"What?"
"Whaddyou mean, what?" Sam's upper lip curled in repulsion at the sight of Dean's partially-eaten dessert between his teeth.
"You're looking at me funny." A few crumbs sprayed the greasy diner table from between Dean's teeth, unnoticed by Dean but making Sam flinch, just a little.
"Yeah, I'm looking at you funny cos I don't wanna see your stupid pie once it's in your stupid mouth."
Dean grinned and opened his mouth wider, displaying his masticated apple pie to his grossed out brother and anyone else in the diner who cared to look. Luckily there weren't so many other patrons that evening. They needed a hunt. Desperately. They'd spent a couple of weeks without any leads, without anything worthwhile to do, and once they'd caught up on laundry, filled out a couple of credit card applications, serviced the car, been to the movies twice and got drunk four times, they were running out of sources of entertainment. Sam sighed loudly, conveying his feelings that if he had to spend one more mind-numbing day like this he was going to shoot either himself or his juvenile brother. Either way it would put them both out of their misery.
"Just… " Sam huffed. "Yeah. You're funny. Whatever."
"Ah, lighten up, Sammy." Dean closed his mouth and looked down to his apple pie as Sam pushed his empty coffee cup around in circles by the handle. "I get it. You're going stir-crazy." Dean's voice softened. "Something'll show up."
"Yeah. Sure it will. And until then, we'll just hang out, wasting days, and eating pie until it comes out of our ears."
"Sounds good enough to me." Dean smiled, shovelling another overly huge spoonful into his mouth.
"You know Dean, one day, you're gonna have to lay off the pie."
"Mot habbenin." Dean reverted to his second language. Pie-speak.
"Yeah, right. You know, you're what, nearly thirty? Believe me, one day you're gonna weigh six hundred pounds." Sam nodded in validation.
"Nearly thirty my ass," Dean mumbled and wiped his hands on a paper napkin, balling it up and sitting back with a satisfied sigh. "I'm twenty eight. And I'm awesome. I've always been awesome. Unlike some of us." Dean raised an eyebrow at his brother, remembering him as a chubby pre-pubescent. Sam glared.
"Yeah. But you know, Dean," A mischievous glint flashed through Sam's hazel eyes. "You're getting older. Your metabolism's gonna change."
"Nah. Metabolism, smatabomalism…" Dean tripped over the words with the eloquence of Homer Simpson and frowned at his brother. "Bull". Dean threw twenty dollars onto the table to cover and stood up, his brother mirroring him. Sam was talking out of his ass. Surely? Dean shook his head to banish the ridiculous thought and fished his car keys out of his pocket.
RDGRDGRDGRDG
"Well that was a day I don't wanna repeat." Dean shifted into a booth and sank back against the well-worn plastic seats. He rolled his eyes as Sam slid in opposite him, an unformed bruise shining pink on his right cheekbone and his shoulders visibly stiff. I'll kick Bobby into the next State when I see him, Dean thought… routine job, my ass. But, routine job or not, Dean knew full well that Bobby had only given them the gig to stop them killing each other. And he also knew that there was no way that he would ever dare to even think half-seriously about even raising his voice to Bobby, never mind anything else.
He lifted his eyes to the specials board, more than ready for a stack of fries joined by a nice juicy burger or even a steak. His mouth was watering at the thought as he picked up the menu to ensure he selected the most superior dish served in this fine establishment. Pulling apart the sticky pages with a slight grimace, he glanced up at his brother, noticing that he looked beat to hell.
"You okay, Sammy?"
"Hmm?" Sam's interest in food was waning; he was hungry but his fatigue after the tough exorcism that afternoon meant that his hunger had passed.
"You're lookin' a little…. Spaced. You good?" Dean raised a concerned eyebrow.
"Yeah… I'm good. What's on the menu?" Sam feigned interest, most concerned with being ready for a beer, then his bed.
"What's not on the menu, kiddo…" Dean's salivating was almost visible. I could go for one of everything, he thought…. He leaned over excitedly, sure he could enthuse his non-plussed sibling with the "Hickory Smokehouse Cheddar Burger", fully loaded with mushrooms, bacon and grilled onions, not to mention an obscene amount of cheese and an enormous beef patty – how could any red-blooded male resist?
