What You Don't Say
K Hanna Korossy
"So, get this, Wood-wives are fairy folk, and whether they're good or bad depends on how humans treat them. Like, if one asks a mortal to…"
The pancake special looked good, Dean thought, flipping through the menu. The places with menus that were more than one page sometimes didn't do any of their dishes well, but specials were usually safe. And Dean did like having options. But was a it a breakfast-for-dinner kind of day?
"…don't like noise. That's part of the reason they stick to the woods. Weirdly, they also don't like caraway seeds. I guess they don't eat Reubens or…"
"I could go for a Reuben," Dean mused. There was a long list of sandwiches. He hadn't had a proper Reuben for a while. Although, might want to find a Jewish deli to get a good one. "You think there are any Jewish delis around here?" he asked.
Sam blinked. "What? I don't know." He flipped a page in the book in front of him. He'd moved his plate and utensils aside to make room for it, because the guy lived on words more than food. "They're usually German, but the Swedish skoggra is almost the same creature."
"Swedish meatballs? Huh." Dean scanned the hot meals portion of the menu. "Naw, I'm not feeling it." He tipped his head. "Swedish chick, maybe…"
"So," Sam held up a finger without looking up, "like most fae, iron repels them, but so does the color red, or some herbs like red verbena and St. John's Wort."
"'Herbed cheese, tomato, and prosciutto sandwich,'" Dean read. "Sounds like your kind of dish, Sammy."
"What?" Sam looked up.
"What?" Dean echoed.
"You're not even listening, are you?" Sam asked with exasperation.
"Sure I am. Wood-wives, caraway, Swedish, herbs."
Sam gave him a hard look, then shook his head once and returned to his book. "So, I think that's what we're dealing with: a wood-wife or a skoggra that…"
"I think I'll get the pancakes," Dean decided, and motioned for the waitress.
00000
Well, that had been disgusting.
The shower was hot and had decent water pressure, but it didn't feel like there was enough water in the world to wash off the…yuck of that kappa. Slimy didn't even begin to cover it. And that smell…
"Hey! Better not use up all the hot water!" Sam yelled from outside the bathroom door.
Yeah, yeah. Motels had massive water tanks so that multiple tenants could bathe at the same time; it wasn't likely Dean could use up all the hot water if he stayed in here an hour, and Sam knew it. He just wanted his turn to wash the gunk off. But he hadn't gotten it so bad, certainly not up in his—
"And don't use all the towels!"
They needed to refill the towel stash in the Impala. They'd had to trash a couple after Sam wouldn't stop bleeding after that friggin' vampire had decided that multiple puncture sites would make for faster eating. Of course, most of the motels they stayed at had fairly threadbare towels, not much good. Dean would have to see how these looked. And maybe grab another pillow, too. The one he sometimes used in the car was getting pretty flat. And it hadn't smelled right since Sam had forgotten that egg sandwich in the back seat.
"Is the slime even water-soluble?"
Dean vigorously rubbed down his body again, still encountering some patches of goo, but the soap was helping. He'd have to ask Sam to remind him never to hunt a kappa again. Give Dean a simple ghost or witch any day. No, scratch that: no witches. He hated those sons of bitches.
"Are you gonna be done anytime tonight?"
Huh, Sam sounded kinda exasperated. Well, at least he wasn't being mopey. That last hunt hadn't ended like either of them had hoped, and while Dean packed it away and moved on, Sam had dwelled. Dean would take annoyed little brother over that any day.
"Dude, I'm gonna pick the lock in one more minute and flush the toilet."
There, he was pretty sure he'd gotten all the slime. Dean turned the water off and reached for the nearest towel. Not bad at all; they would definitely take two. That left, well, none for Sam, but he'd make do.
"Dean!"
Dean dried off and dropped the damp towel on top of Sam's neat pile of clean clothes. He got dressed quickly, grabbed the two clean towels, and breezed out of the bathroom, almost running into his glowering brother.
"All yours," he said magnanimously. "I'm gonna go pick up some dinner."
He was almost out of the room when he heard Sam's outraged yell from the bathroom.
Smirking, Dean gently closed the door behind him.
00000
"You can't say things like that, Dean!"
Oh, geez, here it came.
