For now, he was with Dean, warm and dry in the hay with the fierce and loyal attack dog standing guard somewhere, and a dozen or so golden furry creatures watching over them in the night.

*

The bed shifted beneath him as Dean moved and when he put his hands out he realized he was sleeping on hay. A good thick dark green hay that came up dusty with specs between his fingers. Sunlight was streaming in through windows along the roofline; naturally, when they were indoors for the first time in days, it wasn’t raining. And it was warm, warm enough not to see his breath, bright enough to see Sam at his side, head burrowed into the flannel lining of the stolen jean jacket.

Sam’s legs were half-buried by hay, his ribs speckled with it as they expanded and contracted. There was even hay in his hair, though this did not surprise Dean at all. Rolling in the hay left you looking like you’d rolled in the hay.

He put his hand out; Sam was safe and close by but he wanted it, this touch. His fingers splayed across Sam’s ribs beneath the t-shirt, which was warm and dry from Sam’s skin. With slow, lazy blinks, Sam raised his head to look at Dean and without preamble, he leaned up on his elbows for a quick kiss. That turned deeper as their mouths touched, as Dean felt Sam’s nose, the tip of it cold, against his cheek. The press of him warm as Dean reached up to the back of Sam’s neck, pulling Sam close, licking in with his tongue. Feeling drowsy, as Sam pulled back to tuck himself under Dean’s chin, hearts and breaths knocking a little. The weight of Sam’s thighs across his.

“Remember what you said now,” said Sam, his voice a rumble against Dean’s chest. “Cause you know I won’t.”

Of that Dean was certain. For an amnesiac, Sam had the memory like an elephant, only the matter of the hay and Dean’s refusal to let it get everywhere had stopped Sam from stripping them both. Which was a good thing, with the awareness of several pairs of beady eyes staring over the wooden railing at them, almost frowning at Sam and Dean for squishing their breakfast.

“I’m sure they’re alpacas,” said Sam, moving his head to look up at them.

“Not llamas?” asked Dean.

“Well, maybe one of them is, but-”

Dean heard something as the door from the feed room that they’d come through the night before opened. He stopped Sam’s mouth with his hand, giving Sam a warning nudge when Sam’s tongue snaked between his fingers. In walked a woman wearing what looked like a man’s bathrobe, the sash tied in back, feet encased in oversized rubber boots. Her hair spun out of a messy braid and in her arms she carried a child. Whether it was a boy or a girl, Dean couldn’t tell, but it sprawled in its mother’s arms and pointed as it noticed the strangers in the hay. The woman, intent on the nursery room with the heater and the little alpaca babies with their mother, just walked into the nursery.

He could hear her cooing to the babies and the mama, the answering rustle and bleats. He jammed his elbow back in the hay and mouthed lets go to Sam. Added a jerk of his head for emphasis. He did not want them to be seen in the first place, he especially didn’t want some lady freaking out when she discovered she was alone in her barn with two escaped lunatics.

Hay fell in green shards down their legs as they stood up. Dean scanned the barn for a way out that didn’t lead past the door to the alpaca nursery. There were other open doorways, most of which led outside to the pens filled with alpacas. He didn’t know if the animals bit or kicked, but maybe they would have to risk it. Pointing at one of the doorways, he poked Sam with his elbow and started to move that way. Then he heard the woman talking.

“Oh, alright, down you go, but watch out for Abbot.”

The baby came toddling out, making a straight line for Sam like it was aimed at him. Sam, who in his smelly and stained jeans surely made a less than appetizing goal for a baby who could barely manage to stay upright. But no, while Dean stood frozen, the toddler, a little girl by the pink kitten on her shirt, tumbled right at Sam’s feet. And Sam, who always had a mind like a steel trap but never a lick of sense, hesitated only a second as the toddler hitched a breath as if she might cry, and swooped her up. Her arm was pink and soft as it circled Sam’s dusky neck.

