ht_murray | Beneficiary, Last First Times 'verse, SN Gen fic, PG-13, 1/1

Title: Beneficiary (Don't Gimme No Lines)
Verse: Last First Times 'verse that started with Sons of Eden
Author(s):

tru_faith_lost and

3rd_leg
Rating: PG-13 for language
Characters: Dean, Sam, no pairings
Warnings: Spoilers for all aired episodes.
Disclaimer: They ran screaming. I'm not that fast.
Summary: "Dean," Sam argues, "it threw you through a wall. And not one of those newfangled drywall concoctions either-a real wall, with lathes, and chicken wire, and plaster-after you spent the last three days pretending you don’t have cracked ribs from getting hit by that flying couch. You’re not okay."
A/N: Many thanks to

cakehole_cat for the header. The footer is by me. And thanks to

tigriswolf who agreed to beta, but I couldn't wait. Cuz I'm dorky like that.

Beneficiary

(Don’t Gimme No Lines)

June

"Keep your hands to yourself, Florence," Dean grinds out as he bats away the hand Sam offers to help him stand. "I’m fine."

"Dean," Sam argues, "it threw you through a wall. And not one of those newfangled drywall concoctions either-a real wall, with lathes, and chicken wire, and plaster-after you spent the last three days pretending you don’t have cracked ribs from getting hit by that flying couch. You’re not okay."

Dean grimaces and stops Sam with a laser-bright glare of determination as he pushes himself to standing using only his legs and what’s left of the wall. Sam bites his lip as Dean sniffs and smears the blood off his forehead with the sleeve of his leather-jacket, accidentally inhales plaster dust, and launches into a sneezing fit. Sam knows it smarts by the way Dean’s eyelashes get darker from blinking back tears and figures it serves the bastard right.

"Well," Dean manages, "relatively okay." He clears his throat, with an open-mouthed hawk and spits in the dirt behind him. "Could do without the ectoplasmic regurge, though. Screw the friggin’ poltergeist," he hacks, "fiberglass insulation’ll kill ya quicker’n anything."

"Not like you need any help with that," Sam mutters. Dean huffs tiredly beside him, and Sam knows he heard. "Seriously, Dean, we don’t need to go on every hunt that crosses our path."

"We’re hunters-kinda what we do." Dean straightens too slowly for Sam’s liking, one joint at a time like he’s bracing for the one that doesn’t respond, but eventually Dean’s standing beside him again, still breathing a little ragged, but breathing, something Sam’s not sure he’s been doing himself since that wall came down. He’s been holding his breath so much lately, he could probably be a Navy SEAL. He figures if he lasts the year, he’ll be able to set a world record.

"There are other hunters, Dean. We don’t need to save the whole world ourselves," Sam argues. When Dean grimaces and takes a gimpy step toward the door, Sam bites his cheek and adds, "There are other things worth saving, too."

He knows he forgot to put the appropriate 'told you so' inflection in his voice to make himself sound anything other than scared shitless, but he’s really too tired to care. It’s not the first time he’s brought IT up out of context, and it won’t be the last, because IT’s always there like a metronome tick-tocking toward the double bar.

Most days they dance around the elephant in the room with snark and banter, not-so-subtly diverting their lives around the fact that one of them may not have one. But then there are days like today, when it’s easier just to pull out the cattle prod and move the friggin’ elephant somewhere else. Screw subtlety.

"Sammy…"

"Don’t, Sammy me, Dean. You don’t get to go off half-cocked, let every supernatural mother in the country rip you a new one, and then blow off your own brother with a pet name and a lollipop."

"I’m outta lollipops," Dean offers, eyebrows raised somewhere between snark and apology. He jangles the car keys in front of him, and Sam snatches them out of the air. Sam doesn’t know when it started being his job to drive back to the motel or where-the-hell-ever after every hunt, probably about the time Dean stopped being able to walk away from them, but he’s so not about to let Dean hold it over his head like a teenager’s allowance.

"And I'm not your pet!"

