fic: 20 Hours in America (Supernatural; Sam/Dean; adult)
20 Hours in America
Supernatural; Dean/Sam; adult; spoilers through the end of season 2; 3,408 words
An hour at a time, for each hour Dean has left.
Written for luzdeestrellas's Supernatural-West Wing Title Challenge. Thanks to her for the beta, as well. All remaining errors are mine.
~*~
20 Hours in America
4:13 a.m.
Dean wakes, the change from sleeping to waking so abrupt he's not even sure what caused it, but he knows he's up for good. It's late enough to be considered early, a time he's more used to seeing from the other side of sleep these days, stumbling in after another battle with demons or another salt and burn.
Sam's still oblivious, his breathing deep and even, and when Dean gets up, he sprawls onto his belly, claiming the empty space.
Dean slips outside in boxers and bare feet, pavement of the parking lot cool and damp against his soles. It rained most of the night, fresh spring rain, so everything is wet, but he runs his hand along the car anyway, sleek lines the shape and definition of home for so long, more than Dad or Sam even, because the car never left, never asked more from him than he could give. The car's always been exactly what he needed when he needed her, and he knows how rare it is to find that anywhere.
He's got an electronic copy of the owner's manual (found during some late night Googling he's pretty sure Sam knows about, but probably thinks was for porn) on a flash drive he'll attach to the key ring when he's finally ready to hand the keys over to Sam for good. Bobby will do what he can to keep her running, since Sam's always been indifferent at best to the ins and outs of engines, and Dean knows he's leaving her in the safest possible hands that aren't his. It still stings, though.
"Sam'll take care of you, baby," he whispers, wiping moisture off the mirror with his shirt. "He knows I'll haunt his ass if he doesn't."
Before he heads back inside, he promises her one last wash. He pulls on a pair of sweats and his sneakers, goes for a run in the cool pre-dawn darkness. It's a quiet neighborhood, not much traffic at this hour, a few dogs barking as he moves through their territory, his feet slapping the pavement and his arms pumping rhythmically, the heavy beat of his heart sounding loud in his ears.
He doesn't pay much attention to the route he's running, just lets his feet lead him until his muscles are burning with the good kind of pain, the kind that means he's done something worthwhile. It's the kind of pain he's most familiar with.
*
6:27 a.m.
When he gets back to the motel, Sam is sitting outside, chipped white coffee mug in hand. His eyes are closed, and Dean hates the dark circles under them, wishes he could make them go away.
The mist is burning off and the sun is rising over the highway. Sam holds out a bottle of water, and after Dean finishes his cooldown, he takes it, drops down onto the little step next to Sam, and watches the sunrise.
"We could go back to bed," Sam says, still bleary-eyed.
As much time as they spent as kids getting up (and going to bed) with the sunrise, neither of them is a morning person, and the thought of being able to crawl back into bed, all warm and mussed and smelling of them, is appealing, but Dean doesn't really want to spend his last day on earth sleeping.
"Nah," he says after finishing the bottle of water. "I'm gonna go for a shower. We should hit the diner when it opens. They've got bacon pancakes with my name on 'em."
He takes his time in the shower, makes himself a mohawk when his hair's all full of shampoo, bellows the words to "Enter Sandman" as loud as he can, regardless of Sam or the people in the next room, and plays the drums on the stained yellow tile to accompany himself.
He's just washed the shampoo out of his hair when Sam pushes the curtain aside and steps into the shower with him. They don't really fit too well, but they've learned to maneuver in small spaces, and soon Sam has Dean pressed back against the cool tile, those giant hands of his sweeping over Dean's chest and belly, his mouth hot and wet against Dean's throat.
Dean shifts his hips so they align with Sam's, and they can thrust against each other, all slick heat and desperate friction.
