Disclaimer: They aren't mine. I just scuffed them a little bit.
Jubilea is still recovering and could not beta, so if it rambles off track – it's all me.
Hell Hath no Fury
Dean sat down behind the wheel, and pointed at Sam's boots. "What did I say about not wearing those things in my car?"
"I don't know," Sam replied closing his eyes. He leaned his head on the cool side window, and folded his arms across his stomach. "Something about something, and not doing something else. It's hard to say, you tend to talk about your car a lot."
"Don't," Dean chastised severely. "Joke about the upholstery."
Sam only smiled slightly in response. He was well on his way to sleep.
With a roar of its engine the Impala made its way down the tree-lined hillside as the sun rose slowly from behind the mountains.
Sam lay on the bed, one arm behind his head, the other resting protectively across his stomach. He had not even bothered to pull the covers down, and instead opted to lie directly on the blue-striped bedspread. Dean had insisted that Sam use the shower first. Now, Sam found he could not get back to sleep. Not even the steady drone of the shower in the artificially darkened room seemed to help.
The shower stopped abruptly, and moments later Dean emerged clad only in boxers, with a towel wrapped around his neck. Dean glanced over at Sam, but proceeded to his bed, and started rummaging in his duffle for his gray t-shirt. Shrugging on his shirt, Dean sat down on the edge of the bed facing Sam.
"What?" Sam asked after a few moments.
"I'm waiting for you to tell me," Dean replied.
Sam turned his head to look at Dean a puzzled expression on his face. "What?" He repeated.
Dean sighed, and walked over to Sam. He met Sam's gaze with a quiet intensity reflected in his green eyes. He could wait until Sam confessed. Sam was stubborn, but the Winchester stubborn streak did not start with Sam. Dean knew he could outlast him.
"I'll show you my boo-boo's, if you show me yours," Sam sniped. He was hoping sarcasm would be an effective tool to dissuade Dean. If Dean saw the deep, purplish-red handprint on his stomach, Sam doubted he would be able to distract Dean from hovering this time.
"How about," Dean replied. "You let me see where you're hurt, because I'm the oldest and I said so?"
"That's not how it works," Sam protested.
"Sure it is, Sammy," Dean said. "It's in the big brother handbook."
Sam huffed in response, but moved his hand and lifted his t-shirt. "It's just a bruise. I'm fine."
Dean sat down beside Sam on the bed, and pressed gently, but firmly in the area around the bruise. Sam grunted in pain when Dean hit a tender spot.
Dean's eyebrow shot up, and he remarked, "Just a bruise, huh?"
"Yeah," Sam defended. "But, uh, a deep one I guess."
"Uh-huh," Dean said obviously not buying Sam's story entirely. "How's the head?" He pulled Sam's t-shirt down, and made towards Sam's head.
Sam brushed Dean off. "Dude, I'm fine," Sam insisted.
"Okay," Dean acquiesced. "But, if you are still hurting this much tomorrow, we're getting you checked out by a doctor."
"And you'll be explaining the handprint, how?" Sam asked.
"You know me," Dean replied returning to his own bed, and flopping down on his back. "I'll come up with something good."
"And embarrassing, no doubt," Sam complained. He draped his free arm over his stomach again, and closed his eyes.
Dean smirked, but said nothing. Sam would be fine, but it never hurt to give him a hard time. That too, was in the big brother handbook.
Dean awoke three hours later to find Sam already seated at the small table reading through the local paper.
"Find anything interesting?" Dean asked.
Sam looked over across the paper at Dean. "The featured local area hike takes you past an old mining shack to the only mechanically operational Big Foot trap in existence," he said.
"Funny," Dean replied sarcastically.
"No, really," Sam replied with a smile folding the paper. He tossed the article to Dean, who read the section Sam had pointed out.
"Man," Dean said. "I can hear the banjoes playing from here." He stood up, and walked over to the coffee pot. He poured himself a cup of coffee, and joined Sam at the table.
"Hmm," Sam answered not really paying attention to what Dean was complaining about. "I was checking out the map, and regardless of where we head from here we have to go north or south."
"Do you have a sudden aversion to east or west?" Dean asked.
"No, I mean, we can't go east or west," Sam replied with a small laugh. "The only way to really get out of this state from here is to get on the Interstate, and go north or south. I think it's some kind of evil triangulation between Timbuktu, No Man's Land, and B.F.E."
