Spoilers and Disclaimer: See Chapter 1
A/N: This is a little dribble written for my friend, who is awesome, epic, an inspiration, the real reason I ever write and most importantly unable to erase the words on this A/N, so deal with it Chrissie, it is here for all the internet to see and know how epic and awesome you are! All the love in all the land.
Prompts for the story were:
Season 2
Garage Sale
Flat Tire
Less Than 1000 Words
Something Bloody
Beer
I got almost all of them. The less than 1000 words tripped me up cause I tend to get on a roll and just keep on rolling. I hope y'all enjoy and remember to leave a review, it is the lifeblood of fanfiction writers. This chapter takes place directly after S02xE20 "What Is and What Should Never Be".
"We're lost," Sam muttered over the quiet sound of Metallica's For Whom the Bells Tolls. He shook the flashlight in his hand, hoping to get a little more juice out of it as he squinted down at the map on his lap.
"For the last time, we're not lost," Dean insisted, rolling his eyes.
"Really?"
"Really."
Sam narrowed his gaze to peer out the darkened windshield, trying to make out a sign or landmark through the heavy rain that was threatening to washout the half-paved backroads they'd been sticking to. "Then, where are we?"
Dean spared his brother a quick glance. "Twenty miles away."
"Twenty miles?" Sam asked doubtfully.
"There an echo in here? Yeah, twenty miles."
Sam shut off the dying flashlight and folded the map haphazardly, shoving it into the glove box. He flopped back against his seat with a huff, folding his arms across his chest and turning his attention to the passenger-side window.
"Sam." Dean shifted slightly in his seat and shut the radio off. "If you got something to say, say it."
"Why?"
"Why?" Dean resisted the urge to smack his brother if only because he needed both hands to keep the car from ending up in a ditch. "Because if you glare a hole through my car I'm gonna be pissed. Now what's up?'
The sound of pounding rain filled the space between them until Sam let out a sigh and shifted in his seat so he was facing his brother. "We shouldn't be here."
Dean snorted. "Sam, we are miles from any real civilization and the road is half-flooded. No one should be here."
Sam rolled his eyes. "That's not what I mean and you know it. We shouldn't be on this hunt. It's just a ghost. Let another hunter take care of it."
"And where should we be, Sam?"
"Considering a Djinn was bleeding you dry just, you know, yesterday, and . . . everything else that happened. I just don't think we should be jumping into another hunt. You can't keep bottling everything up and pretending none of this stuff bothers you."
Dean tightened his hands around the steering wheel. He thought he'd laid this subject to rest last night, opened up a little and given his brother enough touchy-feely crap to satisfy the younger man enough that they wouldn't have to speak about what happened again. Ever. Clearly, he'd been wrong. "Sam." Dean let out a slow breath. "For what I really hope is the last time. Nothing. Is. Wrong. I'm fine."
"There's still blood on the collar of your shirt." His brother narrowed his eyes, leaning dangerously into Dean's personal space. "And on your neck! Dean—"
"Sam, I swear to God!"
"Fine!" Sam sat back against the seat, hands held up. "Fine. Then swear on the Impala."
Dean rotated his head to face his brother, popped an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
Sam gestured widely to the car's dashboard. "If nothing is wrong, swear it on the Impala."
Dean's eyes narrowed. "Sam, this is ridiculous. I'm not swearing on the Impala."
"Because you know I'm right!" His brother smirked. "Just admit it, Dean!"
"No." Dean's fingers tightened around the wheel. "I'm not doing it because it's bad juju to swear on a loved one."
Sam's mouth snapped shut with an audible click that was almost comical. The sound of fat raindrops pelting the roof of the car filled the air between. "Dean." He started once more, voice holding that patented edge that clearly meant he wasn't going to let this go. Not this time.
"Fine," Dean growled, shooting a glare at his brother. "If it'll get you off my back – I swear on the Impala that nothing is wrong with me."
"Dean!" Sam suddenly shot up in his seat, pointing wildly out the front window.
Dean whipped his attention forward just in time to swerve out of the way of a large buck and right into the muddy bank, coming to a complete stop only inches away from the ditch he had been trying to avoid all night. "One more word"—Dean held up a hand, cutting his brother off before he had a chance to say anything—"and I will leave your ass here."