"Fine," Dean grants, "Sam, then. Let’s don’t do this now, Sam. I’m tired. I just want to go back to the motel, get outta these itchy damned clothes, and crash."

"When, then, Dean? When ARE we gonna do this?" Sam growls. They’re halfway across the yard of the abandoned mission, Spanish moss reaching for them on the breeze like spider webs in an attic. Sam’s stomping his feet angrily, but the effect is lost in the thick grass, and he spins, arms raised into half-furled raven’s wings. He wants nothing more than to just grab his fucking brother by the shoulders and shake him senseless, but he can’t because really, he does want something more, and Dean looks like he’ll break if Sam touches him. That would kind of defeat the purpose.

"I spend half my time scraping you off of walls, and the other half dragging your ass back to motels so you can answer voicemails that point you toward the next wall."

"Fine," Dean grumbles. He’s walking with his head down as though he needs to plan every footfall in order to keep from faceplanting in the lawn, and Sam resists the urge to offer assistance.

"Yeah?" Sam asks, hopeful.

Dean cocks his head, one eyebrow lifted just enough for Sam to catch his glare while the other eye stayed fixed on the ground. "Yeah," Dean says. "We’ll stop hunting. We’ll just forget the fact that the Demon used us to get Its hands on a key that opened the door to Hell and then used that key to let out a whole lot of Its roadies on our watch."

"That’s not what I meant!" Sam exasperates. "I’m not saying we should stop hunting altogether. I’m just saying we should play it a little safer…"

"Good idea, little brother. We’ll just spend all our time researching, and when we figure out what badass is our most likely suspect, we’ll build ourselves a padded room and summon the bastard into it so we can take it out without getting any inconvenient cuts and bruises."

"Dean!" It’s all Sam says, because, ‘I kinda like that idea,’ would definitely not go over well. He puts one hand on the roof of the car and glares at his brother with his best mock, 'don’t be a jackass', frown.

"Or better yet, we’ll just stop at every crossroads in the country and keep kissing chicks until we find one that gives you what you want. Would that make you feel better?"

It’s Sam’s turn to duck his gaze. He tries to camouflage the action by stooping to open the car door, but he fails to keep his voice quieter than the squeaky door when he doesn’t stop himself from guessing, "You’re just saying that."

Dean chuckles dryly, hard rubber down an empty hospital corridor. "Of course, I’m just saying that. You don’t think it would actually work, do you?" Dean’s got his thumb on the door latch when he actually looks up. Sam’s too slow to disguise the disappointment he feels dragging at his features and knows immediately that he’s said too much.

Dean pulls the door open and steps between it and the car. He folds his arms over the roof and meets Sam’s gaze dead-on. "What even made you say that?" He asks. His eyes squint more than is necessary to keep blood from running in. "What makes you think that I wouldn’t do exactly that?"

And there’s that damned elephant again, only this time it’s the one dancing, and Sam doesn’t really know how to get out of the way. So, instead he folds himself in half, ducks the knowing big brother eyes as he climbs inside the car, and just bites the bullet as he turns the key.

"Because you would never risk breaking the deal." He ignores the burn of eyes against his cheek as Dean squeaks over the leather seats and shuts the door with far less respect than he usually shows his baby.

"What do you know about the deal? Better yet, how do you know what you know about the deal?" He waits for almost three entire seconds, way longer than Sam figures he should be allowed, before he adds, "Saaaaaaammm?" And damn if Sam can’t actually feel the eyes move over his cheek as Dean’s head cocks for emphasis.

Sam throws the car in gear and starts to pull out, but they’re still in the middle of the mission yard, and he can’t rev the engine high enough to pretend he doesn’t hear. "I know you wouldn’t do that, because if you try to break the deal, the whole thing’s off, and I die. You’d never do that. And I know that’s how it works, because I asked her myself." He speaks in a rush but articulates, resists the urge to run the whole confession together in a mumble. Lord knows he doesn’t want to say it more than once.