Dean's had a lot of sex in his life--had a lot of sex this year, trying to find a way to stave off the inevitable--and he knows it's kind of fucked up that he's having it with his little brother, but he can't bring himself to regret it now, not when Sam looks at him with heat and need and enough love to make Dean's heart seize in his chest. They don't talk about it--maybe if Dean actually survives to see tomorrow's sunrise, that'll change--but it's worked for them so far, we do what we do and we shut up about it, the family motto, and maybe that's fucked up too, but Dean couldn't really care less when Sam shudders and comes, head thrown back and mouth slack in surprised pleasure. Sam always looks so shocked when he comes, and God help him, Dean finds it kind of adorable. Not that he'd ever admit it, not that he can even hold the thought in his head when Sam slumps against him, a warm, heavy weight pressing him into the wall, one hand snaking between them to finish Dean off with a few rough strokes.
It's a good thing he's got the wall at his back and Sam in front, because otherwise he wouldn't be able to stay on his feet, pleasure pulsing through him hot and fierce, making it hard for him to breathe. He closes his eyes and buries his face in the crook of Sam's neck. If he slings an arm around Sam's waist, it's just to keep them upright, not a hug or anything. That's his story and he's sticking to it.
*
9:25 a.m.
They hit the diner at the tail-end of whatever passes for the breakfast rush in this town. By the time they're giving the waitress their order, the place has mostly cleared out--there's a table where four blue-haired old broads are having tea and cackling with laughter across from them, a couple of moms with kids too young for school in booths in the back, and one guy in a dirty John Deere cap sitting at the counter.
"What do you think?" Dean says after burning his mouth on his coffee. "We got a little coven action going on at table nine?"
Sam glances over at the old ladies and pulls a frown, but he can't hold it when there's another burst of raucous laughter from their table.
Dean shifts so he can watch them surreptitiously, sees one with cat's-eye glasses and a big diamond on her gnarled hand pass around pictures of what must be her grandkids. He anticipates the pang, barely feels it anymore, and forces himself to grin at Sam when Sam gets all serious, like he's having the same thought.
"Dean--"
"Leave it."
"Let me just--"
"I said, leave it, Sam." He's glad his voice doesn't crack.
Sam tried; Dean knows he did. Probably still is, has some crazy hope that they'll get a last minute reprieve, or that one of the half-dozen sets of protection spells he wove around Dean's soul over the course of the year will hold when the crossroads demon comes calling.
"I never--" He scrubs a hand across his face, gulps down what's left of his coffee. "I never expected to see thirty, Sam, let alone grandkids." He ignores the shadow that passes over Sam's face. "I already told you--"
Sam leans back, taps his spoon against his mug with no discernible rhythm. "I know. And I'm trying, Dean, I really am. But I just--" He looks around, shakes his head in disbelief. "This is what you want to do?"
"It is." He doesn't hesitate, knows showing the slightest sign of hesitation or doubt will set Sam off. "I'm gonna have some bacon pancakes, and a side of sausage, and then I'm gonna wash the car. You can help if you want. Ought to get used to it. She likes being clean, you know." Sam shakes his head again, but Dean keeps talking. "What happens after that, I haven't decided yet." An hour at a time, for each hour he has left.
Sam lays his spoon down on the table with a metallic click. "Okay," he says. "Okay."
The waitress comes over then, puts their food on the table.
"Thanks," Dean says, grinning at her, reflex--he's been flirting with diner waitresses since before he knew what flirting was, and he's not going to stop now.
*
11:44 a.m.
The sun is warm on Dean's skin through the windshield as he vacuums the foot-wells and floor-mats, and sweat is slowly trickling down the backs of his ears. Normally, he'd be making Sam do this part, but since it's the last time, he does it himself, slowly, savoring every grain of salt and speck of graveyard dirt he cleans away.
His ears are still ringing from the vacuum as he straightens up, arching his back--he can think of half a dozen jokes about getting old and listening to his joints crack, but he isn't sure Sam won't belt him if he pops one out today.
He hangs the mats over the fence so he can soap them up, and when he turns back, Sam hits him full in the chest with the spray from the hose.
"You better run," he says, leaping over the half-filled buckets to chase Sam, who sprints for the other side of the car. Dean snags Sam's shirttails and they wrestle for control of the hose, laughter and curses ringing through the clear spring air.
