(no subject)
Sell Your Baseball Cards to Pay the Rent
by whereupon
Sam/Dean, R, no spoilers, 4,749 words.
Seriously, this is the best thing that's happened all week.
Dean thinks it's hilarious right up until one of the guys gets the ocean-green edge of a broken bottle up tight against his neck. Even after that, it's still kind of funny, it just costs a little more to laugh.
Sam's eyes go wide and he takes a step back, folding just like that, like he's made out of paper or toothpicks or some shit, which Dean knows goddamn well he isn't. He knows goddamn well that Dad raised them both right and Sam's never been one to punk out at the sight of blood.
"Okay," Sam says, raising his hands. "Okay." The guy on the floor moans a little, scuttles like a crab out of Sam's reach back into the shadowy recesses created by the overturned tables, the broken chair and the barstool that took out the light swinging over the pool table. This blue-and-red shatter over everything and Dean wasn't too busy getting his head down that he couldn't marvel for a moment at the sound the glass made when it came down.
Dean rolls his eyes at Sam, but his brother's too busy surrendering to notice. He mouths come on and tries to tilt his head at the guy with the bottle, seaglass in his periphery, but Sam only glares at him and the guy tightens his grip. Sour breath on Dean's face and the glass is kind of, okay, fucking sharp. He grits his teeth and then grins because seriously, this is the best thing that's happened all week.
"We're leaving now," Sam says. "It's over, we're, um, we're sorry."
The guy lets Dean go and Dean turns around, one hand already raised, and Sam's voice cuts low and quick. "Dean."
Dean lowers his hand and goes to stand by his brother. It's not a retreat, it's demonstrating their combined force, showing everybody else just how sorry they're gonna be if they fuck with either of them.
The men stare at them, maybe cowed into silence. Dean doesn't blame them. The bartender says, "You're paying for the damages."
"We didn't start it," Sam says. "Guy over there threw the first punch."
"Way I see it, he had the right," the bartender says. "Seeings as how you were trying to rip him off, bilk a good man out of an honest day's work."
"We weren't trying to bilk anybody," Sam says. "He lost all on his own."
"Not our fault he's a fuckin' sore loser," Dean says. "And we didn't ask his buddies to join in, either."
"You ain't the first hustlers any of us've seen," the bartender says. "And you ain't gonna be the last, either."
"Well, that's very philosophical of you," Sam says.
"Still don't mean we're paying for shit," Dean says.
The bartender stares at them. "See, Ted over there had a bottle to your neck and he let you go outta the goodness of his heart," he says. "You might wanna repay the favor or he might not be feeling so kindly."
"Ted got lucky," Dean says. "Won't happen next time. Fool me once, yada yada, you know the rest."
The bartender lifts the shotgun from behind the bar. "That's what I said the first time a couple a' you ripped me off."
"Fine," Dean says. "Consider this a charitable donation. Use it to get yourself a sense of humor."
Sam's standing close enough that his sigh slides across Dean's skin, sets the back of his neck to prickling. Dean's wallet is wedged in with his keys and he has to take the keys out of his pocket in order to unjam the wallet. Bills that should be in it, that were in it, are scattered across the beersticky floor, one stuck to the bottom of his boot.
He slams a credit card down on the counter. The bartender picks it up, looks at it and then raises his eyebrows at Dean.
"Tom Petty," the bartender says. Dean nods. It occurs to him that the jukebox is still playing, "American Girl" vaguely audible through the busted speakers. Take it easy baby, make it last all night, and -- oh.
"It's a common name," Dean says. "My, uh. My parents were big fans. Conceived me to 'Breakdown'. I got an ID out in my car, I can go grab it." It's a bluff, but he's got a good poker face and the guy'll have to give him back his keys if he wants Dean to go get it. So long as the bartender doesn't demand Sam as collateral until Dean comes back, they'll be fine.
Sam makes this noise that could be a snicker, or maybe he's just trying to clear his throat. The bartender holds the card out, pinched between his thumb and index, and Dean takes it. The bartender snakes his keys, slides them back across the counter and they disappear into his pocket.
Dean's eyes get murderous, deadly-sharp. "What the fuck," he says. "The card's good."
"Might be, might not be," the bartender says. "I'm afraid I'm gonna have to ask you to pay in cash, though. You understand. Official management policy."
"That's fuckin' extortion," Dean says.
"You wanna call the cops, Tom?" the bartender asks. "I got a buddy on the force, I can give him a call, see if you can explain it to his satisfaction. Billy's not an unreasonable guy, I'm sure he'd at least pretend to listen to your side before hauling you down to the station."
Which isn't an option because they're wanted in at least thirteen states and this is one of them. Not that some podunk town deputy's gonna recognize him and Sammy, but on the off chance that the cop does get all unreasonable and sides with the bartender, there's always the chance he might run their prints.
"There's no need for that," Sam says, his hand on Dean's shoulder, and Dean's smile is more bared teeth than anything mirthful.
"If there's so much as a fuckin' scratch on her when we get back," Dean says. "So help me god, I'll cram that shotgun so far up your ass you'll wish you never heard of Tom Petty and the goddamn Heartbreakers."
"Son, we passed that point as soon as you handed me the goddamn card," the bartender says. "Damn shame, too, ' cause 'Breakdown''s a damn good song and now every time I hear it I'm gonna have to think of you."
"You should be so lucky," Dean says. "By the time I'm done with you, I'm gonna be in your fuckin' nightmares."
"We'll be back," Sam says, and now he's dragging Dean towards the door, Dean's boots scuffing slightly because he's not done.
"We'll look forward to that," the bartender says. "Won't we, boys?"
