I do not nor shall I ever own Supernatural. All of that belongs to Kripke, etc. However, when I give the word, we will kidnap Jensen and Jared, powerless against this massive fandom. Totally kidding. I'm not super into felonies.
The seventeen-year-old looked morosely out the window of the ebony hunk of metal, object of his brother's adulation: the '67 Chevy Impala. What a beauty. Even Sam coveted it a little bit. Mainly because it was a declaration of independence, something he didn't have yet. Something he would never have if he continued in the family business. He wanted to snort at the use of that word in conjunction with his family; business seemed so civilized. So ordinary. So...far away, Sam sighed. They were so far away from their last motel, Dad's last job, and Sam's last school. It was June, the beginning of summer, but all seasons were the same to hunters. They just varied in difficulty. At least Dad had let him finish out the year, he considered. It would have been tough to make up the most important year of his high school career at a new school. Then it would have been bye-bye normalcy forever. College: Sam defined normalcy and escape as one. He was thinking of taking advantage of a Dean bar-run to write out some applications, although he had no idea who would accept him and his sketchy transcripts. The grades were all there, but the names weren't. And questions would be asked, as they always were by outsiders. People who didn't understand and couldn't be told. They always thought the worst. College. Dad was gonna flip.
"Hey, kiddo, we're almost there, so don't fall asleep on me, bro. I couldn't carry your Sasquatch ass if I tried," Dean grinned at Sam through the mirror, and Sam rolled his eyes, complying with the expected reaction to one of his brother's jibes. But, he thought in relief, Dad wasn't here. Just Sam and Dean. John Winchester took off to Seattle after their stint in Florida to handle a nasty coven of vampires with the Winchesters' friend and surrogate uncle, the one and only, Bobby Singer. Dean and Sam were on their second solo hunt, and they were across the country from their only lifelines, so there were no mistakes to be made. It was strange to be in the city after so many years spent in backlot motels in haunted, legend-ridden one horse towns. Spirits didn't take well to cities. Not enough room and too much chaos. But South Boston? They hadn't known a thing about the place until Caleb called, rife with news that the Irish legends they used used to cast off as bullshit were real and dangerous. Not leprechauns. That actually was bullshit. But Dean and Sam would be dealing with, according to their father, the Far Dorocha, or the Dark Man. The strong Irish heritage in this part of Boston probably attracted the spirits to it, although Sam wasn't sure that the inhabitants couldn't handle these things themselves. As he looked out the window, he saw the looks of awe and interest the Impala was inducing, but more so the looks of contention towards the brothers. They were labeled intruders from the get-go. From the school kids walking home to the shopkeeper sweeping outside to the neighbor shooting the breeze, all met the Impala with a look of confusion or instant animosity. A few birds were flipped by the most upstanding Southie citizens. Sam slinked down into his seat and kept his eyes forward. Sure, the Winchester brothers were tough. One look at them by any stranger could tell you that. But these people looked like they had mettle and vigor built into their beings. As if it had been passed down by countless generations. Centuries of tough. They blew the Winchesters out of the water.
"Hey, Sam, guess what?" Dean asked, a joke playing clearly on his mouth.
"Yeah, Dean?" Have your jollies, Dean, whatever makes you happy.
"I'm about to pahk the cah. Right? Get it?"
"I get that your Boston accent sucks, dude." Dean's right brow cocked like a well-oiled machine.
"Whatever, Sammy, just get your shit and get out." They were parked in front of a run-down tenement.
"What, no motel?" Sam was secretly celebrating the avoidance of smashed beer bottles and bed bugs from the previous inhabitants.
"Yeah, Bobby got his cousin to lend us the apartment while he's out of the country. Hunting some Scottish Wendigoes." Sam grimaced, remembering the last Wendigo hunt he'd gone on. A broken arm and thirty stitches later, and they never even caught the elusive "sonofabitch" as Bobby had exclaimed multiple times that night under the influence of several beers. As Sam made his way to their apartment--it felt strange just saying the word-- on the 14th floor (of course no hunter would have anything to with a floor below number 13), Dean paid off the chubby landlord to make sure they always had a parking space in the back. Despite the Impala's trick trunk, Sam's older brother was a little paranoid about the trove of unauthorized weaponry being discovered by some law enforcement officials. He was way more paranoid about someone taking off with his baby.
"Well, what do you think, Sammy?"
"It's…pretty nice, to be honest." Although Sam wasn't willing to bet his rock-bottom standards were that of a normal person, it wasn't a motel room, and the furniture was still intact, and there were two beds, thank God.
"Alright, kid. Get to work on researching that Far Dorocha, Dark Man, horseshit, and I'll get to work on my beauty sleep," Dean said, plopping down on the bed closest to the door, just as he always had and always would. Sam stared for a moment, caught in an unexpected rush of sentimentality, wondering how long his life would be like this, thinking that deep down he would miss it greatly if decided to go off and become "Joe College." Dean's cocked eyebrow at his hesitance broke him from the reverie.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm going, jerk."
"Good work, bitch."
A/N: Okay, so this is my first fic. Hopefully Dean and Sam are in character, cause I sure did my best. On the location: I neither live in Southie nor have I been, although I do have cousins up there. (They only come down here when they visit rather than the other way around.) So hopefully I have not offended anyone from this area of Boston who're super loyal to realism or whatever. But, yeah, review, any constructive criticism is welcome. All errors are my fault, unfortunately. Oh, and the title is from a poem by Phyllis McGinley. I thought it was perfect for my story...it'll probably make more sense later.