They do manage to get the car clean, though both of them are soaked by the time it's done; Dean's jeans are heavy and dark with water, but he figures he can live with the discomfort--he hasn't heard Sam laugh like this in months, hasn't laughed so hard himself in longer than he cares to remember. Sam's hair is slicked back from his forehead for once and curling wildly at the tips, the way it had when he was a little kid and had kicked and screamed when Dad tried to cut it. It makes him look older but also younger, like he had when he'd insisted on learning to be an altar boy the summer they stayed with Pastor Jim--he'd shined his shoes and parted his hair and put on the black and white robes, always with that serious look on his face that made him look like eight going on forty, and an accountant to boot, and Pastor Jim had thwapped Dean on the back of his head for laughing. Sam still wears that same serious look when he's doing research, forehead all scrunched up and eyes squinty in concentration.
Dean has to lean against the car at the sudden tightness in his chest when he realizes that after tonight, he'll never see that--or any other--look on Sam's face again. He pretends to be winded from laughing so hard, clutches at his sides as he gasps for breath, and refuses to meet Sam's gaze.
He thinks he's gotten away with it, but then Sam's laughter trails off and his hands are on Dean's face, tipping up his chin, thumbs feathering over his cheekbones, like Dean is fragile and will break if he presses too hard. Dean closes his eyes and leans into the touch, warm as the sun on his skin.
"Dean?"
"Okay. I'm okay, Sammy. Okay?"
"You're lying."
He manages a sad little laugh, nothing like what they were just doing. "Yeah."
"Okay." Sam nods, lips pressed together in a rueful line as he lets his hands fall away, and he lets the lie stand.
*
3:10 pm
The woman in the ticket booth is wearing too much eye shadow and cracking her gum when Dean says, "Two for the three-twenty." He slides the cash under the plastic window and takes the tickets, then grins back over his shoulder at Sam, who still looks uncertain. "Come on. It'll be awesome."
He orders a large popcorn and two large Cokes, Twizzlers and peanut M&Ms and raisinettes; he coats the popcorn in copious amounts of salt and golden buttery goodness, ignoring Sam's muttered, "I hate fake butter."
"Shut up, Sam."
They sit all the way in the back, the popcorn in his lap and the candy in Sam's, alone except for a few retirees scattered around, and a handful of high school girls giggling in the center of the auditorium, plaid uniform skirts rolled high and white collared shirts unbuttoned an extra button. Dean remembers being a teenager--he enjoyed the hell out of being a teenager--but he isn't sure he was ever as young as those girls.
The girls settle down once the commercials are over and the previews begin, and it hits Dean again, like a sledgehammer to the nads, that he's not going to be around for the new Indiana Jones movie, the next Steve Carell comedy, the next time George Lucas tries to fuck up Star Wars.
Sam glances over at him, face half in shadow, and Dean shrugs one shoulder and shoves a handful of popcorn in his mouth.
The movie, when it starts, is god-awful--some ridiculous retread of The Parent Trap starring two annoyingly cute (and probably evil) kids and some Kate Hudson lookalike.
To amuse himself, Dean starts spitting soda through his straw at Sam, who makes bitchy faces at him and mutters threats of dire retribution before finally using his own straw as a weapon. They escalate into throwing popcorn (Dean refuses to sacrifice any of his M&Ms to the cause), and when one old lady turns in her seat to give them the glare of death, they settle down and try to look angelic, which Sam excels at, but Dean hasn't managed since he hit puberty.
Dean glances over at Sam, who's glancing furtively back at him, and has to bite his lip to keep from laughing too loud and calling down the old lady's wrath upon them. Instead, he drops a hand in Sam's lap, pretending to look for the Twizzlers, and enjoys the strangled noise Sam chokes out when he brushes over his crotch.
Sam turns to say something--no doubt to tell Dean to stop being a jerk--and Dean covers his mouth with a kiss. Sam tastes of chocolate and popcorn, sugar and salt and heat, and his surprised, "Hmph," makes Dean laugh into his mouth.
It's been a long time since Dean's made out with someone in a movie theatre, and it's awkward with the arm of the chair between them, but they manage, both of them trailing fake butter and salt over the other's skin and hair and clothes. They trade easy, warm kisses, kindling a slow heat burning low in Dean's belly that he's in no hurry to quench, though he tries not to think about how little later he has left.
When the movie ends, Sam's got stubble burn on his throat and oily stains on his shirt, and Dean smells like movie theatre popcorn and Coke.