"Check this one out, Sam!" He pointed to the bottom of the menu, reaching over the table – and froze. A deep feeling of dread washed over Dean as he felt his waistband suddenly loosen. The top button of his jeans gave way. Surely not… Mustn't have been fastened properly…his heart sank as he heard the slight 'ping' of the stud dropping onto the tiled floor, leaving no doubt in his mind that the rivet had popped.
Sam stopped nervously drumming his fingers on the table and took the menu from his brother, scanning over the not so catchy names given to the various stacks of grease (with fries). Suddenly Dean sat up dead straight, as if something had given him an electric shock. Sam looked up from the menu through his tangled bangs.
"What?"
"Nothing." Dean's heart picked up a little, Sam's warning to him from the week before echoing through his mind. Well, it would have done, had he actually bothered to listen to him. Something about metabolism and nearing thirty… Nah. Surely not. His jeans did feel a little stiff, but he'd just pulled them newly laundered from his duffle; that always left them a little tight, right? Right??
"You boys ready to order?" A waitress with a matronly bosom, appearing spectrally with her notepad poised, awakened Dean from his horrified thoughts. He looked at her a little like the proverbial rabbit-in-the-headlights, and turned back to Sam, who took over, puzzled by his brother's sudden bashfulness.
"Yeah, sure. I'll have the ermmm…" He glanced briefly down the list, stopping and pointing out his selection. "Toasted BLT." He returned the somewhat sticky menu back to his brother, awaiting his selection of some burger with a name as long as his own arm.
"I'll have…" Dean scanned down the list. "The same."
The waitress offered the usual 'anything else?' and Sam listened, astounded, to Dean order two beers but refuse anything further from the menu.
"The same?"
"Yeah, well, maybe I just felt like a sandwich."
Sam frowned. "You sick, dude?"
"No… just, shut up, Sam." He surreptitiously retrieved his wayward button from the floor, determined not to tell his idiot brother what had just happened. Sam was wrong. He had to be.
RDGRDGRDGRDG
"Dude."
"Dude!" Sam threw some balled-up socks at his still sleeping brother, earning him the reply of "mmmmrgh!" as Dean pulled the blankets over his head. Sam had an extensive repertoire of wake-ups for his older brother, tried and tested over the last twenty years. He considered his options. A few had been retired, for example, climbing under the bedclothes and tickling Dean would be highly inappropriate. Plus, he didn't want to. Dean was far too hairy these days… and his piece de resistance from being nine years old of capturing some kind of creature (worms, frogs, until Dad told him that cats were going too far) and placing it on his sleeping brother required far too much preparation. Smirking a little at the memory, Sam opted for launching the whole of his nineteen-foot tall frame ass-first onto the side of Dean's bed.
"Come on. Get up."
Dean uncovered his head with a groan. "Aw, man…. Come on! Bit of slack here!"
"Why, cos you sank twice as much Jack as me last night? We've got a job, you know that." He bounced a little on the bed.
"Don't. Do. That. Sam – I mean it."
Sam grinned a little, still shaking the bed up and down as Dean shot him an icy stare. He ran a hand through his hair and caught an unfortunate whiff of his underarm. Breathing out sharply, Dean scratched his head, squinting at Sam.
"A job. I know. Tellin' you though, if we get thrown around on this one like we did the other day I'm getting a nine to five instead…"
"Yeah right. Get dressed."
"I'm going…." Dean stretched his stiffened shoulders with a resounding pop, mumbling something that Sam was sure was something like 'at least you didn't use a cat' and clicked the bathroom door shut, leaving Sam perusing his duffle bag with an unmistakeable evil glint in his hazel eyes…
RDGRDGRDGRDG
Stepping out of the shower, Dean wiped the steam from the broken mirror in front of him with a flattened palm, like he was waving at a familiar friend. That friend, well, acquaintance, stared back at him. He wrapped a towel around his waist, his tanned skin still glistening with moisture.
Running his hands roughly through his sandy hair, he hesitated, putting a tentative finger and thumb to his waistline. Don't be ridiculous, Winchester, he berated himself. He glanced up and down at the figure in front of him. Still looked… the same. Didn't he? He turned to the side, tensing his abdominal muscles. Yeah, still the same. No change – was there? He turned to his other side, swiping at the mirror again and flexing his pectoral muscles. Still… okay. Wasn't it? He sighed. When did the guy in the mirror grow up and where the hell did cheeky, teenaged Dean Winchester go? Probably had something to do with staying up until half past stupid and drinking far too much… Rubbing his hand down his face, he shook his head, leaving the mirror-dude locked in the bathroom. What the hell did mirrors know anyway?