Sam held his hands up in surrender, but Dean couldn't help but notice the self-satisfied look on the younger man's face.
"This proves nothing,"Dean muttered under his breath as he shifted his foot from the brake to the gas pedal, stomach sinking when the engine revved but the car didn't dropped his forehead to the steering wheel with a heavy thunk. He'd never felt so betrayed in his life. Traitor, he thought sourly. "You're going to have to push. I'll steer." Dean looked over at Sam expectantly.
"Me? You're the one who ran off the road!"
"Because you were distracting me with your bitching!"
"I wasn't bitching! I—"
"Really? Sounded like bitching to me!"
"At least I'm saying something, Dean!"
"And what the hell is that supposed to mean?!"
"You, Dean! Every single time—"
"Fine! I'll push! Pain in my ass . . ." Dean trailed off into a mess of incoherent verbiage as he shoved his door open with more force than was absolutely necessary. The cold was like an electric shock to his system, the rain pounding against his head and shoulders like tiny icy daggers, and within seconds he was soaked from head to toe. "Awesome," he muttered as he made his way to the back of the car.
Dean patted the trunk of the car— "Come on, baby, you can do it!" —before placing his weight against the back. "All right, go!"
Sam slid into the driver's seat and put the Impala back into drive, pressing lightly on the gas pedal. He increased pressure slowly, feeling the car rock as his brother pushed against the back. It didn't seem to be working, and Sam eased up on the gas, intending to shift the car back into park, when there was a shlump sound and the Impala jolted forward, immediately followed by a muffled yell and something landing with a splat on the ground.
Hoping the last sound wasn't his brother, Sam cringed and leaned out the car door. "Dean?" When he received no answer, he cursed under his breath and stepped out of the car, making his way to the back, where he found the hunter pushing himself up from the thick ankle-deep mud.
He tried – he really did – but when Dean stood up caked completely from hair tip to shoelace in mud, Sam couldn't stop the laughter that rolled out. . . until something cold and wet struck his face.
Sam shifted uncomfortably as the motel clerk regarded him with an unimpressed stare. "Our car got stuck in the mud . . . and blew a tire," he stated, answering the clerk's unasked question as to why he was coated in mud. It wasn't a complete lie—the car did get stuck and the tire had blown. And then the handle of the jack Sam had picked up at a garage sale, after theirs had been lost in the accident almost a year ago, broke, in half.
Dean had been very vocal about Sam's choice to pick up a used jack for two dollars rather than go to an auto store and buy a more reliable one. Sam now owed his brother a few beers and a new, store bought, jack.
The man's face pinched tightly. "And you thought, what, you'd roll around on the ground to soak it up?" He dropped the key to the rented room on the desk between them, not wanting to touch the human shaped mud puddle.
Sam smiled tightly as he picked up the key. He nodded his thanks and made a quick escape back toward the car. The rain was still coming down just as heavily and didn't seem like it would be letting up anytime soon. He sighed dejectedly; that would make salting and burning a ghost that much harder.
Dean got out of the car as Sam approached. They pulled their duffels from the trunk in silence and headed toward their room, eager to get out of the miserable weather.
"I call first shower," Dean stated as he dropped his duffle on the foot of his bed.
"What?" Sam stopped in the middle of the room, bag still slung over his shoulder. "You always get first shower."
Dean shucked his coat and shirt and undershirt off, dropping them onto the floor. "Because I'm older, that's why."
Sam rolled his eyes. "Dude, that stopped being a good reason when I was like twelve."
Dean shrugged as he slipped into the bathroom before Sam could have a chance to claim it. "Rules still apply. Says so in the sibling manual under subsection B, paragraph two. Oldest always gets first shower."
"There is no—" Sam let out a huff as the door was shut in his face. "You're an asshole, Dean!" he yelled through the door.
"Keep it up, Sammy, and you'll be taking a cold shower!" Dean hollered back through the closed door. The muffled sound of rushing water made it clear this was no idle threat.
"Dean!" Sam smacked his palm against the door. "Dean, you'd better not use up all the hot water! Dean!"