Ragged chorus of agreement and somebody drawls, "Y'all come back now, y'hear," and Dean's eyes go squinty and flinted. He's turning on his heel as Sam pushes open the door and shoves him out into the parking lot.
The door slams shut behind them.
"What the hell, Sam," Dean says. "Since when are you such a fuckin' pussy?"
"Did you not notice the bottle against your neck?" Sam says. "I just figured you liked having your carotid intact. You're welcome."
"He wasn't gonna do anything," Dean says. "Like he was gonna go to prison for that, huh?"
"Okay, next time I'll just stand back and watch," Sam says.
"Thank you," Dean says.
"My pleasure, man."
Dean glares at him, turns around and kicks the door, which doesn't have the good grace to much as splinter. "Fucking goddamn asshole bartenders, fucking goddamn asshole Ted, fucking goddamn door," he snarls.
When he looks back at Sam, Sam has his face covered and he's hunched over, his stupid giant shoulders shaking and Dean thinks for a second that his brother's finally lost it, that his brother's crying, hysterical over the temporary loss of the car (and Dean really couldn't blame him) and then Sam lets his hands fall away and the bastard's fucking laughing.
"Oh my god," Sam says, words squeezed out tight between breaths. "Tom Petty? Did you think he wouldn't notice?"
"Not my fault some asshole put the jukebox on random," Dean says. He watches Sam for a few minutes, wonders how likely it is that Sam will die of oxygen deprivation, his face red and blotchy and his eyes streaming. "You realize everything we own is in that car, right? Your laptop, your knives, all your stupid books? You realize the money I woulda used to get it back is still on the floor?"
"Not true," Sam says. "There's a five stuck to your foot."
Dean reaches down, peels it off and slaps it against Sam's shirt. It clings for a second and then drifts away, spins lifelessly to the ground. Sam swallows, stops laughing, pushes his hair out of his face and says, "Okay. Shit. What do we do now?"
"We get us a goddamn ride," Dean says. He reaches down to scoop up the bill, crumples it into his pocket and strides off into the shadows, gravel crunching beneath his boots and Sam trailing behind.
"A ride to where," Sam says.
"The other side of the rainbow, Sammy," Dean says. He looks back over his shoulder to make sure nobody's watching them and then sets to work on the little grey car. "Where the skies are goddamn blue. How the hell should I know? You got us into this, you can do some of the work."
"I did not get us into this," Sam says. "You're the one who said we should stop here in the first place. You're the one who started the game. You're the one who threw the game and all I did was back you up."
Dean looks up from the driver's side door. "Didn't anybody ever give you the peer pressure speech?"
"You're not my peer, you're my brother. It doesn't count. Dean, if you're gonna break into a car anyway, why don't you just break into the Impala?"
"Dude, I'm not gonna break into my own car," Dean says. "I'm not fuckin' her up and besides, I want my keys back."
The lock pops. Dean opens the door. "You coming or what?" he says and he doesn't wait for an answer. By the time he's got the engine started, Sam's in the passenger's seat as always.
Dean gets them far enough away that anyone who comes out after them won't be able to see them, far enough to be temporarily safe, and then he pulls over.
"So what's the plan," he says.
Sam shakes his head. He looks ridiculous, wedged into the car like this. Dean wants his car back so fucking badly. His home, his stuff, his car where they both fit and he knows exactly how it works and the sound the engine makes when they hit sixty-five, knows it as well as anything, as well as he knows the noise and push of the blood in his own veins.
"Try another bar?" Sam says. "I got nothing."
"You know, you're kind of useless when you're drunk," Dean says.
"Okay, first, you're welcome for even trying to come up with a solution, second, I'm not drunk, and third, if I were, it would be your own fault for using me to lure the marks in and trying to make it believable and we are so seriously fucked." Sam buries his face in his hands. Dean stares at the back of his neck, the line of skin between his hair and his collar.
"Thanks for the update," Dean says. "I hadn't noticed. Hey, I could let somebody blow me, you think?"
Sam starts laughing again, his head thrown back, his throat bared and this choking, sputtering sound that on any other day Dean would milk for all it was worth, but now's not the time. He slams his elbow into Sam's side, which is easier to do in this small car than his own which was designed for actual people and not, like, dwarf midget clowns, and Sam's breath comes out in a gasp. "No fucking way," he says, sounding winded. His lip trembles like he's going to start again at any second and Dean glares at him.
"Not seeing a whole lot of other options," Dean says. "Unless you wanna rob a bank."
"We are not robbing a bank," Sam says.
"I was just throwing it out there."
"And I'm throwing it back."
"So what else you got," Dean says. "Because no way I'm leaving town without my car, who knows what that guy'd do with it."
Sam rubs his eyes. "We might not have a choice," he says. "I'm sure it'll be fine on its own for a day, Dean. Trust me, it probably won't even know you were gone."
"Fuck you," Dean says and he shifts the stolen car into drive.
This pawn shop on the main street, which is actually called Main Street, and Sam yawns, sits up straighter when Dean parks. Sam squints blearily out at the neon sign flashing -A-N -HOP, the other letters dead and grey, and then shakes his head in disbelief. "What do you have to pawn?" he says.
"You," Dean says.
"Funny," Sam says. He gets out of the car and slouches after Dean. A bell rings when they go inside and there's a security camera overhead, red light blinking like a robot eye. Dean swallows. There's another way. There's another way. There's another --
"Can I help you?" the clerk asks.
Dean bites his lip. He yanks the gun from his belt and says, "Yeah, empty the drawer."
"Shit," Sam says from somewhere behind him.
The guy does as Dean asked, empties the cash into a plastic bag with THANK YOU printed all over it and hands it over to Dean. Dean thinks he should be panicking, thinks his heart should be pounding and he was sort of hoping some aspect of something rational would break through before he got this far, but it hasn't. Just this simple logic. He needs his car. He needs money to get his car. This is a way to get money.