Dean ran his fingers through his short, dark blonde hair, and scrubbed one hand down his face. "Placing us directly in the middle of no where," he grunted in delayed response.
Sam headed to the bathroom to brush his teeth before they left. His mouth tasted like clay. Sam did not remember his face ever coming into contact with the ground, but the sticky mud had been everywhere. It probably came from his hair when he took a shower last night. Wherever it had come from, the coffee he drank that morning had not been able to wash away the taste.
With another sip of his coffee, and a large stretch Dean was ready to hit the road. Well, almost ready. Clean clothes and breakfast were definitely on this morning's agenda.
"Be ready to hit the road in fifteen," Dean called out to Sam.
"I'm ready now," Sam replied looking at Dean from the bathroom mirror. He walked out of the bathroom, and shouldered his duffle bag. Grabbing the car and the room keys off the table he said, "I'll go check us out."
"You've read that menu three times front to back," Dean remarked. He sipped his water, and started chewing noisily on an ice cube.
Sam set his menu down on the table. He shot Dean a look of pure, unadulterated disgust. "That's really annoying," he said.
Dean shrugged his shoulders. "Hey, I'm hungry," he defended. "Decide already."
Dean watched Sam surreptitiously for several moments. If Sam wasn't hungry, maybe he was hurt worse than Dean had previously thought. He flagged down the waitress with a slight head nod.
The waitress was an older woman in her fifties, with frizzy gray hair, frumpy clothes, and sensible shoes. It did not stop Dean from gracing her with one of his heart-stopping, charm the bees away from the honey nest, smiles. "Morning," he said.
"Morning," the waitress said, returning Dean's smile. "My name's Cecille, and I'll take your order when you boys are ready."
"I'll have the special. But, uh, I'm not sure Sam here is hungry," Dean said casually.
The truth was, Sam was not feeling very hungry. He was still tired, a little nauseous, and more than a little sore. He knew, however, that despite the tone Dean's comment was anything but casual. It was a fishing expedition, and if Sam was not careful, he would be caught.
"Me too," Sam replied not bothering to check what the special was.
"Ah, Sammy-boy," Dean thought his green eyes flashing. "You are so busted."
Meeting Dean's gaze, Sam did not need any special abilities to read his brother's mind. He knew he was trouble.
To his credit, Sam did a decent job of putting away the logger's special of a three-egg scramble, ham, bacon, sausage, hash browns, and toast. He was surprised once he started eating, just how hungry he actually was. He wadded up his napkin, and tossed it on the plate over his remaining food to cover up the evidence.
Sam had an idea of where he wanted to head from here, but he had not been able to think of any reason to get Dean to agree to it. If he could not trick Dean into going, he'd have to resort to the truth. And the truth, would earn him a razzing from here, back to Kansas.
"So, if it is all the same to you, I'd like to head north when we leave," Sam said. He took a sip of his coffee, and watched Dean over the top of his cup for a reaction.
"Okay, I'll bite," Dean replied. He examined the bill before taking out a twenty, and tossing it on the table. "Why?"
Dean stood up to leave, and Sam followed suit. "Powell's," Sam replied as if it were self-explanatory.
"Who's?" Dean asked walking out the door.
Sam walked to the Impala, and stood at the passenger door. He leaned over the roof, getting his jacket sleeves a little wet. "It's not so much a who, as it is a what."
Dean turned to face Sam before climbing into the driver's seat. "So, what is Powell's?"
"A bookstore," Sam replied sheepishly.
"A bookstore," Dean repeated. He shook his head at Sam, and sat down behind the wheel. He turned to look at Sam who had joined him in the car. "A bookstore?"
"Yeah," Sam replied excitement creeping into his voice. "It's in Portland. It's the size of a city block, and three stories high. There is an attached coffee shop, with WiFi too. We could do some serious research to find our next hunt."
He caught the stunned expression on Dean's face. "The lady in the motel office told me about it when I checked us out," Sam finished lamely. He turned to look out the side window to hide the blush that was creeping up his neck, and into his face.
Dean smiled, and turned the key in the ignition. The Impala started to life with a satisfying roar. Dean patted Sam condescendingly on the shoulder. "Okay, little brother," he said with a smirk. "Who am I to deny you a trip to the Geek Mecca?"
Sam rolled his eyes. "Whatever," he replied. Inwardly Sam smiled, and chanced a look at Dean out the corner of his eye. "Gotcha," he thought.
AN: Well, that's it. It's done. I'm finished. Whew.