Don't Feed After Midnight
Chapter 6
Dean slouched deeper in the impala's drivers seat and leaned his elbow out the window, enjoying the breeze.
He'd left Sammy at the bunker with Kevin, done the supply run alone.
Now he felt more than a little glad to be heading back, job done, back seat loaded up with grocery bags.
Not for nothing, but being unable to keep an eye on Sam and his pacemaker angel, made him edgy.
He'd had to reluctantly convince himself to go alone after he'd checked out the water in the shower room and pronounced everything peachy. His announcement seemed to spin Sam into one of his passive aggressive cleaning frenzies; and he'd handed over a list of supplies, saying he didn't feel right about leaving Kevin alone in the bunker with Crowley, (like Crowley was going anywhere.) Begged off on the trip into town in favour of cleaning out the refrigerator, pronouncing that Dean really didn't need him for a trip to the store.
No amount of wheedling or mockery had budged his ass from in front of the sink scrubbing stuff.
Little bitch even tossed out Dean's enchiladas, pronouncing them unfit for human consumption.
So here he was, flying solo, after spending the last hour and a half on the drive out, and in the store, telling himself that if nothing had happened in the days since the hospital, Zeke was totally up to the task of keeping Sammy ticking for an hour or two without supervision.
He really wished if it had to be an angel in there, it'd been Cas, he'd a been way happier if it was Cas tasked with doing the job of keeping Sammy ticking.
But the stupid jackass had gotten himself de-graced by Metatron, was now pretty much human. Laying low and staying off the radar of a bunch of pissed off angels.
Come to think of it, maybe Sam's angelic pacemaker explained Sam's whole ice shower experience— A what-do-you-call-it? Side effect, of what Zeke was doing in there, triaging Sam's spleen or whatever.
If that was the case, the quicker it was brushed off and Sam moved on the better.
They didn't need Sammy freaking out and tossing Zeke out before he was done.
Once Sam was all fixed up Zeke could take a hike, or better yet, he could assist with the search for a way to Fed-ex the god squad back upstairs.
Dean rubbed at the back of his neck thinking it was a good idea to let his brother have a bit of breathing room, Sam was starting to get a touch bitchy over how he'd been hovering, watching and worrying over the probable state of Sam's parboiled innards. Not that Sam knew that was what he was doing, or how close he'd been to giving up the ghost.
Dean shuddered and pushed a cassette into the Impala's tape-deck.
Let the familiar drumbeat to Black Sabbath's, "Trashed" fill him up and push everything else out of his mind.
"It really was a meeting
The bottle took a beating
The ladies of the manor
Watched me climb into my car and
I was going down the track about a hundred and five
They had the stop-watch rolling
I had the headlights blazing I was really alive
And yet my mind was blowing
I drank a bottle of tequila and I feel real good
I had the tape deck roaring
But on the twenty-fifth lap at the canal turn
I went of exploring
I knew I wouldn't make it the car just wouldn't make it
I was turning tires burning
The ground was in my sky
I was laughing the bitch was trashed
And death was in my eye.."
Suddenly the throaty growl of Baby's engine changed tone, she shuddered under him as if objecting to the song.
He laid a hand on her dash, patted her and chuckled good naturedly.
"Just a song Baby, don't get your fan belt in a bunch, sweetheart..."
The car surged a few times, as if she was disagreeing with the sentiment, or arguing; then just as he turned off the main road and onto the unpaved access road leading to the bunker, she coughed once, and her engine died.
"What the hell?"
He coasted the car over onto the verge.
"Seriously? Now?! Don't be a bitch Darlin', come on." He thumped a fist against the dash and turned the key in the ignition, the engine coughed apologetically.
Then suddenly, the fuel gauge which had been riding on half full plummeted to below empty.
"What the Hell?"
…ooo0ooo…
Sam stared into the refrigerator hands on hips, felt the satisfaction of a job well done.
Every surface in there was sparkling clean and sanitised, Dean's science experiments with the tenacity to try passing themselves off as food had been banished to the garbage where they belonged and that funky smell was gone too.
A job well done.
Next he'd tackle the laundry.
The Bunker had it's own laundry room.
Goodbye 3am Laundromat visits lugging duffles full of suspiciously blood stained clothes, goodbye running out of quarters and having to cram way to much into the one machine. Goodbye watching Dean try to pick up exhausted looking women wearing sensible shoes and far too much makeup.
