|Sometimes you get fulgurites (luzdeestrellas) wrote,|
@ 2007-10-17 04:41:00
|Current music:||Tori Amos - Roosterspur Bridge|
fic: Supernatural, Here Today (Sam/Dean, PG)
Title: Here Today
Word count: 1,736
Summary: "You were doing what when you ended up with your ass in jail?"
Notes: Written for the Supernatural-West Wing Title Challenge. Thanks to musesfool for the beta.
"You were what?" Sam was pretty sure he could hear the vein in Dean's forehead throbbing over the phone, and under that, like a frequency only people specially attuned to Dean could hear, the thready note of panic behind his words. "No, really, Sam, you were doing what when you ended up with your ass in jail?"
Sam bit his tongue. No good ever came from staying in wherever the fuck in the middle of backwater central. It was like the law, or something. "Look, man, can we not do this now? I just... Come get me?" He didn't even have to work to sound pitiful, and wouldn't have needed to, to get Dean's attention, anyway. Sam tried not to think about him, alone, pacing in the motel room, worry tightening his mouth, the fear he'd never want Sam to see obvious in the way he played with his ring, making him restless like too much coffee. It made Sam feel even worse than he already did, amped the pain in his head up a couple hundred notches. On the other end of the line, he heard what sounded like the ceiling falling in. "If that was my duffel you just tipped out," he said, "I will kill you."
"Fuck you. Be thankful I'm not giving it away to the first homeless dude I see." There were only twenty seconds left, and Sam gripped the phone a little tighter. Dean sighed. "Yeah, Sammy. I'll be there soon."
Sam almost laughed. It wasn't like he'd doubted for even a second, but hearing Dean say it, in his big brother voice, made him feel better, anyway. "I'll be right here," he said, and then the call cut out before Dean could tell him how stupidly not funny he was.
He was led back to his cell after that, and maybe the universe didn't hate them after all, because this was the kind of town where Barney Fife came down later to do fingerprinting, and where no one seemed to even know there was such a thing as the outside world, but Sam couldn't relax, low-level alarm just waiting to spark into terror at the slightest provocation.
He had a cell to himself, because there was only one other prisoner, who was passed out and snoring in his own cell, and Sam still hated it, hated being enclosed and on display. He wondered how many times Dean had been in jail on his own, whether Dad had always been around to bail him out, and he wondered how many mosquito bites he could get before he went crazy just on principle. He thought about making a list before that happened, carving it into the walls like people in books did, but right now it only had two things--don't end up in jail again, and don't end up in jail without Dean to watch my back.
He'd been there for an hour and a half, or maybe a few years, when he heard the jangle of keys. He looked up to see the guy who'd arrested him--pleasant enough, and the kind of guy Sam wouldn't normally want to beat to death--coming towards him.
"Well, well, well," he said, opening the door. He leant against the wall, eyes assessing Sam. "Looks like you're wanted for more than hanging around the bedrooms of pretty girls." Sam's stomach threatened to do something probably in defiance of all biology and actually leave his body without any kind of invasive surgery, but the cop didn't seem to notice. "Come on."
He gestured impatiently, and Sam held out his hands, allowed himself to be cuffed, and then led along the corridor back to the front office. "Not every day we get the feds in here. And this guy seems pretty keen to get his hands on you."
Sam didn't say anything, forced himself to breathe, even though the low level panic seemed to think it had received quite enough provocation. They passed under lazy spinning fans that didn't actually move any air at all, as far as Sam could tell, and rounded the corner.
"Thank you, Officer Edwards." Sam was too relieved even to smile. Dean stepped forward, in a suit Sam didn't think he recognised, new FBI ID in his hand. "I can take it from here."
Edwards still looked dubious. "I should call--"
Dean sighed, the sigh of a man who didn't like being questioned, and who might possibly ruin your life for doing it. He pulled out his phone, and spoke rapidly before handing it over. "Be my guest," he said.
Edwards took the phone the way Dean handled rats and Sam handled Dean's laundry. Not for the first time, Sam remembered to be thankful that Dean did menacing so well--well enough to prevent small-town cops pointing out that talking to someone on the end of a cellphone didn't prove anything. "Uh, hello. I have an agent--agent Jones--here, says he has authority to take a Mr. Costello from here."
