A/N: I'm sorry. This started as Destiel fluff, believe it or not…
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural, any of its characters, or a robotic personal assistant. I guess we all have to want something, right?
-O-O-O-
The Winchesters weren't having what one would call a "good day." It had started well enough—Sam and Dean woke out of their respective nightmares, rolled out of bed before the sun had even begun to think about making an appearance, hopped in and out of the shower, and motored out of the night's motel.
But all throughout the morning's drive, Dean was fidgety. His hands were perpetually twitching away from the steering wheel, toward his thigh where Sam knew he had kept the First Blade while he… wasn't himself.
Sam didn't want to acknowledge that this could possibly mean anything. He didn't want to acknowledge the fact that the Mark had numbered his brother's days.
Then the talking started. At first, it was just Dean muttering to himself under his breath, but that rapidly morphed into Dean wondering aloud when their next case would make an appearance. Then he was wondering what they were going to get to hunt. When they would find it. When they would kill it.
Sam tried desperately to ignore the warning signs.
But he couldn't.
-O-O-O-
The diner they selected for their lunch wasn't anything special. It was just another in a long string of rundown, ready to be health-coded stops along their never-ending journey.
Dean ordered his food grouchily when the time came and all but threw his menu at the waitress serving them.
Sam placed his own order in a much more civil manner and waited until the waitress had disappeared before turning on his brother. "What was that?" he hissed.
Dean looked over at him in surprise. "What was what?"
Sam rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair. "That." He pantomimed shoving a menu at an imaginary waitress.
Dean shrugged. "Bad day," he mumbled.
Sam huffed disbelievingly. "We've been driving all day," he reminded Dean.
Dean shifted in his seat and his eyes found a sudden interest in the fake-wood grain of the tabletop. "I'm not allowed to just have a bad day?" The unconcerned tone in which Dean delivered the line reminded Sam of the way he had spoken in the bar all those weeks ago—the bar outside of which Sam had seen his brother truly affected by holy water.
"Whatever," Sam said, though he glanced nervously at the Mark on Dean's forearm. "So then… everything's good?"
Dean stared at him. "I don't read minds," he prompted Sam. "You're going to have to be just a little less vague."
Sam sighed. "With the mark," he clarified hesitantly, knowing full well that Dean wouldn't like where this was going.
But Dean's expression remained the same, though the carefully sculpted nonchalant expression suddenly seemed a bit forced. "It's all good," he said in reassurance. "Totally fine."
Sam nodded, but wasn't convinced. "No…" he trailed off, searching for the words.
"I haven't had any overwhelming urges to stab someone to death, if that's what you mean," Dean quipped, punctuating the sentence with an eye roll.
But somehow, that didn't make Sam feel any better.
-O-O-O-
Later that afternoon, Sam and Dean were walking out of a gas station, their arms loaded with bags of chips and sodas for the road, when everything went south.
"Sorry," the man mumbled as he knocked into the older Winchester's shoulder.
Sam's eyes went straight to Dean's face, watching for any signs that he was about to Hulk out. The tendon in Dean's neck stood out in a way that couldn't possibly be healthy, but he didn't make any immediate attack.
The man kept walking and half a second later, the gas station door was clanging shut behind him.
Dean swallowed. Took a step forward. Froze.
"C'mon, Dean," Sam said slowly. "Let's go."
Dean blinked and snapped his head back toward Sam. "Sure," he agreed easily, his usual cocky grin back in place. "Back to the Highway to Hell." He smirked at his own joke and headed for the Impala, where it was waiting on the other side of the small parking lot.
"Yeah. Okay." Sam breathed a sigh of relief and followed his brother.
They were half-way to the Impala before Dean stopped again. He shoved his bag at Sam and made an abrupt about-face.
"Hey, hey, hey, woah—no." Sam dropped the bags on the ground in alarm and rushed to grab his brother by the shoulders. "We're leaving, remember?"
Dean turned back to Sam, his expression confused and somewhat put out, but made no move to duck out of his grasp. "Dude," he said, "I'm fine. Nature calls and all that. Thirty seconds, okay?"
Though Sam was worried, he found himself removing his hands from Dean's shoulders and nodding. There was nothing about Dean's demeanor to suggest that the Mark was actually affecting him. Maybe he had imagined the way his face had contorted while they were walking out. And earlier, at the diner—surely Dean was just having a bad day.
But as Sam watched his brother walk across the parking lot, his stride as wide and bow-legged as ever, he couldn't shake a feeling of impending doom.
His big brother wouldn't lie to him, would he?
-O-O-O-
Inside, the man that had run into Dean had just made it up to the cash register and was casting eager glances out the front window to his car—he'd just bought it and was loving every minute behind the wheel.
The cashier only looked up from the comic book he was reading for a second when the man placed a bar of chocolate and bottle of liquor on the counter. "Booze means I need a name and date of birth," the cashier mumbled distractedly, his eyes wandering back to the speech bubble he'd been reading.
"Carl Lynman," the man responded promptly, "March 23rd, 1989."
"Driver's license or other form of photo ID, please," the kid said, his tone bored, and slouched against the counter with his open hand outstretched.
Carl presented him with the correct cards.
A few moments later, the transaction was complete and Carl was heading for the door.
"Have a nice day," the cashier called after him, seeming to suddenly remember the detail was a requirement of his job.
As Carl approached the glass front door, he noted with some embarrassment and apprehension that the man he'd run into earlier had just reentered the building.
Their eyes locked for barely more than a fraction of a second, but it was enough.
Dean grinned.
-O-O-O-
Sam sat in the passenger's seat of the Impala, tapping the dashboard nervously with his fingers. How long had it been since Dean went back in?
He glanced down at the clock on the dashboard. Three minutes.
Sam strained in his seat for a better view of the gas station, but the gas pumps were blocking his view of the front windows. More tapping.
Four minutes.
Sam considered going in after his brother, but decided against it. He was being paranoid. Everyone needs to drop a brick occasionally, he reminded himself.
Five minutes.
Sam prayed to every god he knew of that he was truly just being paranoid.
Six minutes.
The first scream echoed through the parking lot.