Back outside and Sam says, "Jesus fucking Christ, Dean, how fucking stupid are you, are you insane, I can't believe you just held up a pawn shop, the cops are probably on their way already, oh my god."
"He's probably got insurance," Dean says, getting back in the car. "It probably happens to him every day." He checks the rearview anyway, but there's nothing, just this dead street, 7-Up bottle blowing across the road like tumbleweed.
"Oh my god," Sam says again. "I am not nearly drunk enough for this." He scrubs at his eyes again. "You really think we can outrun the cops in this? Nobody ever outran anything in a Subaru."
"I'm working on that," Dean says, snappish but secretly pleased, liking the way Sam's looking at him, the hint of awe in his eyes. It's exhilarating and this is so Sam's fault, all of it, because Sam should know better than to do this to him.
Wicked adrenaline in Dean's blood on the way back to the bar and maybe he'll never sleep again. Run down the night, these yellow sodium lights all the way to the pink-edged horizon, until the sun-glow slips soft across the sky. It's a beautiful terrible feeling, everything sliding into place, it's all gonna be okay, he's gonna get his baby back, and Sam's grinning a little, is half-asleep again, is his accomplice. Sam has his back, will follow him into crime, into battle or any other goddamn place.
The terrible part, though. The guilty part, the bittersweet part, the salt-in-his-throat part, the part where it's one more mark against them. One more reason the cops will be after them, one more reason Sam will never be able to leave. One more tragedy scar, one more reminder of how wrong things can get and the hell of it is that it, this whole thing, that Dean's hand on the gun and his face looking up at the camera while in the background Sam winces, maybe immortalized on that videotape (or at least frozen for longer than both of them might be alive), will be lost among everything else.
Compared to everything else they're wanted for, every other reason for the target on their backs, this doesn't even count.
Dean shoves the door open, strides to the counter and dumps half of what they stole onto the bar. It's not enough to cover everything, probably not even most of it, but one way or another, they're gonna be gone before the bartender gets a chance to count it. "There'd better not be one fuckin' scratch on her," he says.
The bartender raises his eyebrows. "Didn't even touch her, buddy," he says, soft and so reasonable now, and Dean does not want to know why, does not want to know what's showing on his face. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the bar all the same, the deadly flintlock trigger of his eyes and the set of his mouth infinitely familiar, reminding him of Dad, this gutpunch epiphany he hopes to god isn't obvious to anybody else.
The bartender slides the keys across the counter. Sam catches them, his other hand fitting around Dean's neck, catching in Dean's collar like he thinks he's going to have to drag Dean out again, and they leave.
Nobody tries to stop them.
Sam's hand is still hot and damp on the back of Dean's neck when they get to the Impala, but Dean doesn't mind. He doesn't even mind when Sam turns him around, shoves him back against the smooth black of his girl, when Sam rests his hands on Dean's shoulders and looks down at him like he's the best thing in the whole world, the best thing Sam's ever seen, and Dean grins at the unexpected gift.
Sam's mouth slides against his, opens like an invitation, like celebration, and Dean is lightheaded, is caught off-guard, is kissing him back, his tongue slipping between Sam's teeth and the teeth of his keys are biting into his palm. Dean makes this desperate noise, halfway between a groan and a sigh, one of his brother's legs trapped between his own and how did that happen, and then Sam steps back like he's stumbling, like he's been shocked. Neon light slipping across his face, illuminating this expression that on any other day, at any other time, would be incredibly funny.
Dean doesn't laugh. He rests a hand on the roof of his car like he's reminding himself it's there, like he loves it (which he does), and hopes that's what it looks like, hopes it doesn't look like he's holding himself up, because that's not what he's doing at all.
"I'm, uh," Sam says. "I'm really glad you got the car back."
"Me, too," Dean says, impossibly glad that they don't have time to talk about it, figure out what just happened, figure out anything, time to do anything but move. "We gotta go, come on."
Sam does.
Dean blows through a stop sign on the way out of town, glances over and Sam's clinging white-knuckled to the door, his eyes wide and glorious like he's loving every minute of this outlaw slide. They speed reckless towards anonymous night, cut onto the interstate spotted with streetlights like alien abduction sites spaced uniformly all down the line.
Sam keeps looking over at him, distracting deer-in-the-headlights glances. Dean's mouth is dry and he thinks they should slow down, should stop, should. Should not. He swallows. "Okay, yes, get your ass over here already," he says, and he's not sure if his voice comes out higher than usual or if that's just in his head, this unsure thing drawing his veins taut as wires, making him do the riskiest, deadliest, most dangerous things.
An instant in which he panics, in which he thinks that Sam won't, that it was a mistake, that maybe Sam just, like, tripped and happened to fall against Dean with his mouth open or something, and now that Dean thinks about it, that does seem like something Sam would do.
And then Sam moves. Slide-crawls across the seat until he's flush against Dean.
Sam mouthing at his neck, Sam's hands slipping up under his shirt, and the steering wheel jerks in Dean's hands and he's not sure what they're doing anymore. Not sure when violence turned into this, not sure what the hell this is, and finally he has to give in, come to a stop on the side of the road, spinning out onto gravel because his hands are shaking and his knees are locked up tight from trying not to kill both of them for just one second of leaning up into Sam's mouth.
He bites his tongue hard when Sam licks behind his ear and he'll associate those two things forever, the taste of blood and Sam's mouth inseparable.
Sam's eyes are wet and black in the dark. The only light comes from the UFO glow a hundred feet away and Dean's breath comes out in a rush, in a shudder. The engine is still shivering down, the car shaking around them, shaking with them.