Sam didn't look at Dean as he heard Bobby's voice, sharp as Dad's had ever been, barking over the phone. Edwards nodded, apologised, nodded some more, and hung up. "All yours," he said. "Sorry."
Dean smiled condescendingly. "Just doing your job, I guess. Such as it is." He wrapped his fingers around Sam's wrist, and yanked him forward. "A lot of people are gonna be real happy to see you finally, buddy," he said.
He dragged Sam from the office and didn't look back.
They didn't stop driving for three hundred miles, motel after motel ignored, exits driven by like they weren't even there. Sam couldn't lose the feeling that he was still at the top of some cliff he might fall off of. Dean hadn't spoken, and all the miles of road, all the Zeppelin--as loud as Sam could reasonably take--had done nothing to ease the tension in his shoulders. A muscle jumped in his jaw every time he looked over at Sam, and he hadn't developed the knack of tapping along with the beat again yet.
They finally had to break for gas, and Sam went to take a piss and buy water while Dean filled the car. When he got back, he saw Dean's face crumpled, his hands braced on the car like he might fly apart without the support. Sam felt a little sick. The part of him that didn't know when to back off wanted to go to him, but there were rules, and Sam had spent his life learning them.
He went back inside, bought three packs of M&Ms, and read the first few pages of some trashy magazine. By the time he made it out, Dean was behind the wheel again, game face firmly in place.
"I got you these," Sam said, holding out the candy.
"Damn right you bought me food," Dean said, but his mouth quirked up a little, and when Sam fitted his hand around the back of his neck, he didn't shrug him off. "You're a fucking moron," he said, but he switched out Zeppelin for The Stones, and actually sang along, only occasionally off-key.
They stopped in a motel that might have been decorated by a group of over-enthusiastic four-year-olds, and they ate fries and cheeseburgers, greasy and just this side of cooked, exactly the way Dean liked. He knocked their knees together in the space between the beds, grinned at Sam with ketchup on his chin and, somehow, salt in his eyebrows.
"Freak," Sam said, but his chest was tight, and he had to bite his tongue to stop sorry tumbling off it repeatedly.
"If you're brooding," Dean said, "I'm gonna take a shower and hope that you snap out of it or I drown."
Sam didn't have to work much to find the grin, and when Dean emerged from the bathroom twenty minutes later, dripping wet and hair sticking up in every possible direction, Sam reached for him, buried his face against Dean's shoulder and breathed him in, the way he was never actually allowed to.
"Oh, Jesus," Dean said, "please, shoot me now." He dropped his chin to the top of Sam's head, though, and Sam smiled against the warm, bare skin of his shoulder.
"Shut the fuck up." Sam held on tighter, grabbed Dean's face so he could pour apologies and thank yous into his mouth, make Dean forget that Sam had ever done anything to freak him out, that he kept doing it, even when it was the last thing he wanted to do. Dean tangled his fingers in Sam's hair, kissed him back, and they fell on the bed in a tangle of limbs and overturned duffles and greasy food wrappers.
"See," Dean said, smacking Sam's head, "this is the bed for storing stuff on, not the bed for violating me on." He pulled a pen from under his back and pointed it at Sam. "You, Sam, completely, completely suck today."
Sam attempted to glare, but it got lost somewhere in Dean's laugh. "Seriously, man, explain to me again how you got arrested."
"Look, I got the wrong number. I thought she was--I thought she was the old man, controlling the spirits. It wasn't like I was trying to see her naked."
Dean pulled him to the other bed, sprawled out and yanked Sam on top of him. "I've never been so proud, Sammy. You are a testament to the advantages of a college education." Sam hit him. "And this?" Dean touched the bruise on Sam's head, squeezing his shoulder when Sam winced. "How'd you get that?"
Sam ducked his head. "Rnngwy," he said. He thought about kissing Dean to distract him, but Dean angled his face away.
"Nope. Didn't catch that. You were what?"
"I. Was. Running. Away." He dropped his head to Dean's shoulder again. "I would've made it, too, except for the part where I sort of maybe tripped over a wall."
Dean's laughter shook them both, joyful in the dimly lit room. "Like I said. You completely suck."
Sam nodded, and didn't look at Dean as he said, "I didn't mean to--"
This time it was Dean's turn to kiss him, his mouth warm and hard against Sam's. "You can make it up to me," he said.
"I might," Sam said, and he kissed the answering smile from Dean's mouth.
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