"You stupid ass!" Dean shouts. It isn’t very intimidating because it ends in a cough followed by a spit into a handkerchief that Sam hopes to hell isn’t pink. Sam has no way of knowing that Bobby said the same thing to Dean when he found out about the deal, but still knows instinctually that it’s a borrowed phrase. Dean’s way too fond of asses to make the word anything but lewd, and there’s no hint of snark in his voice.

"What?" Sam snaps, darting an unconvincingly angry glare in Dean’s direction before turning eyes front again. "You’re allowed to use whatever supernatural whosit or whatsit you want to get what you need, but I need to get your permission? It was an executive decision on my part. You were asleep, and I was tired of wasting time, your time, Dean. Anyway, it’s done."

Dean stiffens, and the whole atmosphere of the car stills around him as though the vehicle is hardwired to Dean’s pulse somehow. The shift is sudden enough that Sam knows it’s a direct result of his revelation and not some new ache or pain that’s caught his brother off guard. It’s the first time he knows of that he’d actually have preferred pain.

"Exactly WHAT is done?" Dean’s voice doesn’t waver. It’s as still as the air around them, cold, and hard, determined like the laser points of his eyes against the side of Sam’s head. "What did you do, Sam?"

"Nothing." Sam doesn’t even know why he’s inclined to lie about it, now that he’s already confessed, but in his mind, it still feels like nothing. The whole conversation between himself and the Crossroads Demon rolls over his memory like a fog, too fleeting to be anything really.

"Nothing drastic," Sam qualifies, biting at the cuticle of his thumbnail. "I just asked her for the details of the deal you made. It only took a few minutes. I used a truth spell. Research--that’s all it was." His fingers are still close to his lips as he looks under his bangs toward the passenger seat without turning his head. It’s the guilty look of a dog that’s just messed on the floor, and Sam hates that he feels wrong when he knows he was right. Dean never would have told him if he’d asked.

Still, maybe he could have asked.

Dean straightens in his seat and thumps his back against the upholstery. "A truth spell? Not that one they got on Wikipedia, right? 'Cuz, you know, the power of three will not set you free when the bitch puts you in a liplock and calls in her dogs."

"Look, I know you’re pissed..."

"Damn straight, I’m pissed! Sam, you could have undone the whole thing. If she thought you were there to get me out of it... even suspected…"

"I know, but what was I supposed to do, Dean? I had to do something. You might not care about saving your ass…"

"I care…"

"No, you do not care. You care about taking out every badass that's out there so you don’t feel guilty about leaving me here alone, but you don’t give a damn about sticking around. You took out the Demon; saved my ass. Mission accomplished. End of story…" Sam slams the flat of his palm against the top of the steering wheel, because he should not have to justify wanting to save his brother’s life to his own damned brother. "Fuck!"

"Do you even care that it’s Hell you’re going to?" Sam continues. "Hell, Dean, not some nice, long nap, free from worries, cares, and pain-in-the-ass little brothers. It’s Hell!"

Dean deflates, and Sam doesn’t know if it’s because he’s called his brother's bluff or if it’s just that he’s too damned tired to fight about it anymore.

"A prison full of bone and ash," Dean mumbles and Sam realizes yet again that the phrase is borrowed. "I know, Sam, I do. It’s just…" Dean’s breath comes in huffs. Sam knows if it were a few degrees colder outside, the windows would already be fogged. And if it weren’t for the ‘shotgun shuts his cakehole’ rule, the radio would be blaring. Thank God for small favors.

Dean slams back in his seat one more time and curls into the door, bloodied shoulder to his brother. "GodDAMNit, Sam!"

The silence is heavier than the tang of iron in the air, but Sam leaves the radio off. It doesn't help. Dean lets the silence stand on principle, and Sam can't rebut an argument that isn't made.

Elephant, one. Winchesters, zero.

Sam doesn’t wake Dean when he leaves to get coffee and donuts the next morning. There’s no point waking him just to ask what he wants for breakfast, because Dean will only mumble something about having to piss, get up, and insist on coming along. There may be no Yellow-Eyed Demon lying in wait for Sam anymore, but some cuts leave scars that logic can’t heal.

