A/N: I originally wrote this as a play for a year 11 lit assignment. I hate first person POV and found I couldn't translate it to third person POV. Suddenly it just came rolling out at second person POV. Let's just run with this, kay :)
Obviously characters are not mine.
As a sixteen year old, you wouldn't expect to find yourself slumped over a booth table in some dingy little open-all-hours roadside cafe. You wouldn't think that the lights would be glowing bright, highlighting the dirt under your nails and the bags under your eyes. You wouldn't feel the smooth cold of the red worn leather from the booth seat on your hands. Not the humming and crackling of diner lighting, or the whine of an old coffee machine. Not the quiet noise of crappy eighties rock pouring from a jukebox that looks as if it was of the same time and quality as the music. You wouldn't have a headache from lack of sleep, or a low rumble in your belly from lack of food, you wouldn't have to search through endless pockets to find a few pennies, and you most certainly wouldn't have to be doing it alone. But then, when you're Sam Winchester you don't tend to go with the easiest option. A smiley waitress with smudged lipstick comes up and gently touches your arm, asking if there was "anythin' I could getcha hon". You just want to be left alone you think. Left to sleep. You tell her that "a coffee would be great".
You rest your head on your arms laid across the aluminium table top. It's cold, but you have a jacket, and the cafe is comfortable. Whoosh. The door swings open, but you don't look up. A boy no more than four years older than you walks up to the counter. You don't look up. He calls out to the waitress with the smudged lippy and asks for a coffee. And a chocolate donut as an afterthought. You still don't look up. He turns to survey the small space. Eyeing you, he notices a patch on your jacket. Lancaster High. He walks up and slides into the other seat in your booth. You still don't look up. He kicks nudges your ankle under the table.
"Hiya."
"Do I know you?"
"You're Sam. From Lawrence."
You start. "How do you know who -"
"I'm Gabe. My brother is friends with yours."
He can't even let you finish a sentence. But a spark of recognition lights your eyes.
"You're Cas' brother."
The waitress brings a respite in the conversation along with your drinks and his donut.
"I'm glad you're not all alone. I worry when there are boys as young as you alone"
Yeah, sure you do lady.
Gabe leans back; relaxes into the soft leather. Smiles.
"He's fine now. Got me looking out for him."
You wonder what Gabe wants. Maybe he's just pleased to see a familiar face. You wonder what he's doing all the way out here. Arizona is a fair way from Kansas.
"Yeah. It is."
You hadn't realised you'd said that out loud. But you figure if you've started asking questions you may as well keep going.
"What are you doing out here?"
"Driving. Heading to San Francisco in a couple weeks. We'll see how I feel in the morning"
"What about college?"
"Taking some time off. Need to find a job so I can afford to go back."
You're embarrassed. You shouldn't have pushed.
"I'm sorry."
But he smiles good-naturedly.
"You just need to find a way to deal."
"Doesn't it get lonely. Driving around by yourself?"
He smirks and leans towards you.
"Why? Wanna join me?"
You pull back. You can't let someone get to you that easy.
He notices you quiet. You visibly pulled yourself back. He can tell that you're not ready.
"I'll make you a deal. I'll drive you wherever you want for two weeks, if you promise me that you'll tell me your story when you're ready."
You glance up. You can see the honesty in his words and his eyes. Maybe I could you think. Just little bits of the story can't hurt, right?
"I want to go to Sioux Falls. In South Dakota."
"Okay. You wanna go now?"
You realise that he is truly going to let you tell him. You stand up; try to find enough pennies to pay for the coffee. While you're jingling your pockets he hands ten dollars to the waitress. You don't notice until you look up and see him striding out the door. The waitress shakes her head when you try hand her the coins.
"It's covered"
She nods at the door.
"He got it"
You smile to yourself. Maybe I can do this. You open the door, walking straight out into Gabe. A very short, very bouncy, but very warm and very soft Gabe. You realise you don't want out of this space. It's the first real intimate contact you've had with anyone in nearly a month.
He steps away.
"Woah. Sorry kid. Just coming back to find you. I turned around and you weren't there."
"S'okay" you mumble. He grabs your sleeve and pulls you towards a beat up car. It's crap. Dean would be embarrassed that you're going to get into this thing.
"I don't have any money. I ran out a couple days in. Hid in the back of trucks and hitched to get here."