A bruise is purpling along Sam's cheekbone, a bruise that will be vivid and painful in a few hours, but currently it's just one more shadow on Sam's face, though he hisses between his teeth when the heel of Dean's palm slides across that ridge of bone. Sam's eyes are the faint green of deep forest when he leans in, when Dean reaches to pull him closer.
Dean's palming his brother through his jeans and this heady night-rush is torching his sense of reason, setting fire to his sense of decorum, of preservation, the basest survival instincts. This kaleidoscope of images, what the hell are they doing, and Sam breathing against his ear, slicking bruises onto Dean's skin as Dean swears and his fingers crease the plane of Sam's back. Any minute now, Dean's going to wake up, any minute now they'll get caught, vulnerable and laid open to bone beneath the cloud-dull sky.
It's amazing, astounding, that this thing is in his brother, was maybe in his brother the whole time. That Sam is doing these things to him and Dean's letting him and so what, so they're both high on adrenaline and escape, so Dean's still a little buzzed and Sam, he's not sure about Sam, so there's nothing to stop them, nobody left to stay sane, to break this deadman's plunge.
Dean licks at Sam's throat, tastes salt that matches the flush on his own skin and mouths "criminal" under Sam's jaw, so quiet that Sam won't be able to hear him and argue, say that he's anything different, anything different than Dean. So Sam won't be able to take this back.
Sam's palm connects with Dean's shoulder and Dean falls back, his elbow knocking against the steering wheel. Sam's teeth take the place of his hand a second later, his teeth working hot into Dean's shoulder, still sharp through the cloth of Dean's shirt. Sam's breath hitches and his hand is curled into a fist against the front of Dean's jeans, grinding down as Dean pushes back, until Dean says, "Fuck, I can't," and reaches for the button of Sam's jeans. White flare of headlights like twin candles somewhere on the road ahead, miles away, but Sam hisses, "Fuck" and twists up against Dean.
Grappling sticky crush and Dean's left scrabbling for purchase, for sanity, for air.
This quiet after, desert-quiet, quiet that's so deep as to be almost scary and Dean wants to get the weapons out of the back because it has to be supernatural, has to be some seriously evil shit, and also because now he has the car back, now he has a trunk from which to get weapons, and that is incredible.
Sam's head is pressed against the passenger's side window, his forehead to the glass, and Dean knows he's not asleep because he's not breathing like he does when he's sleeping, not even like when he's about to drop off. He's breathing like he does when he wants Dean to think he's sleeping, and Dean's never told him because he thought it would come in handy someday, but Sam's bad at faking it, so clumsy when Dean's the only audience, still nervous when he thinks Dean might be watching, like he used to be before he decided that Dean was a loser and his opinion wasn't worth a goddamn thing.
Dean wants to tell him to get his face off the glass, he's gonna get it sweaty and smudged and unless he wants to detail the whole goddamn car, he'd better fucking stop it, but probably Sam wouldn't take it as a joke, would take it way too seriously.
Because Dean knows he's thinking about how fucked up this is and maybe Dean should apologize, should apologize for dragging him away from California, for starting the fight and stealing a car and holding up a pawn shop and getting him off in the front seat of Dean's car. For corrupting Sam his whole goddamn life, this perfect thing that Sam was going to be before Dean molded him into the wrong shape, got in him and fucked up all the nice things, corroded all the clean edges.
"You're, um," Dean says, and Sam turns, his eyes flickering to Dean. And Dean was right, there's a sweatprint on the window, Sam marking up his car with his stupid body, and it's weird how right now Dean doesn't mind. "It's been a really weird night and you're probably still pretty drunk and I'm. I'm sorry, man."
"For what?" Sam says, and considering that Dean's spent almost his entire life studying Sam, it's unfair that he can't read Sam's expression.
Of course, considering how he somehow managed to miss this other thing, this most basic elemental thing, maybe he shouldn't be too surprised.
"Uh, for," he says, and then he scratches the back of his neck, stalling because he doesn't want to lie, but he also doesn't want to fuck this up and he doesn't want to take anything back. He really does not want to take anything back. "For calling you a fuckin' pussy. For starting this." Which he thinks is vague enough that Sam can take it however the fuck he wants, can twist it into something that means they're good and Dean can follow his lead from there, do whatever he has to keep Sam from splitting, to keep this from going wrong.
Sam swallows. "We should maybe get a room," he says. "Find a motel, hole up before it gets light. Get off the road for awhile."
"Yeah," Dean says, starting the engine. He's a little afraid, now, a little afraid of that oilslick possibility clouding across the sky like fingerprint ink, like lines in a police blotter. He is afraid, suddenly, though he hasn't been scared once this whole night, afraid of the sunlight and the morning (which it technically already is) and how easy it is during the day to say shouldn't have, how absolutely fucking stupid these things might seem, like nothing more than regrets, the leadup to the door slamming behind Sam and the silence he'll leave behind. "We should."
Two beds and Sam sleeping on his side, keeping his back to Dean, and the relentless insomniac hours creeping like cancer until he sleeps and what if when he wakes up, Sam's gone.
"We should do it soon," Sam says. He bites his lip, shifts towards Dean. His pants are still open; his eyes glitter like pyrite. Dean is reduced to nothing. He wrenches his eyes away, up to Sam's face. "I think, um. If you're, if you want, how soon can you--?"
"You're," Dean says. "You're good with--"
"Aren't you?" Sam says. "Oh god, I thought you were, I thought we were," and Dean slams off the brake, hits the gas before Sam can finish the sentence.
He drives like the sunlight will kill them, he drives like they're vampires instead of wanted men, Sam's hand edging rough across his thigh. They reach the motel an hour before the sun drenches the sky in that scalding acid glow. They do not watch the sunrise.
