Summary: S2 post-Nightshifter. Dean knows his baby pretty well, but he's never been up her skirt quite like this before. Banter, ghosts, and Dean in the trunk.
Atlas
Washington: We Look Good in Flannel
"Does it EVER stop raining here?" Dean grumbles, fist pressed against the cool glass of the motel window. Here is Washington, a little town called Prosser, to satisfy specifics, but he's spent enough time in the state to know any particular locale is all but irrelevant this time of year.
He's grumpy from being on lockdown at the orders of the unmovable Warden Sammy, cooped up in this tiny, smelly room for hours on end, no doubt about that, but Sam doesn't have to exacerbate the situation by throwing his own freedom in Dean's face like he is. The way he's coming and going whenever he pleases, a chipper stroll down the sidewalk for a Coke from the vending machines when there is perfectly good beer right here in the cooler, or taking the car into town for an Italian beef sub from some AWESOME little hole-in-the-wall deli, bypassing the stack of take-out menus on the counter.
Okay, the sandwich had been for Dean, and it had actually been really decent of Sam to go out and get it for him, but still.
STILL.
"No."
Dean turns away from tracking raindrops down the windowpane and makes a face at where Sam sits at the small, short table across the room, taking distracted bites from some kind of hippie vegan veggie wrap monstrosity while staring at his computer. "Just, no?"
Sam cocks on eyebrow as he finally draws his gaze away the screen of his laptop and swallows a mouthful of rabbit food dressed up like a sandwich. "No…sir?"
"All right, smartass." Dean rolls his eyes and moves back to the beer he'd left on the counter. "Why don't you just tell me what you found out from the PD?"
"Well," Sam starts, clearing his throat. "This was the third accident in the past two weeks." He shuffles through papers in a manila folder and tosses a few police reports and photo printouts onto the table. "And in all three cases, tire treads run from the bottom of the hill all the way to the overhang of the canal. Then, you know, splash."
"You have such a way with words, Sammy." Dean drags the papers up from the table to study them. "What, all these sons of bitches drove themselves over the edge?"
"Yeah. We know how Dad always felt about coincidences, and two of the drivers had passengers with them at the time. But that's the theory the police are working with." Sam leans back in his chair, pushes the rolled sleeves of his starchy dress shirt farther up his forearms.
Dean raises his eyebrows and his beer. "And what theory are WE working with?"
"Well," Sam pauses to sip from the straw of his to-go soda, but Dean knows the motion for the stalling tactic it really is. "WE think there might be some reason to check out the local lore of this hill."
"What's so special about the hill?"
Another sip. "According to local legend, it's called Gravity Hill."
"You mean where you put your car in neutral and it mysteriously moves uphill?" Dean drops the stack of pages to the table with a smack. "Sam, come on. Every small town in AMERICA has a gravity hill legend. Hell, we could probably do nothing but drive around debunking gravity hill myths and keep busy for a full year, at least."
Sam lifts his shoulders. "This one's story isn't science. It's ghosts, who supposedly, you know, push your car up the hill." He supplements his words with an unnecessary shoving motion.
Dean takes a beat. "And into the canal?"
"Funny enough, that didn't seem to make it into the legend. Which is probably why so many people still go out to the hill to try it."
"Okay," Dean relents, despite thinking all of those people might just be MORONS. "Ghosts of who, then?"
"Whom," Sam mutters under his breath just loud enough to be sure Dean hears him, in trademark fashion. "Of children. Two girls who were supposedly murdered nearby. Among other things."
"Murdered, among other things?" Dean confirms incredulously. He studies him empty beer bottle and shakes his head, disgusted. "I need another drink just thinking about that. And maybe a shower."
"Yeah."
Dean pops open the lid of the green cooler on the countertop and drags a pair of frosty bottles from the loosely packed ice. "And how many have bit it here again?"
Sam screws up his face at what he's surely deemed to be a tactless inquiry. Dean bites his lip, keeps from saying that maybe Sam should have picked him up some more tact to go with dinner. "Five."
Dean nods and passes one of the beers to his brother. "S'not gonna be any more than that. We know damn well what to do with ghosts. It's shake and bake time, bro."
"You know how this works, Dean," Sam says, wiping mayo from his fingers onto a napkin and sandwiching his words around an impatient sigh. "Your face was just all over the news, in connection with robbery and, oh yeah, murder. You can't go traipsing around town, and I really shouldn't have to explain this to you like you're four."
Dean crosses his arms stubbornly. "Well, you're not going out after any ghosts without me. That's for damn sure."
"Dean…"
He raises his hands. "You wouldn't let me come with to the police station. I get that, it was stupid to try. But I have to be able to check out some deserted road. At night." Dean raises his eyebrows, ducks his head. "Right?"
Sam sighs again, and Dean knows that he's won this one. He rewards himself with a pull from his beer, and tries to not dampen the victory, or the moment, with TOO big a shit-eating grin. And truth be told, he's pretty stoked to have gotten out of the suit gig this time. Looks ridiculous in the stiff-ass itchy things.
