6.
SURPRISE, MOTHERFUCKERS.
where the sunsets are all breathtaking (6/?)
PG-13, eventual wincest, AU.
Spoilers for s3 finale.
1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10.
six
Dean doesn’t remember closing his eyes until they’re opening again, waking to bright morning light and a hand on his shoulder. Sam’s staring down at him, face hovering just a couple inches overheard, close enough he’s all that Dean can see. He looks like he hasn’t slept in a month, if ever, all papery skin and darkly shadowed eyes; but his smile is so wide, it’s sucking the light out of the room.
“I have something,” he says, with a dizzy, dizzy grin.
“Syphillis?” Dean suggests, rolling onto his side until all he can see is the ugly wallpaper. Sam’s hand slides down between his shoulder-blades. It’s big, and warm, and hard to ignore.
“No,” Sam says. “Something better. Come on, get up.”
It’s easier to just do what he’s told than fight for those last five minutes of fitful sleep, so he rolls out of bed and tugs his boots on, Sam hovering like an over-protective angel as Dean fumbles with his laces. His fingers are too clumsy and his boots are cold from disuse, from two nights spent lying where he’d kicked them, and Dean winces as yanks on his jacket and follows Sam out of the room.
The morning is already getting hot and the sunlight’s blinding after a couple days of hiding from the universe in a dark, little room. He draws in a deep breath of fresh air; it feels kinda like betrayal when it tastes so goddamn good.
“Look.” And Sam’s right there again, hands hovering at Dean’s shoulder as though he isn’t quite sure whether or not he’s allowed to touch. “Look,” he says again, fingertips brushing, so Dean steps forwards; away from Sam’s hands, towards where Sam’s pointing. It balances out, he figures.
“What am I meanta be looking at?”
Sam nudges past him, crunching out onto the gravel of the parking lot, and he lays his hand on the roof of some beat-up, old car, and he says, “This. It’s ours. It’s for you.”
He’s grinning again, brighter than sunlight. It’s the kind of grin a cat would have, Dean imagines, after dropping a dead bird at its owner’s feet. Honestly, a dead bird would probably be nicer to look at. The car is...
Well, it’s a Chevy, and it’s big and black, and that’s about the only plus points he can think of right now. But it’s got four wheels and four doors. It must have some kinda engine, or else Sam wouldn’t have been able to drive it here. None of the windows are broken. It must be at least fifteen years old, too modern to be worth talking about but still ancient enough to be a piece of shit. But it’s a car, and that’s one helluva lot more than he had yesterday.
“Sam,” Dean says. “How the fuck did you get this?”
“Guy was selling it a couple blocks away. I had a look around while you were sleeping, got lucky. Here,” Sam adds, tossing the key across the dusty roof of the Lumina and beaming as Dean catches it automatically. “You can drive.”
Dean would rather sit the fuck down and ask a few more questions, but Sam’s already tugging open shotgun and sliding inside. There aren’t exactly a whole lot of alternatives; kill a couple more minutes in his motel room, until he has to leave, and then he’s just gonna be stuck staring at this- his, apparently- uglyass car again. Sam waves a hand impatiently, and what else is there to do? Dean sighs and climbs inside.
The car smells of car, hot and neglected and unfamiliar. Of course, the air-con isn’t working, so he winds the window down as far as it can go, until all he can smell is dust and the great outdoors. He grips the steering wheel, and that just doesn’t feel right either.
“Sam,” Dean says. “How did you get this? Tell me you didn’t rob a bank.”
Sam snorts, in that kind of visual equivalent of an eye-roll. It’s more cramped than the Impala, putting him that much closer to Dean, that much more of a presence he can’t ignore. “Don’t be stupid,” he says. “I have money. Not much now, but I’d been saving up before we left. If you’d just stayed, on the first day, I could have given you some.”
“You’d been saving up,” Dean repeats flatly. He looks at Sam, and Sam’s just smiling, leaning back in the passenger seat with his arms splayed and his knees at odd angles so they’ll fit against the dashboard. Five minutes, and he’s made the car another little home.
Dean figures they can argue about it later. He runs a hand through his hair, takes a deep breath. “Okay. Okay. You gonna tell me where we’re goin’?”
“Pierre,” Sam says, and before Dean can even start asking he adds, “There’s a man there who’s going to help us. Julius Rhodes. He’s first on the list.”
The list, Dean remembers. The fucking list Sam took from Bobby’s brain without even stopping to say goodbye. Another deep breath, before he twists the key in the ignition. The engine rumbles into life, spluttering and discontent, and just the feel of it is enough. Too much. He drops his hands from the steering wheel and pushes the door back open.
“Dean?” Sam’s exclaiming, reaching out to grab at Dean’s jacket with a high note of anxiety. “Hey, wait, Dean--”
“We’re swapping,” Dean says, instead of get the fuck off me. “You drive. I wanna sleep.”
He slams the car door shut behind him, and skirts around the front of the car, fingers trailing over the hood before he can stop himself. By the time he reaches the other side, Sam’s already shifted over into the driver’s seat, looking tense and panicky. Looking, Dean realises, like he’s expect Dean to bolt again.
The thought kind of makes him want to, but he doesn’t.
Shotgun is just as uncomfortable as the driver’s side was. Dean doesn’t bother trying to get comfy; he just winds the window all the way down, slinging an arm out of it and resting his chin in the crook of his elbow. His teeth judder with the engine vibrations.
“Dean,” Sam begins, from behind him.
“Ssh. Sleeping,” Dean says. He waits for another hesitant touch, another plaintive word, but eventually Sam just sighs. They swing out of the parking lot in silence, just crunching gravel and the thrum of internal combustion and the sun hot on Dean’s face. He closes his eyes. It’s another goddamn beautiful day.
