Author's Note:
I do not own the lyrics, films or established TV show characters herein.
This is for my sister, in gratitude for introducing me to The Darkness all those years ago.
Thanks for reading, and any comments you feel like leaving!
ONE
Sam looked up from his casual skimming of his father's journal. He tried to gauge how long it would take his brother to get back from the bar, twenty feet away, with their round. Judging by the conversation he appeared to be enjoying with the barmaid, it would be slightly longer than Sam's patience would allow.
He huffed slowly: It's like a car crash. I really don't need to see this, but I can't look away, he concluded.
He watched the barmaid smile demurely and put a hand out to straighten the collar on his brother's shirt. Dean seemed to be oblivious of her delicate touch on his collar and then the shirt buttons, until she let go and instead lifted his amulet. He put his hand up and closed it round hers, his four-alarm smile fading to be replaced with unease.
Sam managed to blink and look away, rubbing his eyes and looking at his watch. He got up, tucking the journal in his pocket, and walked over.
"No, seriously, I hate those real fruit yoghurts," Dean was saying, affecting suave distaste. He had let go of the girl's hand and she put her elbows on the bar top, cradling her chin in her hands to watch him intently. "They got all them pips in them. Definitely not smooth."
Sam put his hand on his shoulder and Dean turned from the bar quickly, his hands aiming for the two long since forgotten beer bottles.
"Oh, hey, Sammy," he said hurriedly. "Look, take these man, I'll get–"
"It's getting late," he said wearily. "I've just gotta get to a bed and crash. Come on," he said dismissively. Dean's face turned suddenly optimistic and heart-breaking in its innocence, his green eyes lighting up with pure shiny, shiny pleading.
"Now? Right now?" he asked plaintively. Sam frowned at him. Dean's face creased into a cheeky grin and he slapped the back of his hand into his brother's chest. "Chill. I learnt that look from you. Not bad, huh?"
"Great. Really, it's… great," Sam said meaningfully. "Motel?"
"Alright, keep your pants on," he said wearily. "You and me both," he muttered to himself as he turned back to the barmaid.
"I'll be in the car," Sam said, giving his shoulder one admonishing tap before turning and leaving him there.
The barmaid sighed. "That guy your boss?" she asked.
"Nah – my pain in the ass little brother," he said sadly. "I gotta go. Poor kid just don't have the stamina like I do," he said pleasantly, and she grinned wickedly. "Know any good motels round here?"
"Maybe I do," she said, reaching out with her right hand without looking. She pulled a business card from the bar next to her and reached behind her right ear, taking down a pen. She looked away from Dean long enough to scrawl something on the card, then pushed the pen back home and slid the card over to him. "And when your brother's safely tucked up in bed, get your ass back here and open a new bar tab," she smiled.
"Oh yeah, hold on there," he said, suddenly realised she hadn't once asked him to settle for the recent beers. He began to slide his hand in his pocket for his wallet.
"No," she said lightly. "When you get back."
Dean looked at her for a long moment, then his eyes narrowed slightly and he looked around the bar cautiously.
"You're not the boss's daughter, are you?" he asked warily.
"Nope," she grinned.
"And ah… your daddy's not around?" he asked suspiciously.
"Would I give you that card if he was?" she grinned.
"Hey!" someone shouted suddenly.
Most of the bar turned to see who had raised their voice so loud above the steady sounds of The Neville Brothers from the jukebox.
It was a man, about half a head shorter than Dean, angry and storming over. A quick flick of the eyes told Dean that unless this weedy guy was some kind of Heroes reject he was not going to present a challenge if it came to it.
He stopped in front of Dean, pointing at the barmaid.
"Mandy! How many times!" he shouted at her.
"Hey, just back up there pal," Dean said quickly, shoving him in the chest slightly to create more room.
"Rob, I was just asking him to settle up," she said defensively. Dean looked at her.
"Oohh, I get it now," he said wisely, nodding.
"You'd better not be getting anything from my girl!" 'Rob' snarled, grabbing Dean's shirt.
"Dude, you really don't want to do that," he said seriously.
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Sam huffed and folded his arms, lifting his back forwards and then slamming back into the passenger seat repeatedly. He mumbled his complaints to himself, knowing he was the only one who either heard or cared anyway.
From the corner of his eye he saw the door to the bar open and someone come out. He watched as Dean approached the Impala, shaking his head like a wet dog. He opened the driver's door and yanked off his jacket shortly, throwing it at the back seat in anger.
"Woah, what the–" Sam began, then just closed his mouth and watched his brother land heavily in the seat, still wiping at his eyes. "Dude, you're all wet," he pointed out, confused.
"Well thanks for that newsflash, Ron Burgandy," he snapped, lifting his arm to wipe his face.
"Is thatbeer?" Sam asked, leaning closer to smell him.
"Where are the keys?" he grumped, looking around the steering column. Sam began to smile, then fished in his pocket for them. He handed them over.
Dean snatched them off him and pushed them in the ignition barrel, before he paused and yanked off his shirt. He scrubbed at his hair with it before throwing it behind him into the back seat.