Sam just doesn’t go for eats anymore without Dean beside him.

Normally, Sam is glad to have his brother there, but he can tell from the way the covers are twisted under Dean’s rucked-up boxer briefs, his boots kicked half across the room, that Dean didn’t sleep well. From the looks of things, he’d probably gotten up at least once during the night to take Advil or a hit off his hip flask, and Sam isn't about to interrupt his momentary peace with the trivialities of black coffee and jelly donuts.

#

Breakfast should be trivial. Except nothing ever really is with Winchesters. The car has a flat tire, no doubt from driving it off-road across the yard of that abandoned mission. They could have driven over anything in the dark. Sam curses and shoves his hands in the pockets of his jacket. It’s too dark out to mess with the tire, and he could use a walk anyway.

On his way back from the Shipley's down the street, Sam walks with his head down, still heavy with worry and sleep. That's when he notices, for the first time, a slouch in his shoulders, a turned-out splay to his feet. He might be imagining a deeper than normal bend in his knees, but he doesn't think he is. He bends a little deeper just to make sure, and he's surprised how natural the gait feels.

Sam wonders when it was he started walking like Dean, but he doesn't wonder why that doesn't bother him. He's a Winchester, after all, and they're a dying breed. The few and the proud.

He's never really questioned why it is that Dean walks that way, whether his legs are bowed because they just are, or whether too many years of carrying too much in shoes too big has warped Dean's body as much as his spirit. Dad's shoes were always so big. A child stepping in would only have been able to drag them.

Sam knows how it feels to be small. He wonders if his legs will be bowed this time next year.

#

When he finally elephant walks into the motel parking lot, hands heavy with a breakfast that laces the morning air with bitter coffee and hot grease, the trunk of the car is yawning open. The tire iron, jack, and a myriad other tools lay strewn across the pavement, an angry baby’s toys tossed from a crib.

Sam sighs. Dean’s pissed.

Dean jerks his head around toward the sound of Sam’s approaching footsteps and then nearly trips over the jack handle while pretending not to have noticed.

The way he carries his left arm tight against his torso is a sure tell that he's hurting, too. It’s bad enough that he’s not even trying to hide it, which means he can’t. So, Sam’s pissed, too.

Same shit, different day, and this is a waste of precious days.

Sam steps over the mess in the parking lot, and just manages to dodge a flying tube of rubber sealer that’s nefariously tossed at his ass.

"Hey!" He barks. The box of kolaches and the cardboard cup carrier thunk unceremoniously onto the hood of the car as Sam dances out of the way of more flying odds and end tire repair tools.

Dean peers around the trunk lid, eyebrows lowered, and grunts before ducking back inside.

Sam could easily fall into the unresolved argument from the night before, could explain why he left without telling Dean where he was going, but he takes the higher ground instead of the bait. "I brought kolaches," he offers, not a truce so much as a temporary ceasefire, and opens the box so the cheese oozing out the end of the sausage rolls looks like liquid gold.

Dean peers around the trunk lid again, still scowling, but with one eyebrow raised. "Sausage?"

"Is there any other kind?" It's a rhetorical question, because there is another kind, lots of others, and sausage isn’t even the most traditional, but Dean’s always been a latcher when he finds something he likes. Probably why Sam’s still kicking after all these years.

The back end of the car rises slightly, and Sam realizes that Dean’s trying to wrest his heavy toolbox out with just one arm and a back full of homemade stitches. "I got it!" Sam says, rushing around to help. He manages to keep the tone urgent by just holding the bitterness in check. 'Stupid ass' stays lodged behind his teeth.

Dean doesn’t argue when Sam takes the toolbox from his grasp, and by the time Sam’s got the trunk closed and the box open, Dean’s seated on the fender of the car with a mouthful of kolache and a steaming cup in his hand. Sam pretends not to feel the selfish flutter in his chest that wants to see Dean looking just that content every morning for way more than a year. It’s too early to start that and too late not to feel it nagging. Elephants never forget, after all.