They stumble out into the bright evening grinning, and Sam says, "You were right, it was awesome."
"Dude," Dean answers, ruffling Sam's hair with sticky fingers as Sam tries to get away, "that movie sucked."
*
8:01 pm
They have the finest steak dinner Mario Andretti's MasterCard can buy ("Distantly related," Dean demurs, with a conspiratorial grin, and Sam chimes in, "Very distantly," when the waiter asks), and then sit out in the motel parking lot, watching the sunset and having a couple of beers.
"Are we gonna talk about this now?" Sam asks, his shoulder warm and heavy against Dean's in the humid night air.
"Aw, man, I was hoping to get away without it."
Sam puts his bottle down on the step and turns so he can put his hand on Dean's shoulder. "Dean, man--"
"Look, Sam, you tried. You tried even when I told you not to, and did everything I could to stop you. The fact that you're not dead and I'm still here tells me that none of it worked."
Sam swallows hard, his eyes bright, and Dean has to look away for a second. "But Dean--"
"It's okay." His fingertips are wet with condensation, and Sam shivers when they brush his face, tuck his hair behind his ear, trace the delicate whorls of it. Dean remembers the way they stuck out from Sam's head when he was a baby, before he had hair to cover them, little pink shells that smelled of shampoo and powder and formula. "Seriously, Sam, I mean it. It's okay. I'm okay. I mean, no, I don't wanna die, and I really don't wanna go to hell," it's his turn to swallow hard, blink away the sting behind his eyes, ignore the way Sam flinches when he says it, "but it's worth it. To have had this year, to know you'll be here, having a life--a good life--it's worth it." He takes a long, slow sip of beer. "Promise me you'll have a good life, Sammy. That you'll at least try."
Sam ducks his head and shakes it. "You're unbelievable."
"I really am."
"I'm gonna find a way to get you out of hell, at least," Sam says, and that sounds more like a threat than a promise.
"I know you are, but don't waste your whole life on it, okay?"
"Dean--"
"No, Sam, listen. I figure I'm gonna be such a pain in the ass to these guys, they're gonna wanna get rid of me after a decade or two, kick me upstairs themselves, you know?"
Sam's laugh is weak, but it's still a laugh. "All part of your plan, huh?"
"Exactly."
The sun is gone, horizon darkening from orange-pink to twilight blue, and above the highway lights, the stars are starting to appear. Dean picks up his beer and raises it in a toast. "Bitch."
Sam shakes his head, still looks like he wants to cry, but he clinks his bottle against Dean's, and answers, "Jerk."
*
11:33 pm
There's a crossroads not too far away--it's one reason Dean picked this motel--and when they arrive, he turns the car off and holds the keys in his hand for a second, their weight comforting and familiar.
He turns to face Sam, who's staring resolutely ahead. "Hey. Hey, Sammy, hey." He holds the keys out the way he used to when they were kids--when Sam was a baby, they'd quiet him down, the jingle fascinating him for hours, and when he was a teenager, Dean would taunt him with the fact that he couldn't drive yet.
Sam smiles like he remembers, but he doesn't take the keys. Dean reaches out and grabs his wrist, drops them into his open palm.
"I don't have an owner's manual," he says, rubbing the gray plastic flash drive, "but everything I know about the care and feeding of a 1967 Chevy Impala is on here, and what I don't know, Bobby does, so you call him if you need help, okay?"
"Dean, I can't--"
"I know, Sam. I know. But you can."
He gets out of the car, the familiar creak of the door the sound of his heart breaking. Sam follows, and they stand silently at the edge of the crossroads for a long moment. He knows Sam has some kind of plan, something he hasn't shared with Dean, and Dean doesn't really want to know what it is at this point--he's finally resigned himself to what's going to happen, and he can't start hoping now.
"It was a good day," he says finally.
"Yeah."
Dean leans against the hood of the car, still warm from the engine, and Sam leans beside him, so they're pressed together from shoulder to ankle.
He can hear crickets chirping, Sam breathing, his own heart beating, as they wait.
There may be better ways to go--he knows there are definitely worse ways--but with Sam warm and alive at his side, he knows this is the only choice he could have made.
end
*
October 16, 2007
~*~
Feedback is adored.
