10.
So I'm in a rubbish mood and it's a teeny tiny useless part, but I was kinda feeling like if I didn't write NOW it'd never get done. So there. Back to the good stuff tomorrow. (Hopefully.)
where the sunsets are all breathtaking (10/?)
PG-13, eventual wincest, AU.
Spoilers for s3 finale.
1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10.
ten
“So where do you want to go?” Sam asks.
It’s later, with the sun dipping down low on the horizon, and everything Mr Rhodes promised them is present and correct and packed neatly in the trunk of the car. There’s money in Dean’s wallet again, the $10,000 cash split between them at Sam’s insistence. The bills are no different from the bills back home, as far as Dean can tell.
He glances sideways at Sam, who’s sat in the driver’s side in unspoken agreement, with his hands already resting on the steering wheel and his gaze on something far away. He’s a shade too pale. Dean says, “Where do I want to go?”
“You can decide,” Sam says, looking out the window. “I figure I kinda owe you.”
Understatement of the fucking century, Dean thinks but doesn’t say. He’s got the window wound down as far as it can go, and he leans out of it, resting his chin in his hand. They’re sitting in the crummy parking lot, nowhere to go but where Sam points them-- where, apparently, Dean tells him to point, and when has he ever made a choice that was more than the next hunt or the next drink or the next goddamn giant ball of yarn?
“You gonna tell me,” he asks, instead, “why you didn’t want me comin’ to Mr Rhodes?”
“No.”
When Dean twists to look at Sam, Sam is looking back at him, tight-lipped and impossibly unhappy. Somehow, Dean’s just glad he didn’t lie.
“West,” he says, eventually. “Let’s go west.”
Sam starts the engine in jerky little movements, wordless, and he grips the steering wheel too tight as he pulls them out of the parking lot and back onto the road, and for a second Dean misses his baby so much it’s a physical thing. He slumps back in his seat, turns his head and twists his neck until all he can see is the sky, blue drifting into gold.
They drive west; it's something.
where the sunsets are all breathtaking (10/?)
PG-13, eventual wincest, AU.
Spoilers for s3 finale.
1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10.
ten
“So where do you want to go?” Sam asks.
It’s later, with the sun dipping down low on the horizon, and everything Mr Rhodes promised them is present and correct and packed neatly in the trunk of the car. There’s money in Dean’s wallet again, the $10,000 cash split between them at Sam’s insistence. The bills are no different from the bills back home, as far as Dean can tell.
He glances sideways at Sam, who’s sat in the driver’s side in unspoken agreement, with his hands already resting on the steering wheel and his gaze on something far away. He’s a shade too pale. Dean says, “Where do I want to go?”
“You can decide,” Sam says, looking out the window. “I figure I kinda owe you.”
Understatement of the fucking century, Dean thinks but doesn’t say. He’s got the window wound down as far as it can go, and he leans out of it, resting his chin in his hand. They’re sitting in the crummy parking lot, nowhere to go but where Sam points them-- where, apparently, Dean tells him to point, and when has he ever made a choice that was more than the next hunt or the next drink or the next goddamn giant ball of yarn?
“You gonna tell me,” he asks, instead, “why you didn’t want me comin’ to Mr Rhodes?”
“No.”
When Dean twists to look at Sam, Sam is looking back at him, tight-lipped and impossibly unhappy. Somehow, Dean’s just glad he didn’t lie.
“West,” he says, eventually. “Let’s go west.”
Sam starts the engine in jerky little movements, wordless, and he grips the steering wheel too tight as he pulls them out of the parking lot and back onto the road, and for a second Dean misses his baby so much it’s a physical thing. He slumps back in his seat, turns his head and twists his neck until all he can see is the sky, blue drifting into gold.
They drive west; it's something.