*
PS. This is the car in my mind.
where the sunsets are all breathtaking (6/?)
PG-13, eventual wincest, AU.
Spoilers for s3 finale.
1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10.
six
Dean doesn’t remember closing his eyes until they’re opening again, waking to bright morning light and a hand on his shoulder. Sam’s staring down at him, face hovering just a couple inches overheard, close enough he’s all that Dean can see. He looks like he hasn’t slept in a month, if ever, all papery skin and darkly shadowed eyes; but his smile is so wide, it’s sucking the light out of the room.
“I have something,” he says, with a dizzy, dizzy grin.
“Syphillis?” Dean suggests, rolling onto his side until all he can see is the ugly wallpaper. Sam’s hand slides down between his shoulder-blades. It’s big, and warm, and hard to ignore.
“No,” Sam says. “Something better. Come on, get up.”
It’s easier to just do what he’s told than fight for those last five minutes of fitful sleep, so he rolls out of bed and tugs his boots on, Sam hovering like an over-protective angel as Dean fumbles with his laces. His fingers are too clumsy and his boots are cold from disuse, from two nights spent lying where he’d kicked them, and Dean winces as yanks on his jacket and follows Sam out of the room.
The morning is already getting hot and the sunlight’s blinding after a couple days of hiding from the universe in a dark, little room. He draws in a deep breath of fresh air; it feels kinda like betrayal when it tastes so goddamn good.
“Look.” And Sam’s right there again, hands hovering at Dean’s shoulder as though he isn’t quite sure whether or not he’s allowed to touch. “Look,” he says again, fingertips brushing, so Dean steps forwards; away from Sam’s hands, towards where Sam’s pointing. It balances out, he figures.
“What am I meanta be looking at?”
Sam nudges past him, crunching out onto the gravel of the parking lot, and he lays his hand on the roof of some beat-up, old car, and he says, “This. It’s ours. It’s for you.”
He’s grinning again, brighter than sunlight. It’s the kind of grin a cat would have, Dean imagines, after dropping a dead bird at its owner’s feet. Honestly, a dead bird would probably be nicer to look at. The car is...
Well, it’s a Chevy, and it’s big and black, and that’s about the only plus points he can think of right now. But it’s got four wheels and four doors. It must have some kinda engine, or else Sam wouldn’t have been able to drive it here. None of the windows are broken. It must be at least fifteen years old, too modern to be worth talking about but still ancient enough to be a piece of shit. But it’s a car, and that’s one helluva lot more than he had yesterday.
“Sam,” Dean says. “How the fuck did you get this?”
“Guy was selling it a couple blocks away. I had a look around while you were sleeping, got lucky. Here,” Sam adds, tossing the key across the dusty roof of the Lumina and beaming as Dean catches it automatically. “You can drive.”
Dean would rather sit the fuck down and ask a few more questions, but Sam’s already tugging open shotgun and sliding inside. There aren’t exactly a whole lot of alternatives; kill a couple more minutes in his motel room, until he has to leave, and then he’s just gonna be stuck staring at this- his, apparently- uglyass car again. Sam waves a hand impatiently, and what else is there to do? Dean sighs and climbs inside.
The car smells of car, hot and neglected and unfamiliar. Of course, the air-con isn’t working, so he winds the window down as far as it can go, until all he can smell is dust and the great outdoors. He grips the steering wheel, and that just doesn’t feel right either.
“Sam,” Dean says. “How did you get this? Tell me you didn’t rob a bank.”
Sam snorts, in that kind of visual equivalent of an eye-roll. It’s more cramped than the Impala, putting him that much closer to Dean, that much more of a presence he can’t ignore. “Don’t be stupid,” he says. “I have money. Not much now, but I’d been saving up before we left. If you’d just stayed, on the first day, I could have given you some.”
“You’d been saving up,” Dean repeats flatly. He looks at Sam, and Sam’s just smiling, leaning back in the passenger seat with his arms splayed and his knees at odd angles so they’ll fit against the dashboard. Five minutes, and he’s made the car another little home.
Dean figures they can argue about it later. He runs a hand through his hair, takes a deep breath. “Okay. Okay. You gonna tell me where we’re goin’?”
“Pierre,” Sam says, and before Dean can even start asking he adds, “There’s a man there who’s going to help us. Julius Rhodes. He’s first on the list.”
The list, Dean remembers. The fucking list Sam took from Bobby’s brain without even stopping to say goodbye. Another deep breath, before he twists the key in the ignition. The engine rumbles into life, spluttering and discontent, and just the feel of it is enough. Too much. He drops his hands from the steering wheel and pushes the door back open.
“Dean?” Sam’s exclaiming, reaching out to grab at Dean’s jacket with a high note of anxiety. “Hey, wait, Dean--”
“We’re swapping,” Dean says, instead of get the fuck off me. “You drive. I wanna sleep.”
He slams the car door shut behind him, and skirts around the front of the car, fingers trailing over the hood before he can stop himself. By the time he reaches the other side, Sam’s already shifted over into the driver’s seat, looking tense and panicky. Looking, Dean realises, like he’s expect Dean to bolt again.
The thought kind of makes him want to, but he doesn’t.
Shotgun is just as uncomfortable as the driver’s side was. Dean doesn’t bother trying to get comfy; he just winds the window all the way down, slinging an arm out of it and resting his chin in the crook of his elbow. His teeth judder with the engine vibrations.
“Dean,” Sam begins, from behind him.
“Ssh. Sleeping,” Dean says. He waits for another hesitant touch, another plaintive word, but eventually Sam just sighs. They swing out of the parking lot in silence, just crunching gravel and the thrum of internal combustion and the sun hot on Dean’s face. He closes his eyes. It’s another goddamn beautiful day.
*
PS. This is the car in my mind.