Sam had his laptop open on his long legs and was clicking away busily as Dean pulled a somewhat crumpled shirt from his bag, making a mental note that he should unpack properly in the interests of looking professional. Sam on the other hand, was doing a half decent job of looking like he was on somebody's payroll; well, as some kind of junior insurance broker or something equally as dull.
"You nearly ready yet?" Broker-boy didn't look up as he interrupted Dean's train of thought.
"Two minutes, Sam. We got time for breakfast before we go talk to…?" He clicked his fingers forgetfully.
"Mrs Greenall. And yeah, probably." He glanced up at his brother as he pulled his slacks up around his waist and started to tuck his shirt in. He put his head down to his computer again. "What do you fancy?"
"Huh?" Dean glanced back over his shoulder, sounding distracted. He'd turned his back to Sam and was fumbling with the button on his trousers, shirt tucked in, but something not quite right. He leaned back slightly, sucking in his stomach and pulling each side of his trousers together. What the hell? No way…. He grabbed his belt from where he'd abandoned it on his bed and threaded it through the beltloops, buckling it defiantly over his offending trousers and ignoring the fact that the button didn't fasten. Flustered, he turned back to his brother and rapidly pulled his jacket over his shoulders, pulling it around his stomach defensively.
"You ready bro? Let's just get some coffee and get to Mrs Greenwhat's place; we've lost too much time already."
RDGRDGRDGRDG
"So how's the turkey salad?"
"Bite me." Dean drained the remains of his soda and crashed the glass down a little harder than he intended to. He'd been making the effort to eat a little healthier. Really he had. But he was hungry. And hungry made him irritable. And Sam's ridiculous smirk every time he'd ordered something that wasn't swimming in grease or passed up the opportunity of a snack meant that he was tempted to smack that stupid, goofy grin off his stupid…. Breathe, Dean. God, he was glad he'd never smoked because this is what he imagined it would be like to try and give up. And if Sam dared to… yes, he was going to. I hate him.
"'Scuse me, Miss?" Sam motioned to the waitress who sidled over, quite cute if he did say so, her curvy hips swinging as she approached the table. He felt his brother's glare burning into him.
If you so much as think about ordering pie, or ice cream, I will end you. Do you hear me?
Dean didn't speak a word as Sam's grin spread wider, but yes, he heard him, loud and clear. Grinning mischievously at the waitress, he backed down, asking for their check rather than the dessert menu. He turned his grin to his brother, pulling at his tie.
"So what next?"
Dean irritably ran a menu card through his fingers repeatedly. He ran a weary hand down his face. "Suppose we've got a grave to find."
"Yeah. Looks like –" Sam was cut off mid sentence by a buzzing from his pocket. He fumbled into his jacket and looked at the unrecognised number. He gave a small frown, glancing up at his brother, who shrugged.
"Hello?"
Dean reached over the table for Sam's notebook, reading his brother's notes from the interview with Mrs Greensomething that morning, but all the while listening to his brother's conversation.
"Yeah… this is Richard." Sam was frowning; they'd given enough pseudonyms for him not to dismiss any odd name out of hand before he'd worked out what was going on. "What? Hey, ermm… no. No, I think, I think you've got the wrong number. No, sorry, really." He clamped the cellphone firmly closed and gave his brother a look something akin to a confused puppy. "That was weird."
"Who was it?" Dean looked up from Sam's notes.
"Nobody. Wrong number. We going to this cemetery then?"
"In broad daylight? With you dressed as work-experience boy?"
Sam huffed, gesturing to Dean's own poorly fitting department store suit. "Let's just go change."
The moonlight was bright enough that they didn't need flashlights. Sam looked up, the weirdness of looking up at his brother from a freshly dug grave not lost on him. Dean was breathing heavily, fatigue setting in along with regret that he'd used his spare time that afternoon to go running instead of taking his brother's lead and taking a nap.
"You okay man?"
"Yeah, yeah, I'm good." Dean held a hand down to his brother to haul him out of the grave, mirroring Sam's earlier thought that it didn't matter how many times they did this, it was just too weird.
