Light Fare by Swellison
Dean drove the Impala down US-30 West, heading for the Indiana state line, reflecting briefly on the month so far. January 2008 had started with a bang; Sam drunkenly but sincerely promising Dean that they'd both be around to celebrate the next New Year. Dean had figured what the hell, last chance and gotten thoroughly and uncharacteristically sloshed. The month hadn't improved much from that inauspicious beginning: two salt-and- burns and a half-way decent black dog hunt. It was the twenty-first and they'd left Wolfdale, Pennsylvania, the location of their black dog hunt, early this morning. Sam wanted to consult with Bobby about the Devil's Gate and the lull in demon activity, so they were headed for South Dakota.
They would be at Bobby's for Dean's twenty-ninth – and last – birthday. Dean tried not to think about that; he assigned his own birthdays low priority, but he was sure Sam was dwelling on it. He catered to Sam and his moods whenever he could; some days it was just easier than others. Today wasn't shaping up to be an easy day.
The Three Dog Night cassette tape had ended almost a minute ago, and the player was still silent. "Flip the tape, Sammy." Dean prodded.
From the passenger seat, Sam turned to face Dean, but made no move toward the cassette player. Dean grimaced; Sam knew the rules as well as he did: driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole. But Sam had always been about breaking rules. He was currently on a tear about laptop batteries, of all things.
"How many guns do you have?" Sam asked from out of the blue.
Dean turned his eyes from the road to stare at his brother. "Seriously? You don't know?"
"Rhetorical question. But it's way more than one, dude."
"Hey, I need every one of those guns—"
"Exactly my point. We need the laptop functioning at all times, too, so we always have access to information. What if I'm researching and the battery croaks in the middle of nowhere? We need a backup battery. It just makes sense, dude."
"Y'mean it's expensive, dude," Dean shot back. "At least a hundred bucks, for a good one."
"That's why you're objecting, the money? I'll pay for it. Consider it—" Sam abruptly broke off.
Dean, however, had no problem completing the thought: Consider it an early birthday present. Oh, great. "We gotta stop for lunch, pretty soon. We'll make it Fort Wayne, and you can find a Radio Shack, or something, okay?"
He brushed off Sam's agreement and reached for the radio, instead. He would forego his mullet rock, if it put Sam in a better mood. They caught a commercial, of course. Some guy talking about riding the bus.
"—I always ride Metro. It's cheap, relaxing and way less stressful. Plus, it's free therapy; you can tell a perfect stranger almost anything." They heard the pneumatic swoosh of a staged bus door opening and closing, and then the sound of a cushion sighing as someone supposedly sat heavily on it. "Hey, dude. How's it going?" the pitcher's voice turned friendly, then dropped to a confidential tone. "I'm living my life in my big brother's shadow."
Sam's eyes widened and Dean couldn't help but laugh. "You doing radio spots in your spare time, Sammy?"
The commercial continued to spout the benefits of riding the bus and Sam shook his head. "Jerk." The atmosphere in the Impala considerably lighter, they continued driving toward Fort Wayne.
"What do you want to eat?" Dean asked about half an hour later, as they reached the outskirts of Fort Wayne. "McDonalds? Burger King?"
"I don't want fast food," Sam grumbled. "I wanna dine in, and stretch my legs a bit."
Dean glanced over at Sam's feet, wedged between the seat and the dashboard. He sympathized with Sam's need for leg space. When Sam drove, he had the front seat cranked back as far away from the steering wheel as it would go, for maximum legroom. Dean, however, refused to feel like a kid with his feet barely reaching the pedals while driving his own vehicle, so the seat was currently adjusted to his comfort level. "Okay, we'll find a diner, then."
"No. I'm tired of greasy hamburgers and French fries, or someone else's version of home cooking. I want something different."
"What?"
"I don't know—just different."