A fat drop plops onto Dean's forehead and runs in a cold, slimy line down the side of his nose. He raises his eyes to glare at the drippy water spot staining the ceiling over his head. "Look, Sam," he gripes, wiping the dribble from his face. "It's even raining inside now."
It's dark, and it's cold, and it's BORING. And – cue shock and awe – raining. Dean drums his fingers on his thigh, releases a long, low whistle that puffs a cloud in the chilly air in front of his face, surveying their surroundings.
"Dean."
"Hmm?"
"You're driving me crazy."
"I'm not driving you anywhere, actually." Dean throws a pointed gesture at the keys dangling cold and useless from the ignition. "I am literally just sitting here."
"Dean."
"Yeah, yeah." Dean sighs, rolls his neck on his shoulders. He's got DAYS' worth of pent-up energy needing an outlet, and it's not going to be found sitting in the car. What he needs to do if find something that would benefit from a solid punch in the face. "We're really just gonna SIT here and wait to see if something weird happens? And for the record, I don't like using her as bait." He lays a gentle palm on the Impala's dashboard for emphasis.
Next to him, Sam rolls his eyes and nods curtly, squinting into the darkness around them. "Noted. Just think of it as a stakeout."
"I hate stakeouts."
"I know."
"I like steaks."
Sam sighs, one of the pissy annoyed ones.
Dean considers it encouragement, pulls his lips around a grin. "When this doesn't pan out, how about we go get some food?"
"Just…keep an eye out, okay?"
"For a pair of ghost girls who are gonna put their dead, grubby little hands all over my baby?"
"You're pathological," Sam says, shaking his head. He turns to stare out the window at his side.
Dean throws an impatient gaze out of his own window. "This is supposed to be a gravity hill, right? I mean, that's what it's called?"
"That's what it's called."
"Then isn't the car supposed to be moving or something?"
Sam throws his head back against the seat, frustrated. "For the love of God, Dean, I don't – "
Right on cue, the Impala lurches forward as though struck from behind. Not forcefully, but enough for it be obvious that, hey, they're moving here.
"Whoa." Dean jerks his hands away from the steering wheel and pulls his feet back from the pedals. Even so, his girl continues her slow crawl forward. "Okay. The car's moving."
"Yeah."
"No, Sam, my CAR is moving. And I'm not…is this HURTING her?"
Sam doesn't answer right away, and that's more than enough time for Dean to think, screw this, and jam his boot firmly on the gas pedal, steering the Impala away from her slow ascent of the hill.
Without warning or reason, Sam's bony-ass elbow connects with Dean's temple. There's enough force behind the jab, it sends the side of his head straight into the window. And it might be the fourth of July, because suddenly there are fireworks, everywhere.
"Son of a bitch," Dean growls. He's dazed but not completely out, with hands suddenly feeling like thirty pound weights as they drop from the steering wheel to thump clumsily to the edge of the bench. His boot slips off the gas pedal.
Sammy's been working on his hand-eye coordination, been running drills or exercises or some shit. Because the kid is nine feet tall, gangly and gawky and he trips over curbs but he knocks Dean aside and takes control of the big car at lightning speed. Sam jerks the Impala to the berm at an angle that sloshes Dean's brain inside his skull and throws him against his brother's shoulder, then he jams his foot on the brake.
"The hell, Sammy," Dean mumbles sloppily, pawing drunkenly at Sam's arm in an attempt to straighten. Vision murky and swimming, he squints at a pair of Sammy-twins teetering on the bench next to him. Nope. He bumps into the steering wheel with his side and then the door at his back and the one that's become clear is that HE'S the one teetering here, not Sam.
Sam is straight-backed, knees and those WMD elbows bent at sharp, rigid angles. He's staring at Dean with cloudy, unfocused eyes, and he doesn't respond.
Feeling woozy, Dean grips the leather-wrapped wheel for some semblance of balance and blinks dumbly back at Sam, willing himself not to puke all over his baby.
Sam raises his arms jerkily and reaches toward him, and Dean stupidly feels his uncooperative body leaning into his brother.
Then Sam grabs both sides of Dean's head and throws it back into the window with a crack that will be the last thing he hears for a little while.
He comes to rolling around in a cramped, hot space, with his knees jammed up somewhere around his throat and something poking him very uncomfortably in the ass.
Trunk.
Dean knows his baby pretty well, but he's never been up her skirt quite like this before. He lifts his head without really thinking, the motion cut short as his forehead slams into the hard and clangy lid.
"Sonuvabitch," he mutters, letting his head fall back. And that feels just…awesome.
Dean's hand reflexively moves to probe the spot but it turns out he can't, because his wrists are strapped together somewhere around his middle.
"Son of a bitch," he spits again.
Dean experimentally tugs his hands away from each other, finding no give whatsoever. He quickly, however fuzzily, runs through a mental inventory of the trunk's contents, and he can't see to be sure but decides on duct tape. Not great, but could sure as shit be worse. Could've been the cable ties. He shifts his feet, or tries to, finds them in much the same predicament.