"What do you mean there’s no spare? Dean, we drive all over the country in this car, and there’s no spare tire?"

"Where would you have me put it, Sam? Where the weapons trunk is? Maybe where you keep your dirty laundry? How about where all the old books that Bobby gave us go? There just isn’t enough room for a cheap-assed donut tire that I wouldn't even embarrass my baby with, and I know how to patch a tire."

"You’re hurt, Dean. You can’t patch a tire with one arm."

Dean rubs a palm across the back of his neck and casually brushes it over his mouth as he says, "You can do it."

It comes out more of a question than Sam knows it’s meant to sound. Dean doesn’t ask for help. Dean gives orders like Dad did, but Sam catches the slight plea in his brother’s voice, the plaintive gaze from beneath downcast eyelashes, and accepts the compromise. He doesn’t bother taking offense.

Still doesn’t mean he likes the idea.

"Me?"

Sam’s not a moron when it comes to car maintenance. He can change the oil, change a tire, or drain the radiator, but actual repair has always been Dean and Dad’s department. They’d always enjoyed it, and Sam had never shown interest. He takes his turn running a nervous hand over the back of his neck, encountering a good deal more hair than Dean had, and bites the inside of his cheek. The whole side of his face smushes up with uncertainty but resigns to set with determination.

Finally, Sam slides a hand into his front pocket and gestures toward the tire with his other. "Let’s do it, then."

He doesn’t expect the broad grin Dean beams on him, but he vows to make it happen more often.

It takes two hours to do a fifteen minute patch job, not counting the thirty minutes it takes to roll the deflated tire to the service station across the street and fill it with air. Sam had no idea that taking a tire off a rim was such back-breaking work, though not nearly so difficult as putting it back on. By the time he’s finished, the tire is better manicured than he’s ever been himself. Who knew that repairing a punctured tire required so much scraping, buffing, and polishing?

Sam knows there are times during the fix that he should be kicking the rims and cussing the way he remembers Dad doing whenever he’d accidentally pinched a finger or dropped something heavy on his foot. There are plenty of slips and mishaps, downright strenuous moments. Sam’s so out of his element it isn’t even funny.

Still, this doesn’t feel like work, not with Dean leaning over his shoulder, voice patient, one good hand gentle in its guidance.

It’s the first time Sam’s ever fixed a tire. He’s never used an innertire scraper or a wire pull-through in his life. He knows he should hate it. There was a time he hated any type of learning that wasn’t in a college brochure of courses, hated any life experience that came from their fucked up life.

But he doesn’t hate spending a morning shoulder-to-shoulder with his big brother even if there’s as much sweat and coffee breath between them as conversation. He doesn’t mind this silent pause between the chaos of one hunt and the destruction of the next. It’s pretty much what he’s been waiting for, just not exactly the same context.

Beggars can’t be choosers, but he thinks if he weren't begging, he might actually choose this anyway.

"No, not like that," Dean says as Sam prepares to pry the tire back onto the rim. There’s no reprimand in his voice, just an observational tone like he’s pointing out a shape in a cloud drifting by. "Turn it over, so the mark you put on the outside of the tire before you took it off will still be on the outside when you put it back on. If you invert the radial belts, the steel bands will separate, and the tire will shred."

"Huh," Sam shrugs. "I didn’t know that." He realizes after he says it that he’s left himself wide open for one of Dean’s ‘college boys don’t know everything’ retorts, but Dean pats him on the shoulder and helps him flip the tire around the right way. Sam grins like he did the first time he shot a can off a fencepost at twenty yards.

Elephant, one. Winchesters, one.

#

They share a beer on the hood of the car, Dean bouncing on the fender with a smirk on his face to see if the wheel won’t just fall off. "Not bad, there Sammy. Might still be able to put a few miles behind us today."

"Not bad for a college boy, don’t you mean?" Sam grins around the lip of his beer. It’s barely noon, and drinking in the parking lot is against the rules. He can see the manager on the phone, wagging an angry fist in their direction. He lifts his beer and waves a friendly pinky finger, nods like a good southern boy to a passing farmer.