"Fine." His younger brother could be exasperating at times. "First things first. We'll get the laptop battery and then see what's available for lunch. That meet with your approval, Mr. Picky Eater?"
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The Impala pulled into the strip center's parking lot, the Radio Shack prominently featured. Sam glanced at the surrounding stores and grinned. "Quizno's. We can eat there."
"What's that?" Dean asked as he pulled into a parking slot. "Sounds like a TV game show."
"It's a sub shop—actually, gourmet subs." Off of Dean's faintly dismayed look, Sam added, "Give it a try; I bet you like it." He glanced at the electronics store, and then down at his watch. It was already half-past twelve. "Look, you go order lunch and I'll get the battery. I'll join you at the restaurant when I'm finished." That way they wouldn't be too delayed getting back on the road.
Sam popped the passenger door open and got out of the Impala, knowing Dean would go along with his suggestion. He entered the Radio Shack and zoomed in on the accessories section. Scanning the available laptop batteries, he soon located the right one and quickly joined the checkout line.
Ten minutes later, Sam strolled into the Quizno's restaurant. Knowing where to look, he spotted Dean at a fourtop table along the exterior wall. Dean was seated facing the all-glass storefront and door, as far down the wall as he could get. Sam walked down the narrow aisle between tables and joined Dean. He slipped his tan jacket off and draped it over the empty seat next to the wall, placing his purchase on the chair seat. Then he settled in the remaining chair, opposite Dean. He'd been gone long enough for Dean to have lunch waiting on the table.
"It's still warm," Dean assured him as he sat. "I only got it a minute ago."
Just long enough for Dean to have already taken a couple of bites out of one of his small sandwiches, Sam noticed. One of Dean's four sandwiches. He glanced at his own, untouched eat-in tray: two small flatbread sandwiches and a bowl of mushroom soup in a fortified paper bowl. A medium ice tea in a paper cup was placed next to his meal.
Sam glanced up, reading the oversized sign on the side wall, by the ordering bar. "Try Our New Sammies! Big, bold taste. Smaller size." the poster proclaimed, picturing two small flatbread sandwiches, labeled Balsamic Chicken and Black Angus Steak. Underneath the fare was "Only 200 Calories each!" in large black letters. His gaze shifted down to his meal, an exact replica of the two low-cal sammies pictured on the poster. "Dean—"
"I know you're watching your girlish figure. Combo includes one side, so I got you that mushroom bisky—sounded like something you'd eat. Healthy, light fare."
"Bite me."
"Too late!" Dean chortled. "I already did!" He gulped down the last of his first flatbread sandwich.
Sam glared at his brother, and decided he could eat and bicker at the same time. He picked up the nearer sandwich—he was not calling the damn things sammies—and took a healthy bite. Hmm, not bad. "Why're you eating 'em? I'd have thought a Prime Rib sub was more to your liking, not these little low-cal things."
"There's all kinds of sammies, Sammy." Dean lectured. "You got the low-cal, Schoolgi—" Sam's glower caused Dean to change his words—"Schoolboy Sammy combo. I got the regular, meatier Hunter Sammy combo, with a couple extra Sammies thrown in, and a nice, hearty bowl of chili."
Sam rolled his eyes. "Very macho," he said, biting into his Black Angus steak sandwich. Next he tried the mushroom bisque, which tasted wonderful in the twenty-five degree weather. Sam focused on lunch, eating and drinking his fill.
Dean's voice interrupted him after a few minutes. "Need a refill on your tea?"
"Sure." They always ordered medium drinks, taking full advantage of the free refills offered by on-site eateries. Sam watched as Dean rose, scooped up both drinks, and headed for the beverage station. His gaze followed his brother's retreating leather- jacketed back, and then flicked down to their table, and the condiments that had been left on it by the previous customer. Sam resisted temptation for three seconds, and then unscrewed the Tabasco bottle. He poured a manly third of the bottle into Dean's chili, and then reached across the table to stir it briskly with Dean's spoon, conveniently left in the half-eaten chili. Everything looked normal by the time Dean returned to the table.