--
end
by whereupon
Sam/Dean, R, no spoilers, 4,749 words.
Seriously, this is the best thing that's happened all week.
Dean thinks it's hilarious right up until one of the guys gets the ocean-green edge of a broken bottle up tight against his neck. Even after that, it's still kind of funny, it just costs a little more to laugh.
Sam's eyes go wide and he takes a step back, folding just like that, like he's made out of paper or toothpicks or some shit, which Dean knows goddamn well he isn't. He knows goddamn well that Dad raised them both right and Sam's never been one to punk out at the sight of blood.
"Okay," Sam says, raising his hands. "Okay." The guy on the floor moans a little, scuttles like a crab out of Sam's reach back into the shadowy recesses created by the overturned tables, the broken chair and the barstool that took out the light swinging over the pool table. This blue-and-red shatter over everything and Dean wasn't too busy getting his head down that he couldn't marvel for a moment at the sound the glass made when it came down.
Dean rolls his eyes at Sam, but his brother's too busy surrendering to notice. He mouths come on and tries to tilt his head at the guy with the bottle, seaglass in his periphery, but Sam only glares at him and the guy tightens his grip. Sour breath on Dean's face and the glass is kind of, okay, fucking sharp. He grits his teeth and then grins because seriously, this is the best thing that's happened all week.
"We're leaving now," Sam says. "It's over, we're, um, we're sorry."
The guy lets Dean go and Dean turns around, one hand already raised, and Sam's voice cuts low and quick. "Dean."
Dean lowers his hand and goes to stand by his brother. It's not a retreat, it's demonstrating their combined force, showing everybody else just how sorry they're gonna be if they fuck with either of them.
The men stare at them, maybe cowed into silence. Dean doesn't blame them. The bartender says, "You're paying for the damages."
"We didn't start it," Sam says. "Guy over there threw the first punch."
"Way I see it, he had the right," the bartender says. "Seeings as how you were trying to rip him off, bilk a good man out of an honest day's work."
"We weren't trying to bilk anybody," Sam says. "He lost all on his own."
"Not our fault he's a fuckin' sore loser," Dean says. "And we didn't ask his buddies to join in, either."
"You ain't the first hustlers any of us've seen," the bartender says. "And you ain't gonna be the last, either."
"Well, that's very philosophical of you," Sam says.
"Still don't mean we're paying for shit," Dean says.
The bartender stares at them. "See, Ted over there had a bottle to your neck and he let you go outta the goodness of his heart," he says. "You might wanna repay the favor or he might not be feeling so kindly."
"Ted got lucky," Dean says. "Won't happen next time. Fool me once, yada yada, you know the rest."
The bartender lifts the shotgun from behind the bar. "That's what I said the first time a couple a' you ripped me off."
"Fine," Dean says. "Consider this a charitable donation. Use it to get yourself a sense of humor."
Sam's standing close enough that his sigh slides across Dean's skin, sets the back of his neck to prickling. Dean's wallet is wedged in with his keys and he has to take the keys out of his pocket in order to unjam the wallet. Bills that should be in it, that were in it, are scattered across the beersticky floor, one stuck to the bottom of his boot.
He slams a credit card down on the counter. The bartender picks it up, looks at it and then raises his eyebrows at Dean.
"Tom Petty," the bartender says. Dean nods. It occurs to him that the jukebox is still playing, "American Girl" vaguely audible through the busted speakers. Take it easy baby, make it last all night, and -- oh.
"It's a common name," Dean says. "My, uh. My parents were big fans. Conceived me to 'Breakdown'. I got an ID out in my car, I can go grab it." It's a bluff, but he's got a good poker face and the guy'll have to give him back his keys if he wants Dean to go get it. So long as the bartender doesn't demand Sam as collateral until Dean comes back, they'll be fine.
Sam makes this noise that could be a snicker, or maybe he's just trying to clear his throat. The bartender holds the card out, pinched between his thumb and index, and Dean takes it. The bartender snakes his keys, slides them back across the counter and they disappear into his pocket.
Dean's eyes get murderous, deadly-sharp. "What the fuck," he says. "The card's good."
"Might be, might not be," the bartender says. "I'm afraid I'm gonna have to ask you to pay in cash, though. You understand. Official management policy."
"That's fuckin' extortion," Dean says.
"You wanna call the cops, Tom?" the bartender asks. "I got a buddy on the force, I can give him a call, see if you can explain it to his satisfaction. Billy's not an unreasonable guy, I'm sure he'd at least pretend to listen to your side before hauling you down to the station."
Which isn't an option because they're wanted in at least thirteen states and this is one of them. Not that some podunk town deputy's gonna recognize him and Sammy, but on the off chance that the cop does get all unreasonable and sides with the bartender, there's always the chance he might run their prints.
"There's no need for that," Sam says, his hand on Dean's shoulder, and Dean's smile is more bared teeth than anything mirthful.
"If there's so much as a fuckin' scratch on her when we get back," Dean says. "So help me god, I'll cram that shotgun so far up your ass you'll wish you never heard of Tom Petty and the goddamn Heartbreakers."
"Son, we passed that point as soon as you handed me the goddamn card," the bartender says. "Damn shame, too, ' cause 'Breakdown''s a damn good song and now every time I hear it I'm gonna have to think of you."
"You should be so lucky," Dean says. "By the time I'm done with you, I'm gonna be in your fuckin' nightmares."
"We'll be back," Sam says, and now he's dragging Dean towards the door, Dean's boots scuffing slightly because he's not done.
"We'll look forward to that," the bartender says. "Won't we, boys?"
Ragged chorus of agreement and somebody drawls, "Y'all come back now, y'hear," and Dean's eyes go squinty and flinted. He's turning on his heel as Sam pushes open the door and shoves him out into the parking lot.