"Nope," Dean says, sliding off the fender. He pats Sam on the shoulder again, and Sam barely notices that it’s slower, more deliberate this time. "You did real good, Sammy."

Dean’s bent over, gathering up the rest of the tools from the pavement, and there’s a strain in his features that wasn’t there a minute earlier. Sam’s at his side in a second, afraid he’s overlooked something, a hidden injury somewhere that’s been wearing on Dean all morning right under his nose. Dean catches his worried glance and smiles reassuringly. He doesn’t brush away the hand Sam offers to help him up, but he does plunk a can of tire bead into it, lightening his own load some.

Sam takes the hint the way he takes the keys when Dean offers them and picks up a few more things. They’re locking everything away in the trunk when Dean says, "Next I’ll teach you how to clean the points. It’s a little tricky with this old girl because of the way I had to…"

Sam laughs. "Dean. I’m glad to help you out, what with your arm being messed up and all. And I had a pretty decent time fixing that tire with you, but I really don’t need to know everything there is to know about car repair. It’s just not my thing. You know that."

There’s that look. That flash of disappointment and hurt that Dean’s either gotten way less proficient at hiding since that time in Chicago or Sam’s just gotten better at seeing. Guilt stabs at Sam like the little twinges he still gets from the nerves in his back that never quite healed right, but he doesn’t know what he should be guilty for this time.

Dean picks his beer up off the hood and takes a big swallow, Sam knows more to keep his voice from cracking than to quench his thirst. "Sam, I get that you don’t really need to know, and you probably don’t want to know." Dean’s looking down at his boots when he speaks, the way he does before letting loose the punch line of a raunchy joke, and for the life of him, Sam can't see that kind of coarseness slipping from Dean's lips. Not now. Although, Dean's sense of timing is always debatable. "But I kinda want you to know, because the Impala, she's going to be yours…"

For a couple tons of big ears and nose, those elephants are fast mothers.

Fuck! Sam's face contorts around the neck of his beer bottle like it's full of piss, and he very nearly chokes before he can pull it away from his lips. He has the sudden urge to break something and heaves the brown bottle onto the pavement, watches with a sort of sinister glee as it shatters in a foaming mess of warm beer and cold glass. He doubles over for a second, clutches a hand to his stomach like the beer inside wants to go back home. "GodDAMNit, Dean!"

Sam leans back against the car, wills the world to fade from red to at least a hot pink so he can see and think straight again, but the only thing that cuts through the rage is the cold metal of the door handle. His fingers twist around it of their own accord, a message his brain gets somehow. He wrenches the door open, almost enjoying the sick groan of the ungreased hinge that protests his show of brute strength. With a glare across the roof that very clearly says, 'not another fucking word,' Sam slides into the car and slams the door. He cranks the engine, but leaves it in park while he guns the hell out of it. Maybe if the car screams loudly enough, Dean will hear. "GodDAMNit!"

Elephant, Two. Winchesters, One.

#

Sam drives like a bat out of hell, too focused to even realize what a bad pun that is. They make it halfway through Kansas without speaking, Sam’s sights set firmly north on the Nebraska state line. Dean breaks the silence when his phone rings, and he chooses then to answer rather than let it go to voice mail.

Wrong choice.

Sam’s having none of that, and the phone does a flying dismount from their trusty steel horse. He’s still got his phone. Whoever’s calling will get the hint eventually.

Dean starts to protest, but Sam rolls down his window the rest of the way, guns the engine, and doesn’t need the radio cranked to pretend he can't hear.

The beneficiary. He’s the fucking beneficiary to the first item of property listed in the living will Dean’s drawing up in his head. The sweat and grease stains from that morning’s bonding of souls were really just the ink on a Do Not Resuscitate order as far as Dean’s concerned, and…fuck!

He doesn’t take his foot off the gas until darkness has closed in around them, until they’re the only car on the road. Dean’s sound asleep by then, as much from the exhaustion of seething with no outlet as from pretending the Advil didn’t wear off a few hundred miles back. Sam knows he should stop and get the meds out of the back, but he’s not stopping until he gets where he’s going. He has a point to make, and Dean’s damned well going to listen.