Sam watched Dean put the drinks on the table and reseat himself. He kept a surreptitious eye on Dean as his brother picked up his spoon and swallowed some chili. Dean's eyes widened and he hastily tore off a chunk of flatbread, stuffing it into his mouth. After gulping down the bread, Dean grabbed his Pepsi and sucked down almost a third of the drink through his straw. Sam half-startled as Dean thumped his drink down and glanced heatedly at the Tabasco bottle, a thin drip of red sauce still visibly dribbling down the label. Dean aimed his best death-glare at Sam and if Sam was a supernatural he'd have been be quaking in boots. "Sammy! You didn't—"
Sam smiled in triumph. Schoolgirl Sammy, indeed. "Oh, yes I did."
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Dean called it quits when they arrived in La Crosse, Wisconsin. He had considered letting Sam drive the afternoon shift, but after the Tabasco incident at the restaurant, there was no way he was letting Sam drive. He wasn't in the mood to give Sam control over his baby, or anything else. They were avoiding toll roads—Dean hated the idea of paying to drive, even worse, the freakin' toll ways were full of cameras, never a good thing. MapQuest's circuitous route that bypassed toll roads had listed travel time to La Crosse as almost eight and a quarter hours. Dean had shortened the time by close to an hour; still it was almost nine, past time to find a room for the night.
The Cozy Inn was a mom-and-pop operation just off the highway and they were settled in their room in short order. Dean glanced around their all-yellow room, his gaze lingering on a couple of black and white prints on the walls, depicting a mid-century cheese processing factory. Now he understood the color scheme. "Pretty cheesy."
He heard Sam groan at his comment as Dean plunked himself down on the bed closer to the door. He saw Sam rummaging in his bag for his nightclothes and shaving kit and surmised that Sam was going to take a shower, to relax after the long day on the road. Dean rose from his bed and slipped into the bathroom to take care of business and brush his teeth, well aware of Sam's ability to stretch a simple shower into an hour-long production.
Emerging from the bathroom, Dean saw Sam had the laptop up and running on his bed. Sam extracted a disk from the laptop and held it out to Dean as he approached the beds. "Here."
"What's this?" Dean asked, accepting the DVD.
"It's an episode of NCIS. I had to test the new battery, so I downloaded and burned it in the car this afternoon. You can watch it while I shower." He grinned. "I know you like watching those NCIS women."
"Hey, those chicks are hot—especially Abby." Dean took the DVD and continued thoughtfully, "Hmm. I never went out with a Goth chick before, maybe I should…. At least she wouldn't be turned off by what we do."
Sam handed Dean the laptop and Dean put it on his bed, while Sam disappeared into the bathroom. Dean changed into his pajamas, choosing a long-sleeved top since the nights were cold in Wisconsin in January. Turning off the main overhead light, he left the double-bulbed lamp on the nightstand lit. He got under the lemon-colored sheets, yellow blanket, and quilted yellow bedspread and stacked the two pillows on top of each other, propping himself against them. Dean pushed his knees up and placed the laptop on his stomach, the monitor resting lightly against his drawn up knees. He slid the DVD into its drive and started watching the commercial-free episode. It was an older show, with Kate instead of Ziva. Dean had the volume just high enough to drown out the sounds of Sam's showering; he thoroughly enjoyed his escapist entertainment, until the talk turned to stakeouts.
"It was cool," Tony DiNozzo explained the premise of the Stakeout movie. "There were two teams, just like us, trading shifts. Pulling practical jokes on each other."
Kate interrupted. "I'm warning you, DiNozzo. Don't even go there." And then she and Gibbs left the rented apartment.
Tony, seated next to their newest agent, cajoled. "We gotta go there. Any ideas, McGee?" He pulled a sandwich out of the bag that contained their dinner.