~*~
Supernatural; Dean/Sam; adult; spoilers through the end of season 2; 3,408 words
An hour at a time, for each hour Dean has left.
Written for luzdeestrellas's Supernatural-West Wing Title Challenge. Thanks to her for the beta, as well. All remaining errors are mine.
~*~
20 Hours in America
4:13 a.m.
Dean wakes, the change from sleeping to waking so abrupt he's not even sure what caused it, but he knows he's up for good. It's late enough to be considered early, a time he's more used to seeing from the other side of sleep these days, stumbling in after another battle with demons or another salt and burn.
Sam's still oblivious, his breathing deep and even, and when Dean gets up, he sprawls onto his belly, claiming the empty space.
Dean slips outside in boxers and bare feet, pavement of the parking lot cool and damp against his soles. It rained most of the night, fresh spring rain, so everything is wet, but he runs his hand along the car anyway, sleek lines the shape and definition of home for so long, more than Dad or Sam even, because the car never left, never asked more from him than he could give. The car's always been exactly what he needed when he needed her, and he knows how rare it is to find that anywhere.
He's got an electronic copy of the owner's manual (found during some late night Googling he's pretty sure Sam knows about, but probably thinks was for porn) on a flash drive he'll attach to the key ring when he's finally ready to hand the keys over to Sam for good. Bobby will do what he can to keep her running, since Sam's always been indifferent at best to the ins and outs of engines, and Dean knows he's leaving her in the safest possible hands that aren't his. It still stings, though.
"Sam'll take care of you, baby," he whispers, wiping moisture off the mirror with his shirt. "He knows I'll haunt his ass if he doesn't."
Before he heads back inside, he promises her one last wash. He pulls on a pair of sweats and his sneakers, goes for a run in the cool pre-dawn darkness. It's a quiet neighborhood, not much traffic at this hour, a few dogs barking as he moves through their territory, his feet slapping the pavement and his arms pumping rhythmically, the heavy beat of his heart sounding loud in his ears.
He doesn't pay much attention to the route he's running, just lets his feet lead him until his muscles are burning with the good kind of pain, the kind that means he's done something worthwhile. It's the kind of pain he's most familiar with.
*
6:27 a.m.
When he gets back to the motel, Sam is sitting outside, chipped white coffee mug in hand. His eyes are closed, and Dean hates the dark circles under them, wishes he could make them go away.
The mist is burning off and the sun is rising over the highway. Sam holds out a bottle of water, and after Dean finishes his cooldown, he takes it, drops down onto the little step next to Sam, and watches the sunrise.
"We could go back to bed," Sam says, still bleary-eyed.
As much time as they spent as kids getting up (and going to bed) with the sunrise, neither of them is a morning person, and the thought of being able to crawl back into bed, all warm and mussed and smelling of them, is appealing, but Dean doesn't really want to spend his last day on earth sleeping.
"Nah," he says after finishing the bottle of water. "I'm gonna go for a shower. We should hit the diner when it opens. They've got bacon pancakes with my name on 'em."
He takes his time in the shower, makes himself a mohawk when his hair's all full of shampoo, bellows the words to "Enter Sandman" as loud as he can, regardless of Sam or the people in the next room, and plays the drums on the stained yellow tile to accompany himself.
He's just washed the shampoo out of his hair when Sam pushes the curtain aside and steps into the shower with him. They don't really fit too well, but they've learned to maneuver in small spaces, and soon Sam has Dean pressed back against the cool tile, those giant hands of his sweeping over Dean's chest and belly, his mouth hot and wet against Dean's throat.
Dean shifts his hips so they align with Sam's, and they can thrust against each other, all slick heat and desperate friction.
Dean's had a lot of sex in his life--had a lot of sex this year, trying to find a way to stave off the inevitable--and he knows it's kind of fucked up that he's having it with his little brother, but he can't bring himself to regret it now, not when Sam looks at him with heat and need and enough love to make Dean's heart seize in his chest. They don't talk about it--maybe if Dean actually survives to see tomorrow's sunrise, that'll change--but it's worked for them so far, we do what we do and we shut up about it, the family motto, and maybe that's fucked up too, but Dean couldn't really care less when Sam shudders and comes, head thrown back and mouth slack in surprised pleasure. Sam always looks so shocked when he comes, and God help him, Dean finds it kind of adorable. Not that he'd ever admit it, not that he can even hold the thought in his head when Sam slumps against him, a warm, heavy weight pressing him into the wall, one hand snaking between them to finish Dean off with a few rough strokes.