"What happened, you slipped and spilled Pabst's finest over yourself?" Sam teased.
"God save me from idiot brothers," Dean muttered to himself angrily, pulling his t-shirt straight before starting the car.
"That's a 'yes'."
"No I did not! Do me a favour: shut up," he snapped, looking round the gravel parking lot before swinging the long vehicle round toward the gap in the hedge that served as the exit.
"Then she poured it over you. Awww," he cooed sarcastically, "and you were doing so well."
"Sam, don't make me stop this car," he said curtly, guiding the Impala through the hedge and out onto the road.
"Ok, I get it," he said cheerfully, raising his hands in surrender. He hid a smile as he watched his brother from the corner of his eye. "Do you know where we're going?" he ventured after two or three minutes of enraged silence.
"The first place with a shower," Dean grumped. Sam nodded understandingly and sat back. He waited until he knew Dean had his full attention on the road.
Then he smiled.
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Sam dropped his duffle bag on the bed and then sat on it, testing the mattress. He sighed, unimpressed, but decided it didn't really matter whether it was soft or not, seeing as he'd be asleep before his head hit the suspiciously clean pillow anyway.
Dean tossed his bag at the bed and walked straight past it, opening a closet door before finding the correct door for the bathroom.
"You're lucky it's spring," Sam observed.
"You're lucky I'd rather shower than get into this," Dean said loudly, although it seemed his anger had mostly fallen off during the forty minute drive and subsequent booking-in. He walked back to his bed, pulling off his boots and letting them drop noisily to the floor. Sam withheld judgement, lifting his feet onto the bed to untie his laces slowly.
Dean lifted his t-shirt and pulled it off over his head, sniffing it gingerly and finding it smelt very much like PBR after all.
"Dude, don't even think of sucking that if there's nothing in the icebox," Sam quipped. Dean balled up the shirt and threw it at him, walking over to check the towel situation. He opened the cupboard door and found two fluffy towels the size of bedsheets. In pink.
"Nice," he said sarcastically. Sam grinned, then wiped it off lest his brother turn round and catch him at it.
"You know, she wouldn't be the first–" he began, but Dean was already at the bathroom door, going in and closing it behind him.
Sam sighed, going to the air-con and setting it on cool before going out to the car and bringing in his brother's jacket and beer-stained shirt. He hung them on the back of the rickety wooden chair in front of the desk with the mirror, smirking at them for a few moments. Then he simply stripped off and rolled into bed.
The last thing he heard was the reassuring sounds of a gravely rendition of some song by Filter he only vaguely recognised.
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Dean woke very slowly. He found that odd. As was the fact that Sam was not in the other bed, or the bathroom.
He pushed the heel of his palm into his eye, giving it a thorough rubbing. He ran his hand through his fluffy air, devoid of products since the world's hottest shower the night before.
He sat up, sniffing and looking around, leaning his elbows on his knees to wipe at his face. He heard the key-card thunk into the handle of the motel room door and looked over as Sam wandered in, carrying cups and small brown paper bags. He shut the door behind him with his foot, walking over and smirking at his brother's bed-hair.
"Morning. Guess what I got," he said proudly. He handed a cup to his brother.
"Sammy, I never say this," he rumbled as he took it from him, "but some days I almost love you." He opened the lid and breathed in the coffee fumes gratefully.
Sam carried his cup and the other two bags to the small table with the TV.
"And I brought your stinking shirt in from the car, too," he said helpfully.
"Goddamn!" Dean hissed angrily, and Sam almost jumped, looking over at him. He found him with a face like bad ham, vigorously sucking his upper lip.
"Don't forget it's hot," Sam pointed out slowly. Dean mumbled something past his tightly gummed lips, glowering at the cup. "And look at this," Sam said brightly, turning the laptop round.
Dean sniffed, putting the lid and cup on the bedside table and yanking back the blankets. He walked over and put his palms on the table, leaning over and squinting at the webpage.
"Man found dead in a pool? Woah, that really is freaky, Sam," he said drowsily, turning and walking into the bathroom.
"He drowned right there on the steps to the pool," Sam pointed out as his brother closed the door behind him.
"So? Happens every day," he called over the slight sound of tinkling water.
"Oh really?" Sam said innocently. "Men drowning in an inch of water after they've had their hearts removed? I never knew."
"Say what?" Dean called.
"They did the autopsy and from the blood and water in him, he died from drowning, not the missing heart. Which they haven't found, by the way," he called back. He heard taps running and waited.
"No, no, no – someone pushed him under the water, made him take a great lung-full, then hauled him up and hacked his ticker out with a–"
"It wasn't hacked out. There were no signs of removal," he said smugly. He waited for the inevitable sounds of brushing from the bathroom.
"Oh. Well then… sounds like our kind of gig. Where is it?" Dean called through the door, his words slightly obscured by toothpaste.
"New Orleans," Sam said neatly.
"That's cool – we can stock up on good pie," Dean said, sounding almost enthusiastic.