When he does ease off the accelerator, it’s just to make the car easier to handle with one arm as they veer off the main road. He keeps his other elbow propped in the open window, thumbnail pressed to his lips, and if Dean does awaken, he plans to tell him his eyes are watering because the wind is blowing in.

He finally stops at a wayside just outside Alliance, Nebraska. Dean's still sleeping, albeit fitfully, and despite being exhausted himself, Sam goes around to the trunk to get some Advil out of the med kit so Dean will have them when he wakes up.

While he's back there, thankfully hidden by the open trunk lid so that Dean won't see him wiping at his eyes with his coat sleeve like some snot-nosed preschooler, the pocket of his jacket grows suddenly heavy, and he pulls out his journal.

His hand stays poised above the blank page for what seems like hours. His mind's been running nonstop for hundreds of miles, and now that Sam has a chance to say everything that's been eating at him, the train of thought just runs out of track. He doesn't know if he should laugh or cry, but the fucking book is open, and he never could stand a blank page, so he just writes the first thing that comes out.

June 14th

He's leaving me the car.

I don't want the car.

"Dude, that’s the most hideous thing I’ve ever seen. It’s…it’s friggin’ gross." The revulsion in Dean’s voice leaves no doubt that he’s completely disgusted. Sam has to agree, the whole thing is pretty twisted, but that’s why they’re here.

"Dean, it’s Carhenge. People come from all over to see it--according to the website, anyway."

"Yeah...well, people like to drive by the scene of a bad accident, too, doesn’t make it any less sick and disgusting."

"It’s the exact replica of Stone Henge built from classic cars."

"It’s like Pet Sematary for loyal automobiles. Seriously, makes me wanna gag. No offense, Sammy, but your latest choice in vacation spots sucks out loud." Dean moves around to the front of the Impala and stands in front of one headlight. "Don’t look, baby," he coos.

Sam shrugs, takes in the full effect of dozens of classic cars painted elephant gray and stacked together like tombstones. "Actually, I’m glad you feel that way, Dean. Because, just so you know, I’d sooner drive the Impala up here and leave it than drive it anywhere without you."

That's it. In a nutshell. No pretense; no reply. It's the biggest ammo Sam's got in his elephant gun and he's ready to shoot to kill.

"Dean, you’re my only family. You’re all I have left in the whole goddamned world, and you’re not just gonna sign off on yourself without even giving me a chance to save you."

"Sam…" Dean slumps a little in his skin and tries to take a step back, but Sam steps to the side so the only escape is over the hood of the car. "I can’t let you…"

"You can let me try."

Dean sits, and Sam perches beside him. He’s pretty much said all he has to say, and it’s more than they’ve said about IT since the whole thing came out in Wyoming. "I don’t want to give up," Dean whispers. "I just don’t want you doing anything stupid that’s gonna end up reversing the whole thing. I'm not..." Sam hears him swallow and his throat contracts sympathetically. "...I'm not gonna do that again."

And what can Sam say? That the only selfish thing Dean has ever done should never have been done? How's that supposed to make Dean realize it's okay to want something for himself? How's that supposed to help him find something to live for?

Sam sighs. "Well, if it comes right down to it, and I can’t get you out of it, then I’ll paint a friggin’ Devil’s Trap on the roof of the car, and she and I will drive into Hell after you. Just…" He pauses to gather his thoughts. "Just stop acting like it’s already over and done. I can’t do this alone."

Dean starts to shake his head and look away, but something shifts behind his eyes, and his lips break apart in a grin that’s like laughter through tears. "Dude, you called the Impala ‘she’." He smirks obscenely and punches Sam on the shoulder. "You caved! You’re totally whipped."

"I did n…"

"You did! You so did," Dean teases. He stands up abruptly and pats the car on the hood. "You hear that baby? Sammy loves you, too."