It's a good thing he's got the wall at his back and Sam in front, because otherwise he wouldn't be able to stay on his feet, pleasure pulsing through him hot and fierce, making it hard for him to breathe. He closes his eyes and buries his face in the crook of Sam's neck. If he slings an arm around Sam's waist, it's just to keep them upright, not a hug or anything. That's his story and he's sticking to it.
*
9:25 a.m.
They hit the diner at the tail-end of whatever passes for the breakfast rush in this town. By the time they're giving the waitress their order, the place has mostly cleared out--there's a table where four blue-haired old broads are having tea and cackling with laughter across from them, a couple of moms with kids too young for school in booths in the back, and one guy in a dirty John Deere cap sitting at the counter.
"What do you think?" Dean says after burning his mouth on his coffee. "We got a little coven action going on at table nine?"
Sam glances over at the old ladies and pulls a frown, but he can't hold it when there's another burst of raucous laughter from their table.
Dean shifts so he can watch them surreptitiously, sees one with cat's-eye glasses and a big diamond on her gnarled hand pass around pictures of what must be her grandkids. He anticipates the pang, barely feels it anymore, and forces himself to grin at Sam when Sam gets all serious, like he's having the same thought.
"Dean--"
"Leave it."
"Let me just--"
"I said, leave it, Sam." He's glad his voice doesn't crack.
Sam tried; Dean knows he did. Probably still is, has some crazy hope that they'll get a last minute reprieve, or that one of the half-dozen sets of protection spells he wove around Dean's soul over the course of the year will hold when the crossroads demon comes calling.
"I never--" He scrubs a hand across his face, gulps down what's left of his coffee. "I never expected to see thirty, Sam, let alone grandkids." He ignores the shadow that passes over Sam's face. "I already told you--"
Sam leans back, taps his spoon against his mug with no discernible rhythm. "I know. And I'm trying, Dean, I really am. But I just--" He looks around, shakes his head in disbelief. "This is what you want to do?"
"It is." He doesn't hesitate, knows showing the slightest sign of hesitation or doubt will set Sam off. "I'm gonna have some bacon pancakes, and a side of sausage, and then I'm gonna wash the car. You can help if you want. Ought to get used to it. She likes being clean, you know." Sam shakes his head again, but Dean keeps talking. "What happens after that, I haven't decided yet." An hour at a time, for each hour he has left.
Sam lays his spoon down on the table with a metallic click. "Okay," he says. "Okay."
The waitress comes over then, puts their food on the table.
"Thanks," Dean says, grinning at her, reflex--he's been flirting with diner waitresses since before he knew what flirting was, and he's not going to stop now.
*
11:44 a.m.
The sun is warm on Dean's skin through the windshield as he vacuums the foot-wells and floor-mats, and sweat is slowly trickling down the backs of his ears. Normally, he'd be making Sam do this part, but since it's the last time, he does it himself, slowly, savoring every grain of salt and speck of graveyard dirt he cleans away.
His ears are still ringing from the vacuum as he straightens up, arching his back--he can think of half a dozen jokes about getting old and listening to his joints crack, but he isn't sure Sam won't belt him if he pops one out today.
He hangs the mats over the fence so he can soap them up, and when he turns back, Sam hits him full in the chest with the spray from the hose.
"You better run," he says, leaping over the half-filled buckets to chase Sam, who sprints for the other side of the car. Dean snags Sam's shirttails and they wrestle for control of the hose, laughter and curses ringing through the clear spring air.