She stared at Sam without a word.

“Are you nuts?” demanded Dean, hissing. “Put her the hell down and let’s go.”

Just as Sam was about to try and pry her arms free, Dean heard a click and felt the cold circle of the end of a rifle pressed against the back of his neck.

“Your friend here’ll do as you tell him, I think, or I’ll pull the trigger right here and now.”

Just at that moment, the dog from the night before bounded in through the dog door from the feed room, large and yellow, floppy ears and lolling tongue coming right up to Sam to sniff at the baby’s feet. The baby gave a shriek and tried to climb higher, kicking at Sam’s stomach with her little pink and white sneakers. At the same time, the woman stepped out of the nursery, flushed with heat, and spotted her baby in the arms of a man most definitely not her husband.

“Walt?” she asked, her hand on the doorframe.

Walt nudged the gun into Dean. “Now,” he said.

“Sam,” said Dean. He tipped his neck forward to get it away from the circle of iron, and wondered which doorway Walt had come through, how silent he had been. “Put the kid down.”

“I’m trying,” said Sam. He bent low, his large fingers curling around the toddler’s little pink arms, trying to pry her loose, gently as if he didn’t want to hurt her.

But with the dog dancing around Sam’s feet, it was no use.

“Uh, uh!” said the toddler. The little girl held fast, her arm around Sam’s neck tight like she was afraid she was going to fall, that the dog might eat her, her sneakered feet digging into Sam’s side for purchase.

Sam was forced to straighten up or topple over so he straightened up. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said, “we were just leaving, but she came out and then she fell, and-”

“Oh, Abbot,” said the woman. “Get down, Abbot.” She snapped her fingers at the dog, who obediently sat at Sam’s feet.

“Honest, mister, I can’t get her to let go.” Sam turned his head to talk to Walt, who hadn’t lowered the rifle one inch. Sam struggled with trying to get the baby’s fingers to let go of his hair, and in a second Dean was going to see his own brains splattered all over the place. It was a stalemate.

The woman looked at Sam, then at the baby, then at Dean. Then, pushing her hair out of her face, she walked forward, holding her arms out.

“Rose doesn’t usually like strangers, but ever since Abbot mowed her over last week, she’s been very clingy. Here. I’ll take her.”

“Lucy!” Dean felt the butt of the rifle jab at him.

“Walter,” said Lucy. “They could have hurt us ten times over, besides, they’re barefooted. You’re the one with the rifle. Here, honeybee, let’s go have pancakes.”

Dean’s stomach chose that moment to stand up and growl as he watched Sam curve his forearm so Lucy could unhinge Rose’s arms from around Sam’s neck.

“C’mon, baby, you’re squeezing the nice man.” With coos and tugs, Lucy took back her baby, and for a moment they stood there, the gleam of the rifle holding everyone in place. Including the dog, fiercely slumped against Sam’s leg.

Walt moved into Dean’s line of sight. He matched his wife in the fair just-out-of-bed hair and the thick rubber boots and Dean could see who they were. Just regular people doing their thing who certainly didn’t deserve to be messed up with escapees from a mental institution. Or the FBI, who would be coming after them. Walter looked like a man who never got so much as a parking ticket. There wasn’t a single dangerous thing about him. Except for the rifle, which was a double barreled Winchester, of course. Dean kept himself from smiling; he didn’t want Walt to think he was being sassed. Not when Walt’s finger was on the trigger.

“We’re going to go now,” said Dean, tugging at Sam’s sleeve. “Put on our shoes and go.”

The baby chose that moment to lurch forward and would have tumbled out of her mother’s arms and onto her head, had not Sam been there to catch her. Lucy lurched forward, and for a second, they both held the baby until Sam, stumbling and flushed, let go of Rose and backed up.

“Sorry, I just-” His face was flushed and he held his hands out.