The door slams shut behind them.
"What the hell, Sam," Dean says. "Since when are you such a fuckin' pussy?"
"Did you not notice the bottle against your neck?" Sam says. "I just figured you liked having your carotid intact. You're welcome."
"He wasn't gonna do anything," Dean says. "Like he was gonna go to prison for that, huh?"
"Okay, next time I'll just stand back and watch," Sam says.
"Thank you," Dean says.
"My pleasure, man."
Dean glares at him, turns around and kicks the door, which doesn't have the good grace to much as splinter. "Fucking goddamn asshole bartenders, fucking goddamn asshole Ted, fucking goddamn door," he snarls.
When he looks back at Sam, Sam has his face covered and he's hunched over, his stupid giant shoulders shaking and Dean thinks for a second that his brother's finally lost it, that his brother's crying, hysterical over the temporary loss of the car (and Dean really couldn't blame him) and then Sam lets his hands fall away and the bastard's fucking laughing.
"Oh my god," Sam says, words squeezed out tight between breaths. "Tom Petty? Did you think he wouldn't notice?"
"Not my fault some asshole put the jukebox on random," Dean says. He watches Sam for a few minutes, wonders how likely it is that Sam will die of oxygen deprivation, his face red and blotchy and his eyes streaming. "You realize everything we own is in that car, right? Your laptop, your knives, all your stupid books? You realize the money I woulda used to get it back is still on the floor?"
"Not true," Sam says. "There's a five stuck to your foot."
Dean reaches down, peels it off and slaps it against Sam's shirt. It clings for a second and then drifts away, spins lifelessly to the ground. Sam swallows, stops laughing, pushes his hair out of his face and says, "Okay. Shit. What do we do now?"
"We get us a goddamn ride," Dean says. He reaches down to scoop up the bill, crumples it into his pocket and strides off into the shadows, gravel crunching beneath his boots and Sam trailing behind.
"A ride to where," Sam says.
"The other side of the rainbow, Sammy," Dean says. He looks back over his shoulder to make sure nobody's watching them and then sets to work on the little grey car. "Where the skies are goddamn blue. How the hell should I know? You got us into this, you can do some of the work."
"I did not get us into this," Sam says. "You're the one who said we should stop here in the first place. You're the one who started the game. You're the one who threw the game and all I did was back you up."
Dean looks up from the driver's side door. "Didn't anybody ever give you the peer pressure speech?"
"You're not my peer, you're my brother. It doesn't count. Dean, if you're gonna break into a car anyway, why don't you just break into the Impala?"
"Dude, I'm not gonna break into my own car," Dean says. "I'm not fuckin' her up and besides, I want my keys back."
The lock pops. Dean opens the door. "You coming or what?" he says and he doesn't wait for an answer. By the time he's got the engine started, Sam's in the passenger's seat as always.
Dean gets them far enough away that anyone who comes out after them won't be able to see them, far enough to be temporarily safe, and then he pulls over.
"So what's the plan," he says.
Sam shakes his head. He looks ridiculous, wedged into the car like this. Dean wants his car back so fucking badly. His home, his stuff, his car where they both fit and he knows exactly how it works and the sound the engine makes when they hit sixty-five, knows it as well as anything, as well as he knows the noise and push of the blood in his own veins.
"Try another bar?" Sam says. "I got nothing."
"You know, you're kind of useless when you're drunk," Dean says.
"Okay, first, you're welcome for even trying to come up with a solution, second, I'm not drunk, and third, if I were, it would be your own fault for using me to lure the marks in and trying to make it believable and we are so seriously fucked." Sam buries his face in his hands. Dean stares at the back of his neck, the line of skin between his hair and his collar.
"Thanks for the update," Dean says. "I hadn't noticed. Hey, I could let somebody blow me, you think?"
Sam starts laughing again, his head thrown back, his throat bared and this choking, sputtering sound that on any other day Dean would milk for all it was worth, but now's not the time. He slams his elbow into Sam's side, which is easier to do in this small car than his own which was designed for actual people and not, like, dwarf midget clowns, and Sam's breath comes out in a gasp. "No fucking way," he says, sounding winded. His lip trembles like he's going to start again at any second and Dean glares at him.
"Not seeing a whole lot of other options," Dean says. "Unless you wanna rob a bank."
"We are not robbing a bank," Sam says.
"I was just throwing it out there."
"And I'm throwing it back."
"So what else you got," Dean says. "Because no way I'm leaving town without my car, who knows what that guy'd do with it."
Sam rubs his eyes. "We might not have a choice," he says. "I'm sure it'll be fine on its own for a day, Dean. Trust me, it probably won't even know you were gone."
"Fuck you," Dean says and he shifts the stolen car into drive.
This pawn shop on the main street, which is actually called Main Street, and Sam yawns, sits up straighter when Dean parks. Sam squints blearily out at the neon sign flashing -A-N -HOP, the other letters dead and grey, and then shakes his head in disbelief. "What do you have to pawn?" he says.
"You," Dean says.
"Funny," Sam says. He gets out of the car and slouches after Dean. A bell rings when they go inside and there's a security camera overhead, red light blinking like a robot eye. Dean swallows. There's another way. There's another way. There's another --
"Can I help you?" the clerk asks.
Dean bites his lip. He yanks the gun from his belt and says, "Yeah, empty the drawer."
"Shit," Sam says from somewhere behind him.
The guy does as Dean asked, empties the cash into a plastic bag with THANK YOU printed all over it and hands it over to Dean. Dean thinks he should be panicking, thinks his heart should be pounding and he was sort of hoping some aspect of something rational would break through before he got this far, but it hasn't. Just this simple logic. He needs his car. He needs money to get his car. This is a way to get money.