Goodbye playing 5 card stud for Cheetos and chores.
Sam stripped his bed and collected his dirty laundry, wrinkled his nose at the rancid smell coming from ones he'd worn in the church, what seemed like forever ago.
Stopped by his brothers room, collecting the pile of clothes which always built up on the chair, glanced to the bed, but decided not to go there. Dean could change his own sheets;
Then, he looked in on Kevin only to realise the kid had been wearing the same thing for days, suggested Kevin might want to take a shower and change his clothes, but only got a distracted grunt in response.
Sam left him to it, figured he'd ask Dean to tackle the whole reeking teen thing later on after he returned, Dean had the experience, was way better with kids. Besides, Sam remembered Dean picking him up bodily and tossed into shower fully clothed a time or two, back when his teenaged rebellion had been at full height.
Someone Kevin's size wouldn't stand a chance in the same position.
Sam headed to the laundry room, filled the washer with the first load and set it going. Ransacked the linen cupboard for fresh sheets and remade his bed, straightened the room he was using, then turned his attention back to trying to find every mention of angels he could in the lore.
…
The slam of the bunker door jolted Sam out of his research.
Dean clomped down the stairs lugging armfuls of plastic shopping bags. He looked a mess. Face sweaty and smudged with dirt, there were leaves and grass in his hair. Grass stains on the knees of his jeans and wide circles of sweat darkening his t-shirt.
"What the hell happened to you?"
"Baby died, ran outta gas if you can believe it? I coulda sworn I had half a tank, then, just like that, below empty… bam! Sender must be on the fritz, man! I could be lookin' at a burned out fuel pump, clogged filters, injectors…, I'ma gonna haveta pull the whole thing…" Dean stomped through the war room and library, heading for the kitchen, still bemoaning probable damage to the impala.
Sam trailed after his brother frowning, "you're telling me you ran the car dry?" He asked incredulously, "you?"
Dean glared at him.
"Gotta ask man, uh why're you covered in dirt?"
"Checkin' the fuel lines."
"Ah," Sam nodded, then he caught a whiff of his brother, gagged at the stench, "you reek!"
"You try hot footing it, lugging all this crap for 3 miles, an' see how springtime fresh you smell, asshole." Dean thumping the plastic carry bags down onto the island bench flexing his arms grateful to restore the circulation.
He yanked opened the refrigerator.
"Meanwhile you've been a good little Suzy Homemaker," Dean noted, "can almost see m' hansome face in these shelves."
Sam felt a moment of gratification then rolling his eyes, huffing with expected bitchiness. "Don't stare too long Narcissus."
"Who you callin' a Sissy."
"Dude, it's Greek mythology! Seriously, how can you not know this stuff? He was a Laconian hunter, also a massive Jerk and hansome," he shaded his voice with mockery making air quotes, "He broke the heart of a nymph, name of Echo," Sam lectured as he handed off food from the bags, to his brother. "then Nemesis, goddess in charge of retribution against those who suffered from hubris, decided to punish him. Made him fall in love with his own reflection. Dude died sitting there staring at his own reflection in unrequited love."
"Ha, that's one epic case of blue balls. Seriously though, Sissy never hear of masturbation?"
Sam huffed to cover a bark of laughter and rolled his eyes again, "and that Dean, is why you get to wash your own sheets."
"Surely you remember the talk Sammy, masturbation is a normal, heathy, expression of sexuality, nothin' to be ashamed of— unless you don't clean up after yourself, and someone steps in it."
Sam felt his cheeks heat, "It was one time, and I was all of 13, Dean." He muttered mortified, head ducked so his hair covered his face.
"Tell that to Amanda Sanchez, Sammy." Dean shook his head, face lined with a sober look of disapproval, but the amusement in his eyes made a liar of him.
Sam shoved at his brother roughly, face flaming hotter with mortification. "I was 13 Dean… like you didn't do some embarrassing shit at that age."
"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy you started this, if ya can't stand the heat, get outta the —"
From somewhere below them came a series of clattering bangs.
"What the…"
Drawing their guns, both brothers started towards the direction of the sound.
"You recon Crowley?"
They rounded the bend as another series of clattering bangs echoed through the Bunker.
Dean gestured to him chest then down towards the dungeon. Tilted his head in the direction of Kevin's room. Sam nodded and took the branching toward the dorms seeking out their prophet.