“I think it’s time for pancakes, don’t you?” Lucy hadn’t taken a single step backwards, but she looked up into Sam’s face and nodded. “I have the batter all made, if you boys are hungry.”

“Lucy!”

“Walter!” she said, echoing his tone “Look at the state of them. This one,” she pointed at Sam, “this one is covered in mud and I can hear that one’s stomach from here. And what happened to angels unawares and all that?”

With a toss of her hair, she hitched Rose up on her tip and went through the door into the feed room and out into the yard.

For a moment, Sam and Dean stared at Walter and he back at them.

“Well,” said Walt, snapping the safety on with his thumb. “Grab your boots and get moving. It’d take a braver man than I to make her wait on serving her good cooking.” He paused to sweep his forehead with the back of his arm. “But so help me if you prove her wrong. I’ll take you boys out and they won’t never find the pieces.”

*

Dean stood at the kitchen sink, the sunlight streaming in, golden, through the bank of windows. He washed his hands in water hot enough to scald his skin, but it was more than Dean was willing to do to snatch his hands away just when the numb icy feeling was beginning to fade. He sighed as he pressed his palms against the bottom of the metal sink, letting the heat soak up into him. The soap was a welcome gift too, something soft and sweet that lathered up easily. He could quickly become obsessed with this soap.

Thinking he was by himself for a minute, he was startled to find Lucy beside him, wisps of hair around her face, eyes earnest and concerned.

“You okay?” she asked.

Dean made a sound between thinned lips. Made himself push back and smile. “I like your soap,” he said finally. Feeling lame.

She didn’t quite pat him, though she looked like she wanted to.

“Your friend likes it, too.”

Dean turned. Sam was coming out of the bathroom, damp around the neck, forearms bared as he lifted his hands to his face to smell them. His eyes caught Dean. Smiling. That was what made it all worth while. Right there.

The kitchen was warm and bright. Their jackets and socks were drying on hooks against the wall, and Lucy had stuffed newspapers in there to help them dry out and keep their shape, too. Lucy motioned for him to sit down, and pointed to a chair at the end of the table for Sam. She was efficient as she moved between the stove and the table. Walt sat his seat at the head of the table, his chair pushed a little way back, the rifle within easy reach. The baby, supplied with little bits of cereal, was near him as well, well out of the way of the strangers under his roof.

Rubbing his hands on his pant legs, Dean tried not to feel awkward. They should have left when the moon had set, been on their way along the dark and damp back road that would hopefully take them to Joliet. But no, he had been convinced by Sam to lay his head down. And succumbing to the warmth of Sam’s body next to his, he’d actually slept without a single thought that one of them should stand guard.

This thought was broken by the miracle of pancakes that landed on the table in front of him. It wouldn’t have mattered after two days without food and four weeks of cardboard sog, Dean would have been satisfied with crumbs. But the pancakes were fluffy and steaming. Another plate landed next to them, full of bacon. Dean’s stomach started screaming and his mouth turned into a waterfall. He felt the skin along his neck grow hot and looked up.

Lucy was watching him, and as she did so, she pushed the plate to him. Dean hesitated, then pushed it back.

“Being polite, I see,” said Walt, reaching out to pull the plate towards himself. “You wouldn’t if you knew.” Walt piled pancakes onto his plate and then the plate made the rounds, to Lucy, then to Sam, and then finally to Dean. He took three and saw the pancakes were dotted with sugar and smelled like vanilla. Just as he’d gotten butter and syrup on, he heard Sam moan.

“Oh, God,” said Sam, chewing with his mouth full open. “Oh, God.”

“Yeah,” said Walt. “It’s like that.

Dean ate in silence, shoving in the pancakes and the crispy bacon, the delicious tastes filling his mouth until his stomach ached form being too full, too fast. He barely looked up, sucking back from the glass of milk so thick he could see cream clotting along the sides. When it was empty, Lucy filled it again without prompting.

“It’s goat milk” she said. “It’s good for you.”