He knows it's a confession: that you're letting him in. He still looks at you with sad eyes. You don't like being pitied. But you need the help.
"Come on."
You wake up to sunlight streaming in through shitty motel curtains. You've been driving with Gabe for four days now. You still haven't told him anything else.
Six days now. He's starting to feel comfortable.
Eight days.
"My mum died."
"I know"
"My dad's an alcoholic"
"I know"
"My brother is fucking yours"
He smirks.
"I know"
You don't talk for five hours after that.
Ten days.
He never starts the conversation. You always have to. You figure he's just keeping his deal, but sometimes it feels like he knows that you can't stand not telling someone.
"He tells me I'm worthless."
"I'm sorry."
"I believe him."
He pulls the car over.
"Don't ever believe that. You are an incredible person. Anyone would be lucky to have you as a son."
You feel a tear run a track down your cheek. He grabs your chin. His amber eyes bore into your own brown ones. His thumb runs up your jaw, your cheek bone; brushing away the tears. You close your eyes. He pulls back onto the road. You keep driving.
Twelve days.
You're surprised this hadn't happened earlier. Only one room left. Only a double.
"That's okay" you hear him say.
"that's okay" you hear yourself murmur.
He turns, surprised. You hadn't said a word since day ten.
The room is small. Not much space for you to fold yourself into on the floor, but you'll manage.
He comes out of the small bathroom. His honey hair darker, curled on his forehead, dripping down his ears. He flops onto the bed. You grab one of the pillows and the blanket at the foot of the bed. He watches as you lay it on the floor.
"Do you not want to share the bed with me? Or are you worried I won't want to share with you?"
"The latter"
He sits up and grabs the pillow and blanket from the floor.
"Then get in."
When you wake, he's still sleeping. You pull on clothes. Shuffle through his jacket pockets. Find his wallet. Walk out the door. There was a diner just down the road. You noticed it when you were driving in yesterday.
"A coffee and bagel, and a hot chocolate and croissant."
Same thing every day.
"And this lollipop."
That's new.
When you get back to the motel he's awake, but only just. Running his fingers through his hair, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He see's you. He's surprised.
"You got breakfast."
"You were sleeping. I knew what you wanted. Same thing everyday."
"You got me a lollipop."
"I wanted to thank you."
"Thank you."
Thirteen days.
"You said two weeks."
"It's only been thirteen days"
"I'm going to miss you."
He didn't hear you.
"I'm going to miss you." Louder.
He doesn't respond.
You're frustrated. He's ignoring you. You want him to acknowledge what you said. You stand in front of the motel door. He can't get out.
"I'M GOING TO MISS YOU"
Even though he was on the other side of the room, he whips around. For someone so small, he moves awfully fast. Right into your space. You can smell the sweetness of his breakfast hot chocolate on his breath. Can see his individual eyelashes. Could count his freckles. He's on his tiptoes, and you're still too tall for him to reach. You're curious. You bend your neck, bring your face closer to his. He closes the gap. His lips are warm and firm on your own. His hands thread into your hair, bringing you down lower. Your mouths break apart. He tugs your hair so that he can rest his forehead against yours.
"I'm going to miss you too."
Fourteen days.
"We're at Sioux Falls."
You don't reply.
"Final day."
You look out the window.
"It's cold up here."
You close your eyes.
"I'm sorry I kissed you."
"I'm not."
"Can I do it again?"
"Can I come with you to San Francisco?"
"If I say yes, can I kiss you?"
"Yes."
You chance a glance across the car dashboard to him. His face is flushed and he's grinning like an idiot. A smile plays at the corner of your lips. He doesn't know it, but he's saving you.
Seven hundred and forty-four days.
You look around at the tiny flat you live in. The old brown sofa with stains from when Gabe dropped his bowl of pasta. The poky little kitchen where Dean and Cas exploded the microwave when they visited last month. The creaky old double bed that you'd lost your virginity in. The dent in the wall from when you tripped over in excitement of your acceptance letter to Stanford. The table you sat at when you realised you'd have to sell your soul to afford to go. The phone you used to hear Dean tell you that mum had made sure that you each had a college trust fund, which meant that "Sammy, you can go to Stanford." You look at Gabe, sitting on the floor in front of your tv. You tell him "You're the best thing that ever happened to me."
You see him turn around and grin, and scramble over the floor to lean on your knees.
"Ditto."