"I don't know," the taller one said. An impish expression betrayed the irritation lurking beneath his tolerant tone. "It looks like our sort of thing."
"It looks like your standard issue, Weekly-World-News sort of thing. 'Shuttle Crashes in the Middle of Frickin' Nowhere.' Who cares? We have bigger fish to fry. If the girl who's missing suddenly shows up dripping black goop out of a big fat row of shark teeth where her face should be, that's our thing."
"Sure," the taller one snapped, slapping his laptop closed. The hotel room echoed with the clipped syllable, his voice drained of patience, and when he stood the shadow he cast across the dirty floor was eerily long. He kicked a beer can out of the way with a look of disgust, and began to pace in the slender aisle that barely separated his tidy work space from his brother's current bed. "Because it's that easy to spot them, all the time. And when we spot them, they're that easy to kill."
"We've got a start on how to kill them, princess." The other man wasn't short, even though he wasn't as tall as the first; they were both broad shouldered and carried an air of barely controlled menace, their voices growing in time with their argument. He sat on the rumpled edge, looking out at the curtained window as if the view were worth it. "Do you really want to ditch the progress we've made on the next world ending nightmare, just to investigate… Nothing?" A wide hand slapped away the newspaper article his brother had given him five minutes ago; the man sitting on the edge of the bed spoke in a growl and shot a disparaging look at the looming shadow that lay between them on the floor as the tattered print-out landed face up, a brown-eyed girl's xeroxed face silently watching the fight unfold.
The taller one's nostrils flared as his mouth flattened into a firm, angry line. His chest fluttered as he took in a deep breath, stamping in place impatiently, the shadow he cast fluttering between them. Staying in this hotel another night might make him crazy; reading the same books, finding the same nothing just drove both of them towards the despair that lay on the edge of every day. He knew his brother needed something to fight besides him. "We've got no new leads. Nothing. And we're sitting around while you drink" -he kicked a rattling six pack container on the floor- "and eat" -handfuls of rolled up cheeseburger wrappers were unceremoniously dumped on the shorter one's head- "yourself into an early grave. Perfect, Dean. It's just what Bobby would've wanted, for you to die a fat, lonesome drunk." They stared at each other, furious, until the shorter one exploded from his seat and began pacing around their dingy hotel room, the two shadows dancing angrily in the narrow space too small for either man.
"Bobby would understand why driving into the middle of nowhere over a bunch of nonsense is a bad idea. Bobby wouldn't question my diet like a damn school nurse, or whether the end of the world is more important that this goddamn-"
"-Bobby would've called you an idjit and kicked your ass if he saw what you've been up to," the taller one snapped. "The world is always ending, Dean. Always. In new ways, every year or so, it seems. In the meantime, we hunt. That's what we do. Sitting around and getting fat? That's goddamn nonsense."
Dean leaned over and took a long swig from a flask sitting on the small bedside table in their hotel room. His eyes were almost the same effervescent green as his younger sibling's, but otherwise he was fairer in coloring, and darker in demeanor. A long moment passed as he stared at nothing, the dark growing deeper around them, and then he abruptly turned towards his brother. His scarred hand pointed an accusing finger at Sam's broad chest. Dean's younger brother blinked, rocking on his heels, but he was glad it was over. They both knew he'd won. They'd done this dance before. The back and forth was all part of the job. "Fine. But if this turns out to be nothing, Sam-"
"-Fine," the taller one said, and settled squarely on his feet to face his older brother. They glared at each other. "Then I let you rent anime porn and bore me with recaps of Clint Eastwood movies without complaining." His expression softened. "Even the one with the monkey."
Dean's face broke into a wide smile, and he clapped Sam on the shoulder as he passed. It wasn't sincere, but it would do; Sam couldn't remember the last time Dean had showed interest in even a sarcastic pantomime. The door of the dim room opened, flooding the interior with the last bit of bright sunlight. "Hell, Sammy," he said, "that's all just par for the course. You're also stuck hustling dinner." He sauntered into the parking lot, and Sam heard the rumble of their engine turning over as he tossed their last few belongings in a duffel and headed out after Dean.
"Fine," he muttered again, and closed the door.
It would do.