They do manage to get the car clean, though both of them are soaked by the time it's done; Dean's jeans are heavy and dark with water, but he figures he can live with the discomfort--he hasn't heard Sam laugh like this in months, hasn't laughed so hard himself in longer than he cares to remember. Sam's hair is slicked back from his forehead for once and curling wildly at the tips, the way it had when he was a little kid and had kicked and screamed when Dad tried to cut it. It makes him look older but also younger, like he had when he'd insisted on learning to be an altar boy the summer they stayed with Pastor Jim--he'd shined his shoes and parted his hair and put on the black and white robes, always with that serious look on his face that made him look like eight going on forty, and an accountant to boot, and Pastor Jim had thwapped Dean on the back of his head for laughing. Sam still wears that same serious look when he's doing research, forehead all scrunched up and eyes squinty in concentration.
Dean has to lean against the car at the sudden tightness in his chest when he realizes that after tonight, he'll never see that--or any other--look on Sam's face again. He pretends to be winded from laughing so hard, clutches at his sides as he gasps for breath, and refuses to meet Sam's gaze.
He thinks he's gotten away with it, but then Sam's laughter trails off and his hands are on Dean's face, tipping up his chin, thumbs feathering over his cheekbones, like Dean is fragile and will break if he presses too hard. Dean closes his eyes and leans into the touch, warm as the sun on his skin.
"Dean?"
"Okay. I'm okay, Sammy. Okay?"
"You're lying."
He manages a sad little laugh, nothing like what they were just doing. "Yeah."
"Okay." Sam nods, lips pressed together in a rueful line as he lets his hands fall away, and he lets the lie stand.
*
3:10 pm
The woman in the ticket booth is wearing too much eye shadow and cracking her gum when Dean says, "Two for the three-twenty." He slides the cash under the plastic window and takes the tickets, then grins back over his shoulder at Sam, who still looks uncertain. "Come on. It'll be awesome."
He orders a large popcorn and two large Cokes, Twizzlers and peanut M&Ms and raisinettes; he coats the popcorn in copious amounts of salt and golden buttery goodness, ignoring Sam's muttered, "I hate fake butter."
"Shut up, Sam."
They sit all the way in the back, the popcorn in his lap and the candy in Sam's, alone except for a few retirees scattered around, and a handful of high school girls giggling in the center of the auditorium, plaid uniform skirts rolled high and white collared shirts unbuttoned an extra button. Dean remembers being a teenager--he enjoyed the hell out of being a teenager--but he isn't sure he was ever as young as those girls.
The girls settle down once the commercials are over and the previews begin, and it hits Dean again, like a sledgehammer to the nads, that he's not going to be around for the new Indiana Jones movie, the next Steve Carell comedy, the next time George Lucas tries to fuck up Star Wars.
Sam glances over at him, face half in shadow, and Dean shrugs one shoulder and shoves a handful of popcorn in his mouth.
The movie, when it starts, is god-awful--some ridiculous retread of The Parent Trap starring two annoyingly cute (and probably evil) kids and some Kate Hudson lookalike.
To amuse himself, Dean starts spitting soda through his straw at Sam, who makes bitchy faces at him and mutters threats of dire retribution before finally using his own straw as a weapon. They escalate into throwing popcorn (Dean refuses to sacrifice any of his M&Ms to the cause), and when one old lady turns in her seat to give them the glare of death, they settle down and try to look angelic, which Sam excels at, but Dean hasn't managed since he hit puberty.
Dean glances over at Sam, who's glancing furtively back at him, and has to bite his lip to keep from laughing too loud and calling down the old lady's wrath upon them. Instead, he drops a hand in Sam's lap, pretending to look for the Twizzlers, and enjoys the strangled noise Sam chokes out when he brushes over his crotch.
Sam turns to say something--no doubt to tell Dean to stop being a jerk--and Dean covers his mouth with a kiss. Sam tastes of chocolate and popcorn, sugar and salt and heat, and his surprised, "Hmph," makes Dean laugh into his mouth.
It's been a long time since Dean's made out with someone in a movie theatre, and it's awkward with the arm of the chair between them, but they manage, both of them trailing fake butter and salt over the other's skin and hair and clothes. They trade easy, warm kisses, kindling a slow heat burning low in Dean's belly that he's in no hurry to quench, though he tries not to think about how little later he has left.
When the movie ends, Sam's got stubble burn on his throat and oily stains on his shirt, and Dean smells like movie theatre popcorn and Coke.