Back outside and Sam says, "Jesus fucking Christ, Dean, how fucking stupid are you, are you insane, I can't believe you just held up a pawn shop, the cops are probably on their way already, oh my god."
"He's probably got insurance," Dean says, getting back in the car. "It probably happens to him every day." He checks the rearview anyway, but there's nothing, just this dead street, 7-Up bottle blowing across the road like tumbleweed.
"Oh my god," Sam says again. "I am not nearly drunk enough for this." He scrubs at his eyes again. "You really think we can outrun the cops in this? Nobody ever outran anything in a Subaru."
"I'm working on that," Dean says, snappish but secretly pleased, liking the way Sam's looking at him, the hint of awe in his eyes. It's exhilarating and this is so Sam's fault, all of it, because Sam should know better than to do this to him.
Wicked adrenaline in Dean's blood on the way back to the bar and maybe he'll never sleep again. Run down the night, these yellow sodium lights all the way to the pink-edged horizon, until the sun-glow slips soft across the sky. It's a beautiful terrible feeling, everything sliding into place, it's all gonna be okay, he's gonna get his baby back, and Sam's grinning a little, is half-asleep again, is his accomplice. Sam has his back, will follow him into crime, into battle or any other goddamn place.
The terrible part, though. The guilty part, the bittersweet part, the salt-in-his-throat part, the part where it's one more mark against them. One more reason the cops will be after them, one more reason Sam will never be able to leave. One more tragedy scar, one more reminder of how wrong things can get and the hell of it is that it, this whole thing, that Dean's hand on the gun and his face looking up at the camera while in the background Sam winces, maybe immortalized on that videotape (or at least frozen for longer than both of them might be alive), will be lost among everything else.
Compared to everything else they're wanted for, every other reason for the target on their backs, this doesn't even count.
Dean shoves the door open, strides to the counter and dumps half of what they stole onto the bar. It's not enough to cover everything, probably not even most of it, but one way or another, they're gonna be gone before the bartender gets a chance to count it. "There'd better not be one fuckin' scratch on her," he says.
The bartender raises his eyebrows. "Didn't even touch her, buddy," he says, soft and so reasonable now, and Dean does not want to know why, does not want to know what's showing on his face. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the bar all the same, the deadly flintlock trigger of his eyes and the set of his mouth infinitely familiar, reminding him of Dad, this gutpunch epiphany he hopes to god isn't obvious to anybody else.
The bartender slides the keys across the counter. Sam catches them, his other hand fitting around Dean's neck, catching in Dean's collar like he thinks he's going to have to drag Dean out again, and they leave.
Nobody tries to stop them.
Sam's hand is still hot and damp on the back of Dean's neck when they get to the Impala, but Dean doesn't mind. He doesn't even mind when Sam turns him around, shoves him back against the smooth black of his girl, when Sam rests his hands on Dean's shoulders and looks down at him like he's the best thing in the whole world, the best thing Sam's ever seen, and Dean grins at the unexpected gift.
Sam's mouth slides against his, opens like an invitation, like celebration, and Dean is lightheaded, is caught off-guard, is kissing him back, his tongue slipping between Sam's teeth and the teeth of his keys are biting into his palm. Dean makes this desperate noise, halfway between a groan and a sigh, one of his brother's legs trapped between his own and how did that happen, and then Sam steps back like he's stumbling, like he's been shocked. Neon light slipping across his face, illuminating this expression that on any other day, at any other time, would be incredibly funny.
Dean doesn't laugh. He rests a hand on the roof of his car like he's reminding himself it's there, like he loves it (which he does), and hopes that's what it looks like, hopes it doesn't look like he's holding himself up, because that's not what he's doing at all.
"I'm, uh," Sam says. "I'm really glad you got the car back."
"Me, too," Dean says, impossibly glad that they don't have time to talk about it, figure out what just happened, figure out anything, time to do anything but move. "We gotta go, come on."
Sam does.
Dean blows through a stop sign on the way out of town, glances over and Sam's clinging white-knuckled to the door, his eyes wide and glorious like he's loving every minute of this outlaw slide. They speed reckless towards anonymous night, cut onto the interstate spotted with streetlights like alien abduction sites spaced uniformly all down the line.
Sam keeps looking over at him, distracting deer-in-the-headlights glances. Dean's mouth is dry and he thinks they should slow down, should stop, should. Should not. He swallows. "Okay, yes, get your ass over here already," he says, and he's not sure if his voice comes out higher than usual or if that's just in his head, this unsure thing drawing his veins taut as wires, making him do the riskiest, deadliest, most dangerous things.
An instant in which he panics, in which he thinks that Sam won't, that it was a mistake, that maybe Sam just, like, tripped and happened to fall against Dean with his mouth open or something, and now that Dean thinks about it, that does seem like something Sam would do.
And then Sam moves. Slide-crawls across the seat until he's flush against Dean.
Sam mouthing at his neck, Sam's hands slipping up under his shirt, and the steering wheel jerks in Dean's hands and he's not sure what they're doing anymore. Not sure when violence turned into this, not sure what the hell this is, and finally he has to give in, come to a stop on the side of the road, spinning out onto gravel because his hands are shaking and his knees are locked up tight from trying not to kill both of them for just one second of leaning up into Sam's mouth.
He bites his tongue hard when Sam licks behind his ear and he'll associate those two things forever, the taste of blood and Sam's mouth inseparable.
Sam's eyes are wet and black in the dark. The only light comes from the UFO glow a hundred feet away and Dean's breath comes out in a rush, in a shudder. The engine is still shivering down, the car shaking around them, shaking with them.