"That was the Chief of Police. If they don't believe we're FBI, it won't take a lot of digging to figure out we're not. So how about we not give them reason to…"
Dean flicked the radio on. News: boring. He turned the dial.
Sam raised his voice. "And that's another thing. Since when do you…"
Country music. Only if he was desperate. Dean flipped to the next working station.
"…gonna bite you on the ass someday. You can't just…"
Oldies. Buddy Holly. Not bad; that would be the one to beat. Dean kept going.
"…even listening to me? You're the one always reminding me that if we screw up, people…"
Talk radio. Ugh, no. Or, wait, was it…huh. Car-talk show. Dean listened for a minute, but they were discussing modern engines and computers and, no, thank you. He passed the slow Olds in front of them, then flicked the dial again.
Sam rolled his eyes. "You're a friggin' jerk, you know that? A childish, impulsive, blah blah blah blah…"
Oh, score: AC/DC! Dean turned the volume up and started singing along to "Back Seat Confidential."
Sam tried to say something, but the music drowned him out. He finally crossed his arms and slumped down in the seat, radiating righteous anger.
Eh, Dean would get him ice cream at the next stop and he'd be fine. For now, Dean grinned at his petulant passenger and kept singing.
00000
After Sam had been outside for a half an hour, Dean went looking.
He didn't have to go far. Sam was sitting under the one scrubby tree across the parking lot, knees drawn up almost to his chest. He hadn't bothered to shove the hair out of his eyes, but Dean could see the slumped shoulders and, crap, that was a photo he had clasped in one hand. Dean knew exactly which one, too.
Sam hadn't said anything about it—hadn't said much of anything—but Dean was aware the victim in that last hunt had reminded him of Jessica. It'd been a couple of years now, and Sam wasn't in mourning anymore, but sometimes it still hit him. Dean knew the signs, respected them and gave his little brother space. But that old grief didn't usually include the fresh image of a blonde who'd been sliced open and fed on. Sam had actually thrown up after that one, something neither of them did much anymore.
Dean eyed his brother across the lot. Then he shut the door behind him and walked over, checking instinctively for cars as he crossed even though there wasn't another human being in sight.
Sam didn't react to his arrival, or to Dean easing down beside him. The ground was a little damp, and Dean's knee was still bothering him from the fall he'd taken the other day, but whatever. Sam was hurting.
After a minute of silence, Dean nudged his shoulder against his brother's. "I found that book you were looking for, the one about zombies? It slid under the seat."
Sam nodded after a moment. His fingers were feeling along the edge of the picture like he was trying to memorize its contours.
"I saw a Thai place in town, if you wanna try it for dinner."
Sam shrugged.
Dean plucked at Sam's sleeve; he hadn't noticed it was torn. He'd have to mend that tonight, maybe during a movie, if a comedy was on.
Sam seemed to look over at what Dean was doing, then away again. It was hard to tell with all that hair: time for a haircut, too.
"She died fast, Sam. Probably didn't even know what hit her." Unlike Jessica, but Dean could give him this much, at least.
Sam breathed out a shaky breath.
"And we saved the other two girls. That's two families who aren't suffering tonight."
Eventually Sam nodded again.
"But it still sucks," Dean said quietly.
A shudder went through Sam, into Dean, who absorbed it silently.
He shifted to drop an arm around his brother's shoulders. After a few beats, Sam sagged into him.
Dean closed his eyes and held Sam, trying to absorb some of his pain, too.
Sam sniffed a few times. Rubbed his nose with his sleeve. Okay, so Dean would have to wash the shirt before he mended it. There might've been a few tears, but with the curtain of hair, who knew?
When Sam was finally just tired and limp, Dean nudged him again. "Dinner?" He carefully unwound himself, suppressed a groan as he climbed to his feet, and held out his hand.
Sam sucked in a breath and shoved his hair back. His eyes were swollen and unusually green as he met Dean's gaze. Then took his hand and let himself be pulled up.
They crossed the lot slowly, arms brushing as they walked. The sun was going down and the fireflies were coming out.
Dean dug in his pocket and pulled out his keys. Then he held them up with a winning grin. "You wanna drive?"
Sam snorted, mouth quirking, and bumped Dean enough to throw him off a step.
Dean smiled quietly as they got into the car.
'Nough said.
The End