His mouth liked the taste, so he drank it half down in one go. If he’d eaten like this three times a day at the institution, he’d probably have come up with a much better plan than the one he had, not to mention executing on it more successfully. But they were out now. All he had to do was get them to Joliet and pray that when Sam’s memory came back, either Sam was in a forgiving mood or Dean was very far away.

Kitty corner from him, Sam was scraping his plate, looking like he wanted to lick it, but at least he had the manners not to. Instead, when Lucy got up to start clearing, Sam jumped up to help her. As he bent to take Dean’s plate, he leaned close and gave Dean a kiss on the lips, tasting sweet like sugar.

Dean batted him away, but it was too late. In Sam’s mind, kissing was a nice thing, and this was a nice place, so. In Walt’s eyes, Dean could see the question there and the little rise of his eyebrows.

“You boys queer?”

Dean wanted to answer the truth, of course they weren’t, they were brothers, but that would make it worse. As Dean hesitated, Sam looked him, eyebrows drawing close in confusion, mouth twisting with that same hurt look he’d gotten when Dean had said they’d better stop.

Then Sam shook his head and did that thing he did. He rolled his shoulders back and stepped in where he thought Dean was afraid to go. Protecting Dean, protecting what they had between them, even if he had to lie. “Oh, that’s right,” Sam said, standing there with the plates in his hand, sounding like he was trying to keep his voice steady. “We like girls.”

Dean let his head fall to the table with a thud. Sam’s answer made it sound like they were trying to cover something they were ashamed of, that Dean had coached Sam as to what to say, only Sam didn’t quite get it. Plus the way he said it, it made him sound, well, simple. And it might soon occur to Walt and Lucy that Dean was forcing himself on this simple lad. If they only knew.

He lifted his head, figuring Walt was two seconds away from throwing them both out, and where were his boots? Over there by the door. He opened his mouth to start making some hasty goodbyes when Lucy moved in to take the plates from Sam. She patted him and waved at him to go sit back down.

“Walter,” asked Lucy, standing there, “what difference does it make?”

“Not a whole lot,” said Walt with unexpected firmness. “Only if they can sashay their way into my barn and help themselves to a good breakfast at my expense, then they can sashay out to the yard and help me move that hay into the shed. Then I’ll give ‘em a lift, where you boys headed?”

Before Dean could open his mouth, Sam said, “Joliet. Thanks, Walt.”

Which is how they found themselves hauling hay in Walt’s yard, moving the bales of fresh green hay from under a tarp and into the low-roofed shed. He’d lent them gloves, and Sam’s stolen jacket held up well, but Dean’s didn’t. He got cut into by the hay, got hay down his jeans and in his socks, and somehow, down the back of his shirt. They worked steadily, going back and forth while the day burned off the rest of the mist and the morning grew hot. But it was good doing real work, work that wasn’t just fake to give the patients something to do to make them feel productive. He put his muscle into it, watching Sam focus on his task, looking like he was enjoying himself, smiling at Dean when he managed to catch his eye.

Lucy insisted on feeding them her homemade chili with cheese on top for lunch, with crackers on the side and large glasses of goat milk to wash it down with. She even had desert, rhubarb pie. Dean ate so much he had to undo his top button, and he watched Sam trying not to belch. Walt didn’t hold back, and Lucy looked well pleased with herself.

After lunch, they washed up and got dressed, and tried to refuse the brown paper grocery sack full of food, but Lucy insisted, and Walt just shook his head. That he doted on her and trusted her was easy to see; harder to manage was the avalanche of kindness. They got into Walt’s truck, with Dean sitting in the middle, the sack on his lap, his legs squashed on Sam’s side of the bump, his thigh rubbing against Sam’s. Sometimes it was easy to forget that there were people like this in the world, who wouldn’t know darkness if it hit them in the face. Who balanced out the Victor Henriksen of this world without even trying.
Chapter 25

Blue Skies From Rain Master Fic Post