They stumble out into the bright evening grinning, and Sam says, "You were right, it was awesome."
"Dude," Dean answers, ruffling Sam's hair with sticky fingers as Sam tries to get away, "that movie sucked."
*
8:01 pm
They have the finest steak dinner Mario Andretti's MasterCard can buy ("Distantly related," Dean demurs, with a conspiratorial grin, and Sam chimes in, "Very distantly," when the waiter asks), and then sit out in the motel parking lot, watching the sunset and having a couple of beers.
"Are we gonna talk about this now?" Sam asks, his shoulder warm and heavy against Dean's in the humid night air.
"Aw, man, I was hoping to get away without it."
Sam puts his bottle down on the step and turns so he can put his hand on Dean's shoulder. "Dean, man--"
"Look, Sam, you tried. You tried even when I told you not to, and did everything I could to stop you. The fact that you're not dead and I'm still here tells me that none of it worked."
Sam swallows hard, his eyes bright, and Dean has to look away for a second. "But Dean--"
"It's okay." His fingertips are wet with condensation, and Sam shivers when they brush his face, tuck his hair behind his ear, trace the delicate whorls of it. Dean remembers the way they stuck out from Sam's head when he was a baby, before he had hair to cover them, little pink shells that smelled of shampoo and powder and formula. "Seriously, Sam, I mean it. It's okay. I'm okay. I mean, no, I don't wanna die, and I really don't wanna go to hell," it's his turn to swallow hard, blink away the sting behind his eyes, ignore the way Sam flinches when he says it, "but it's worth it. To have had this year, to know you'll be here, having a life--a good life--it's worth it." He takes a long, slow sip of beer. "Promise me you'll have a good life, Sammy. That you'll at least try."
Sam ducks his head and shakes it. "You're unbelievable."
"I really am."
"I'm gonna find a way to get you out of hell, at least," Sam says, and that sounds more like a threat than a promise.
"I know you are, but don't waste your whole life on it, okay?"
"Dean--"
"No, Sam, listen. I figure I'm gonna be such a pain in the ass to these guys, they're gonna wanna get rid of me after a decade or two, kick me upstairs themselves, you know?"
Sam's laugh is weak, but it's still a laugh. "All part of your plan, huh?"
"Exactly."
The sun is gone, horizon darkening from orange-pink to twilight blue, and above the highway lights, the stars are starting to appear. Dean picks up his beer and raises it in a toast. "Bitch."
Sam shakes his head, still looks like he wants to cry, but he clinks his bottle against Dean's, and answers, "Jerk."
*
11:33 pm
There's a crossroads not too far away--it's one reason Dean picked this motel--and when they arrive, he turns the car off and holds the keys in his hand for a second, their weight comforting and familiar.
He turns to face Sam, who's staring resolutely ahead. "Hey. Hey, Sammy, hey." He holds the keys out the way he used to when they were kids--when Sam was a baby, they'd quiet him down, the jingle fascinating him for hours, and when he was a teenager, Dean would taunt him with the fact that he couldn't drive yet.
Sam smiles like he remembers, but he doesn't take the keys. Dean reaches out and grabs his wrist, drops them into his open palm.
"I don't have an owner's manual," he says, rubbing the gray plastic flash drive, "but everything I know about the care and feeding of a 1967 Chevy Impala is on here, and what I don't know, Bobby does, so you call him if you need help, okay?"
"Dean, I can't--"
"I know, Sam. I know. But you can."
He gets out of the car, the familiar creak of the door the sound of his heart breaking. Sam follows, and they stand silently at the edge of the crossroads for a long moment. He knows Sam has some kind of plan, something he hasn't shared with Dean, and Dean doesn't really want to know what it is at this point--he's finally resigned himself to what's going to happen, and he can't start hoping now.
"It was a good day," he says finally.
"Yeah."
Dean leans against the hood of the car, still warm from the engine, and Sam leans beside him, so they're pressed together from shoulder to ankle.
He can hear crickets chirping, Sam breathing, his own heart beating, as they wait.
There may be better ways to go--he knows there are definitely worse ways--but with Sam warm and alive at his side, he knows this is the only choice he could have made.
end
*
October 16, 2007
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