"No."
"Well, don't worry, I got plenty."
McGee paled and tried to reason with Tony. "You realize that any prank we pull on Kate, we'll also be pulling on Gibbs."
"That's a problem," Tony admitted.
"Unless…" McGee began, and then shook his head. "Nah."
"What?"
"Well, I was thinking," McGee said slowly. "Since she is expecting something, maybe we should do—nothing."
Tony glanced quizzically at McGee, and then his face lightened with comprehension. He grinned. "That's brilliant. It'll drive her nuts trying to figure out what we did…what we didn't do. You're all right, McGee. Have a pastrami."
Dean hit the pause button and glared at Sam's empty bed. Why, you little… Dean didn't believe in coincidences; Sam had picked this episode for a reason. To raise the question: did Sam have any more pranks up his sleeve or not? Sam had scored another point, regardless. Dean would have to be on guard and suspicious of everything Sam did, even if it turned out to be nothing. After glaring ineffectually at the closed bathroom door, Dean resumed watching NCIS, figuring he couldn't do anything else until Sam finished his shower.
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Sam exited the shower, grabbing a yellow towel and drying himself vigorously. The long, hot steam shower had been just the ticket, relaxing and easing his tight muscles, especially his leg muscles. He turned his attention to his hair, briskly rubbing it dry. The steam was slowly dissipating on the mirror in front of him, its temporary heat no match for the much cooler temperature of the motel bathroom.
He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and gawked. His hair was lighter than usual; it was a ghastly shade of green, mid-way between neon and grass green. In fact, it looked like he'd shampooed in lime jello. "DEAN!" he bellowed, and lost no time in throwing on his pajamas.
Sam stormed into the room, to be greeted by Dean.
"Hey, Sammy. You're a couple of months early for St. Patrick's Day." Dean smirked from his bed.
"Dean!" Sam growled.
"Don't get your panties in a wad, it's not permanent." Dean continued cheerfully, closing down the laptop and placing it on the nightstand between their beds. "It'll wear off in about a week – faster, if you shampoo twice a day."
Sam briefly considered what weapons were at hand, and then reluctantly decided that messing with his hair really wasn't a capital offense. He suddenly felt the cold carpeting on his bare feet and the night-time coolness of the room, even through his winter pajamas. Sam hotfooted it over to his bed, bundling up in the blankets. He decided to skip his research tonight; he was too tired to do a good job of it. Leaving the light closer to his bed on, Sam reached for the second-hand Trevanian paperback he was currently reading. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Dean as his brother flicked off his part of the lamp, and then shifted his second pillow over to the unoccupied part of his bed.
Dean lay his head down on his pillow, and then sprang upward in surprise. He snapped his half of the lamp back on and gingerly stuck his hand under his pillow. He pulled his hand back out and stared at the small stuffed animal he now held. It was a dog, mostly covered in black, with four tan feet, a tan tail and muzzle, and two tan spots over its black button eyes. "What the hell?"
Sam watched as Dean took in the heart-shaped red tag, flopped open with its poem exposed. Sam enjoyed watching the change of expressions across Dean's face as his brother read the words on the tag:
Brutus the Rottweiler
Just because I'm big and tough
That doesn't mean that I am gruff
So please don't think that I'm a brute
Just look at me…aren't I too cute?!
Dean closed the tag, taking in the hand-drawn 'D' on the front of it. "Sammy?!"
"It's a Deanie Baby!" Sam laughed uproariously.
Dean growled, dropping the stuffed dog and reaching for a pillow. He flung it at Sam, beaning his younger brother with a hard whack to the head.
Or was that Deaning him? Sam thought as he rubbed the targeted area. He grabbed the pillow and threw it back at Dean. Then he grasped one of his own pillows in defense as Dean leaped up from his bed and loomed over Sam, still lying down on his bed. Dean's pillow descended rapidly and their pillow fight began in earnest.
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