"You gonna do the honours?" Sam wiped his muddy palms down the legs of his jeans.
Dean wordlessly shook accelerant onto the exposed skeleton and noticed his brother grasping around his jacket, pulling his cellphone out of his pocket. Frowning again, he flipped the front of the phone as Dean grinned.
"Hello?" He put a finger into his left ear as the crackle of the flames rose. "Am I what? No. Wrong number. No. No I really don't. I'm hanging up." Sam flicked his cellphone shut and looked at his brother incredulously. "That's the third time today."
"What, the third wrong number?" Dean mopped his brow with his sleeve, hitching up his busted jeans, which now didn't fit very well without the stud.
"Yeah." Sam took in a deep breath. The phonecalls perturbed him. All asking for some guy called Richard. All women. And all wanting to talk about - the cell began to vibrate in his hand. He'd had enough. He flipped the phone again. "What!"
Dean sucked in a deep breath, sensing Hurricane Sam was about to hit. It didn't happen often, but when it did, oh boy….
"Look. I'm not interested in how long your husband will be out of the house for. And I don't – no – I really don't want to know what you're wearing. And –" Sam's eyes widened and for a moment Dean thought Sam was going to either scream, pass out, throw up or all three. "Why the freakin' hell would I care that you're doing that?" He slammed the phone shut, his cheeks burning.
"What the hell?" Sam looked to his brother for some reassurance.
"What'd they say, Sammy?" Dean tried to look concerned, a glint of mischief flashing over his face before he managed to straighten his expression. "We need to be worried about anything?"
"No… nothing supernatural, anyway. At least, I don't think so."
"What'd they say?"
Even in the moonlight, Sam's cheeks flushed brighter and he dropped his face away from Dean's. "Nothing. Well, nothing I'm repeating."
"Aw, come on Sammy, don't be a prude!"
"Dean, no!" He made a show of powering the phone off. He'd had enough. Somewhere, somehow, his cell had obviously gotten mixed up, or diverted from, some kind of call line. And he wasn't giving Dean the satisfaction of knowing that. Sighing and looking at the flames licking at his brother's tired reflection, he looked pleadingly at his brother. "Let's just go back, yeah?"
"Sure, Sammy." Dean clapped his brother on the back as he dejectedly began to walk back to the car.
RDGRDGRDGRDG
"Sam, wake up, you're late for school."
"Huh?" Sam sat bolt upright, his eyes open instantly and his heart starting to pound. He sank back onto his pillow, remembering that he was almost twenty-four years old. "You're a jerk, Dean…." he murmured into his pillow.
"Right back at you, Bitch." Dean was tying his boots and wasn't even bothering to hide his busted jeans, still being held together with his belt. "You ready for breakfast?"
"What, you not on your health-kick today?" Sam snarked.
Dean's expression was deadpan. "Just get your crap together and move your ass."
They took a seat in the diner and as Dean eyed the menu, Sam eyed his brother, waiting patiently for his Dean's order. He flashed the waitress a smile and Sam widened his eyes as his brother ordered a stack of pancakes with a side order of bacon. Sam mirrored Dean's order minus the side, and looked at his brother.
"Feeling better today then, dude?"
"Haven't got a Scooby what you're talking about Sam." Dean's expression remained blank. "Your phone still turned off?"
Sam sighed deeply, digging into his pocket and powering his cellphone on, a deep dread in his gut as not one but three voicemails pinged through. He buried his head in his hands, knowing what was going to happen, but knowing that he couldn't ignore the messages, you know, just in case. Huffing loudly, he raised the cellphone to his ear and accepted the voicemails.
Dean thanked the waitress for the coffee as Sam collected his voice messages, Dean trying so hard to keep his face straight. He turned away and looked out of the window at a dog that had suddenly become terribly interesting, as Sam's jaw dropped almost to his knees. Panic set in as he hurriedly tried to work out the combination of keystrokes to delete what was undoubtedly an obscene message. Dean couldn't watch.
"I am so freakin' pissed off with this!" Sam slammed the phone down viciously, the waitress at the booth behind them audibly shaking the cups on her tray. He didn't turn to apologise, breathing heavily and ready to break something. "What the hell is going on?"
"Language, dude, public place!" Dean repeated in a quiet voice. "What's up?"