"Sammy!" he calls, wincing from the action and the words bouncing back from the metal. The car jerks to a stop, throwing him into the wall of the trunk.
Dean's relief is short-lived, as she presses forward, upward, and he's rolled back into the opposite wall. The engine rumbles as she moves, so maybe the whole pushed by ghosts legend is more metaphorical than literal.
Then a chill washes over him, and Dean's ears perk to the high-pitched, excited shriek of a child's laughter, the thump of tiny fists on the metal above his head.
Okay, so maybe it's a bit of both.
"Sam!" Dean tries again, pounding his bound hands against the lid, the thump echoing in the cramped space and reverberating mercilessly through his aching head. He strikes the metal with the back of a hand, probably smearing the devil's trap painted there. Gonna have to redraw the damn thing when he gets outta here.
Why the fuck am I worryin' about the devil's trap when Sammy's ghost-possessed ass is about to put my sorry self in the river?
"Sammy! I swear to God, Sam, if you put me and my baby into that canal, we are gonna haunt your ass SO hard!"
Dean's thrashing about to the point he never realizes the car has come to a stop. The lid of the trunk is suddenly jerked open, revealing a pale, somewhat blurry Sam staring down at him with the dark, unseeing eyes he recognizes as someone having little to no control over what they're doing. He reaches for Dean, slams a strip of duct tape over his lips instead of helping him to his feet.
Dean bucks and shouts and curses at his brother, none of it intelligible behind the muffle of the tape. Unaffected, Sam stiffly, mechanically slams the trunk closed on him.
Exactly enough time passes for his brother to make it back to the driver's seat, then the Impala lurches forward once more, and Dean's ears perk again to the tinny cackle of a gleeful little girls at the verge of making some new ghost friends.
Over my dead body, Dean thinks. Or…wait. Scratch that.
Ingrained, developed senses tell Dean they are still crawling steadily upward, so he's got a little bit of time to think of something here. Some way to save his sorry ass, and Sammy's, too. Then the upward trajectory of the Impala levels out, and he knows they've ventured off of the narrow road, and Sam's pulled them into the bramble and probably got them pointed right at the edge of the canal.
Well. Fuck.
Then the engine shuts off, and he thinks he can hear the familiar, however faraway, creak of the driver's side door being flung open. The trunk opens over his head again with a sudden jerk.
"Dean," Sam says breathlessly, leaning on the lid. He's white, with very wide eyes. "Hey, sorry, hey, I've got this now. It's me."
Son of a bitch. Cuttin' it a little close, huh, Wonder Boy? Dean drops his head back, doesn't plan to look this particular gift horse in the mouth, even if it should be concerning that Sammy could so easily figuratively and literally take the wheel back from a ghost controlling his actions. He grunts a nonspecific sound against the tape covering his lips and raises his eyebrows expectantly.
Sam blinks and raises his hands. "Okay, okay, just…this is probably gonna hurt."
Dean rolls his eyes, steels himself as Sam works a fingernail under the edge of the tape stuck to his cheek.
"Mmmmmm," he hums as Sam rips the tape away in one smooth motion. "Son of a bitch. I still got lips?"
Sam's eyebrows pull together and he swallows. "Yeah. Still there."
Dean goes to check for himself, sighs and extends his taped-together wrists toward his brother. "If you don't mind?"
"Uh, yeah, sure. Of course. Sorry," Sam stumbles all over himself in his haste to withdraw his switchblade and cut Dean free.
As soon as the tape is removed from his wrists Dean yanks the knife away from Sam and goes to work sawing his own ankles free.
Sam takes a step back like he's expecting a swing, but his hands hover in a characteristic way, unsure of what to do. "You're bleeding."
"Ya think?" Dean tosses the knife to the floor of the trunk and his fingers cautiously probe the tender spot over his left ear. Feels like it's vomiting lava rather than blood. "Damn it, Sam."
A wave of guilt crashes into Sam's features, and he looks pathetically like a giant child who's just been scolded. "You know I would never have…"
"Relax, Sammy," Dean sighs as he drags himself out of the ass-end of the car. "I'm fine. You can unclench."
"Yeah. Right."
Dean stands with a groan and scratches at the sticky residue left behind on his cheek, fingers tripping over a thin line of drying blood from the cut on his head. He raises his eyes to his brother. "So, you wanna take care of these ghosts, or you wanna stand here in the rain and stare at each other a little longer?"
"Ghosts," Sam says with a tight nod, eyes shifting to the old barn in the distance, where the girls supposedly died and were buried. "Definitely."
"Great." Dean swallows against a wave of nausea as the trees do a little dance behind Sam. He turns to yanks a bag from the trunk and a bottle of lighter fluid falls out of the opened zipper and thumps to the hard, carpeted floor of the trunk. He cocks his head. "So that's what was jammed in my ass. Good to know."
Thought it was about time to throw something a bit lighter into the mix, amidst all of the dark and angst of the previous shorts.