"Dean!" Sam’s on the verge of reaching out and spinning his brother around to face him. He can’t believe he just spilled his guts all over some field in Alliance, Nebraska, and Dean’s just going to brush him off. He stands back to full height, jaw clenching as he starts to pace.

"Okay." Dean says it without taking his eyes off the headlight he’s dusting, barely audible, except that Sam’s waited so long to hear it, his ears hone in like sonar, and he halts abruptly.

"What?" Sam can’t disguise the incredulity.

"I said okay. I’ll let you try…on one condition."

"What’s that?"

Dean stands, winces when his first instinct is to pull himself up with his bad arm, and then straightens decisively. "You are not picking the vacation spots anymore. This monstrosity is going to give me nightmares."

Sam laughs. "Tell you what. After we find a doctor to look at that arm of yours…"

"No doctors…"

Sam shushes him by turning him by his good shoulder toward the door. "Nuh, uh. If I’m gonna save you, I’m gonna save all of you, not just what‘s left when everything else gets through with your ass. After we find a doctor to look at that arm of yours, you can pick the place we go to recoup."

Dean thinks about it for a second, then shrugs lopsidedly, an evil grin twisting his face. "In that case, I’ve always kinda wanted to go to the Kodachrome Basin. There’s a rock formation that looks just like a giant pe…"

"Dean!" Sam shakes his head and goes around to the driver’s side. Can’t win them all, he knows, but if they at least break even, he’s good.

He turns the key and guns the engine. Elephant, two, Winchesters, two. Evened up. He can live with that.

The End

Carhenge banner by tru_faith_lost

Current Mood: giddy

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From:

ayumidah.livejournal.com

aw hehe. Thanks for giving me something to read while I waited for supper :D I was gettin' bored.

And I TOTALLY don't believe you about quitting writing :P It's a disease man, once you start, you're stuck

From:

ayumidah.livejournal.com

*facepalms* And this was REALLY good and REALLY sad.

I didn't know about Carhenge. It kinda freaked me out lol!

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From:

iamstealthyone.livejournal.com

Nicely done. Good mix of humor, angst, and reconciliation/compromise in here. I like that it takes many an awkward conversation before the boys actually get around to really talking about things. And good to see some hope at the end.

Favorite lines:

Dean straightens too slowly for Sam’s liking, one joint at a time like he’s bracing for the one that doesn’t respond

Good description.

Dean stiffens, and the whole atmosphere of the car stills around him as though the vehicle is hardwired to Dean’s pulse somehow

Great analogy!

The tire iron, jack, and a myriad other tools lay strewn across the pavement, an angry baby’s toys tossed from a crib.

*g* Love this comparison.

Dean’s seated on the fender of the car with a mouthful of kolache and a steaming cup in his hand. Sam pretends not to feel the selfish flutter in his chest that wants to see Dean looking just that content every morning for way more than a year.

Oh, Sam. *hugs him*

But he doesn’t hate spending a morning shoulder-to-shoulder with his big brother even if there’s as much sweat and coffee breath between them as conversation.

Nice details.

“Nope,” Dean says, sliding off the fender. He pats Sam on the shoulder again, and Sam barely notices that it’s slower, more deliberate this time. “You did real good, Sammy.”

Aww. :)

“But I kinda want you to know, because the Impala, she's going to be yours…”

*whimpers*
He's leaving me the car.

I don't want the car.

So much said in so few words. Poor Sam!

Dean moves around to the front of the Impala and stands in front of one headlight. “Don’t look, baby,” he coos.

LOL!

“I just don’t want you doing anything stupid that’s gonna end up reversing the whole thing. I'm not..." Sam hears him swallow and his throat contracts sympathetically. "...I'm not gonna do that again.”

Oh, Dean.

And what can Sam say? That the only selfish thing Dean has ever done should never have been done? How's that supposed to make Dean realize it's okay to want something for himself? How's that supposed to help him find something to live for?

Love, love, love this part. Well said.

From:

Pressed in the Pages

Beneficiary, Last First Times 'verse, SN Gen fic, PG-13, 1/1

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