A bruise is purpling along Sam's cheekbone, a bruise that will be vivid and painful in a few hours, but currently it's just one more shadow on Sam's face, though he hisses between his teeth when the heel of Dean's palm slides across that ridge of bone. Sam's eyes are the faint green of deep forest when he leans in, when Dean reaches to pull him closer.
Dean's palming his brother through his jeans and this heady night-rush is torching his sense of reason, setting fire to his sense of decorum, of preservation, the basest survival instincts. This kaleidoscope of images, what the hell are they doing, and Sam breathing against his ear, slicking bruises onto Dean's skin as Dean swears and his fingers crease the plane of Sam's back. Any minute now, Dean's going to wake up, any minute now they'll get caught, vulnerable and laid open to bone beneath the cloud-dull sky.
It's amazing, astounding, that this thing is in his brother, was maybe in his brother the whole time. That Sam is doing these things to him and Dean's letting him and so what, so they're both high on adrenaline and escape, so Dean's still a little buzzed and Sam, he's not sure about Sam, so there's nothing to stop them, nobody left to stay sane, to break this deadman's plunge.
Dean licks at Sam's throat, tastes salt that matches the flush on his own skin and mouths "criminal" under Sam's jaw, so quiet that Sam won't be able to hear him and argue, say that he's anything different, anything different than Dean. So Sam won't be able to take this back.
Sam's palm connects with Dean's shoulder and Dean falls back, his elbow knocking against the steering wheel. Sam's teeth take the place of his hand a second later, his teeth working hot into Dean's shoulder, still sharp through the cloth of Dean's shirt. Sam's breath hitches and his hand is curled into a fist against the front of Dean's jeans, grinding down as Dean pushes back, until Dean says, "Fuck, I can't," and reaches for the button of Sam's jeans. White flare of headlights like twin candles somewhere on the road ahead, miles away, but Sam hisses, "Fuck" and twists up against Dean.
Grappling sticky crush and Dean's left scrabbling for purchase, for sanity, for air.
This quiet after, desert-quiet, quiet that's so deep as to be almost scary and Dean wants to get the weapons out of the back because it has to be supernatural, has to be some seriously evil shit, and also because now he has the car back, now he has a trunk from which to get weapons, and that is incredible.
Sam's head is pressed against the passenger's side window, his forehead to the glass, and Dean knows he's not asleep because he's not breathing like he does when he's sleeping, not even like when he's about to drop off. He's breathing like he does when he wants Dean to think he's sleeping, and Dean's never told him because he thought it would come in handy someday, but Sam's bad at faking it, so clumsy when Dean's the only audience, still nervous when he thinks Dean might be watching, like he used to be before he decided that Dean was a loser and his opinion wasn't worth a goddamn thing.
Dean wants to tell him to get his face off the glass, he's gonna get it sweaty and smudged and unless he wants to detail the whole goddamn car, he'd better fucking stop it, but probably Sam wouldn't take it as a joke, would take it way too seriously.
Because Dean knows he's thinking about how fucked up this is and maybe Dean should apologize, should apologize for dragging him away from California, for starting the fight and stealing a car and holding up a pawn shop and getting him off in the front seat of Dean's car. For corrupting Sam his whole goddamn life, this perfect thing that Sam was going to be before Dean molded him into the wrong shape, got in him and fucked up all the nice things, corroded all the clean edges.
"You're, um," Dean says, and Sam turns, his eyes flickering to Dean. And Dean was right, there's a sweatprint on the window, Sam marking up his car with his stupid body, and it's weird how right now Dean doesn't mind. "It's been a really weird night and you're probably still pretty drunk and I'm. I'm sorry, man."
"For what?" Sam says, and considering that Dean's spent almost his entire life studying Sam, it's unfair that he can't read Sam's expression.
Of course, considering how he somehow managed to miss this other thing, this most basic elemental thing, maybe he shouldn't be too surprised.
"Uh, for," he says, and then he scratches the back of his neck, stalling because he doesn't want to lie, but he also doesn't want to fuck this up and he doesn't want to take anything back. He really does not want to take anything back. "For calling you a fuckin' pussy. For starting this." Which he thinks is vague enough that Sam can take it however the fuck he wants, can twist it into something that means they're good and Dean can follow his lead from there, do whatever he has to keep Sam from splitting, to keep this from going wrong.
Sam swallows. "We should maybe get a room," he says. "Find a motel, hole up before it gets light. Get off the road for awhile."
"Yeah," Dean says, starting the engine. He's a little afraid, now, a little afraid of that oilslick possibility clouding across the sky like fingerprint ink, like lines in a police blotter. He is afraid, suddenly, though he hasn't been scared once this whole night, afraid of the sunlight and the morning (which it technically already is) and how easy it is during the day to say shouldn't have, how absolutely fucking stupid these things might seem, like nothing more than regrets, the leadup to the door slamming behind Sam and the silence he'll leave behind. "We should."
Two beds and Sam sleeping on his side, keeping his back to Dean, and the relentless insomniac hours creeping like cancer until he sleeps and what if when he wakes up, Sam's gone.
"We should do it soon," Sam says. He bites his lip, shifts towards Dean. His pants are still open; his eyes glitter like pyrite. Dean is reduced to nothing. He wrenches his eyes away, up to Sam's face. "I think, um. If you're, if you want, how soon can you--?"
"You're," Dean says. "You're good with--"
"Aren't you?" Sam says. "Oh god, I thought you were, I thought we were," and Dean slams off the brake, hits the gas before Sam can finish the sentence.
He drives like the sunlight will kill them, he drives like they're vampires instead of wanted men, Sam's hand edging rough across his thigh. They reach the motel an hour before the sun drenches the sky in that scalding acid glow. They do not watch the sunrise.
--
end