Summary: Michael and Sam head out to Santa Carla to escape their demons and end up falling in with some new ones, in the most literal sense.

(Inspired by a plethora of songs, some of which I may quote from time to time.)

Warnings: Some artistic liberties taken.


The night was cool and dark and comforting as it covered their tracks. Frantic prayers and wishes had been sent up to the stars that they would make it alright and good god weren't they there yet? Sam didn't vocalize his confusion with Michael, only hurriedly sucked down menthols when the older boy, relenting, stopped at dirty little gas stations every so often along the way.

They'd eaten very little since they'd left and now food just seemed unappealing. Sam cringed as Michael exited the diner, holding something steamy out to him.

"I'm not hungry." He took another drag, the smoke filling up his throat, practically tasteless.

"You should eat." Michael bummed the near-done cigarette and smoked the rest for himself and Sam took the wax paper package, picking hesitantly. "Come on, let's go."

It was then that the hunger chose to sneak back in and, as they walked swiftly across the parking lot, they scarf down the bits of bun and chilli and hot dog and wipe the spills on the knees of their pants.

They climbed on the worn-in bike, Sam slipping his arms around Michael's waist as he revved the engine up. Briefly, it drew Sam's mind to the beginning of their trip.

"Are we both gunna fit on your bike? I could just hitchhike, you know," he had said.

Michael shook his head, slowly and, perhaps, grimly. "No," he said, coupling it with a look that added, 'you're too young for me to tell you what some kinds of people might want to do to you.'

The wind whipped at them and Sam laid his head against his brother's back. Being off of his feet gave him time for the tiredness and antsy feeling to catch up, to drive his impatience and make him crave another smoke even though he'd just had one only moments before.

He just wanted get there already, for Michael to stop feeling so goddamn unsafe and nervous and to just be able to breathe

After what could have been forever, a new type of anticipation surged up as they both took in the words, red paint faded on salt-warped wood, Welcome to Santa Carla.