"Someone…" He took a deep breath and dropped his voice right down, soft and dangerous. "Somehow, my number's got, I don't know, set up on a bored housewives porn line and, somehow, don't know, could be diverted wrong or… Anyway, they're calling me to talk dirty to them. And some of the stuff…" He looked over his shoulder suspiciously, dropping his voice down so that only his brother could hear him. "Some of it, Dean, it's disgusting. Probably illegal. And…"
"And what, Sammy?" Dean bit his lip, painting on his best concerned big-brother expression.
Sam dropped his voice down to a whisper. "And some of it I don't even understand, Dean, and it's really, really making me feel uncomfortable!"
Dean leaned forward and put a hand on his agitated sibling's arm to calm him, still chewing his own bottom lip. Sam's chin quivered, reminiscent of multiple childhood episodes where Sam hadn't shared Dean's sense of humour and all Dean had achieved was making Sammy cry. In later years, Dean pegged that reaction as a victory, learning that for his brother rage and tears were pretty close. "Chill. I'm sure it's just a mistake."
"Yeah, well…. I've had enough." Sam sat back, a full-on pout on his sulky face.
"Enough?"
"Enough of horny women thinking I'm Richard Biglove!" Sam hissed through his teeth and leaned forwards towards his brother aggressively, breathing deeply.
Dean's eyes widened. He wanted to tell Sam to calm down. Really he did. He sucked his cheeks in to stop his smile, gripping Sam's wrist tighter and looking back out the window, the tied up mongrel outside suddenly becoming so interesting again… a howl of laughter exploded from his lungs. He released Sam's arm as his younger sibling recoiled in horror.
"Y-you?" Sam pulled his paw back against his body as if he'd been burned. His jaw twitched as his brother beat his open palm on the table like he was encouraging an encore. He sucked in another breath. I'll kill him. I will actually kill him. He lowered his voice to a threatening whisper.
"Dean Winchester, the minute that we get out of here, I am going to kick your ass so hard that you won't even wanna try to sit down for a friggin' week, do you understand?" Sam pointed a shaking finger into his brother's face.
Dean's expression suddenly became stern. He lowered his face to his brother's, firstly not believing that Sam had just turned into Dad, and secondly, with his own point to prove. Narrowing his eyes, cat like, he cast a steely gaze straight back into his brother's stare.
"Oh yeah? I'd like to see you try. Especially since I owe you a whole can of whupass for screwing with my clothes!" Dean's verbal barrage accelerated towards the end of his sentence, leaving both brothers glaring about three inches away from the other's face, unmoving. Breathing in, out. Fuming.
The unfortunate waitress reluctantly laid their coffee and cutlery down at the edge of the table, a little too aware of how close Table Nine was to actual bloodshed. Sam broke Dean's glare and looked out of the window towards the mongrel that had now decided to spend some quality time licking its own ass, shaking his head in disbelief. He grinned sheepishly back at his brother, who now wore a somewhat imperious look on his face.
"When did you figure it out?" Sam sniggered.
"Never fell for it, Sammy. Not even close." Dean lifted up his steaming coffee cup with a grin. "Okay. Yesterday. When I inspected my pants properly and saw your shoddy needlework."
Sam put his head in his hands. "Where the hell did you put my number?"
"Never revealing my sources, Sam. Or should I call you 'Dickie'?"
Sam launched a packet of sugar at Dean's head. "If we say truce will you stop the… phonecalls?" Sam shuffled awkwardly.
"Maybe… if you say I'm in better shape than I've ever been."
"I…" Sam sank back, not yet defeated. "I'm in better shape than I've ever been."
"Funny, Sam. You know you won't win. You can't con a conman."
Sam opened his mouth to argue, when his cellphone buzzed again. He glanced at the display, horrified. "Maybe you wanna take this then, Dean… I've had about enough of it."
Sam passed the phone to his brother with a glint in his eye. Dean grinned, flicking the cellphone open and placing it to his ear, his demeanour saying 'watch the master'. Sam settled back to watch the show as a wicked, boyish look
flashed through Dean's green eyes.
"Richard 'Dickie' Biglove ready and waiting to talk to you, sugar. Are you home alone today darlin?"
Sam actually spat his coffee over the table at his brother's terrible line, and as he choked he saw his brother's cheeks instantly flush crimson. "Oh, ermm, hi… Bobby…".
Sam knew he was gonna have to run.