An-This is the last daily update. I've got some stuff to figure out before I can pump out more+ real life is looming somewhere. Thanks for all the support, vocal and other (though the vocal people get review responses XD ) I hope you enjoy this chapter. I know I did.
Metallica. Metallica was the worst that could happen. Hour upon unending hour of grizzly guitar chords and angry voices growling out chewed lyrics.
Sam had asked once, just once, if they could change to something else. Dean had responded to Sam's query as though he had actually suggested that they strip down, rub each other down in carrot puree and then run through a petting zoo full of bunnies. Dean had pulled over the Impala while he calmly explained, as though taking to a moronic child, The Rule.
Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole.
So Sam shut his mouth hard enough to grind his teeth and mentally replayed the image of wrenching the cassette out of the player, pulling the tape out of it and using the dark film to strangle the driver to near death. It had to be to near death, Sam reasoned, because there would be little satisfaction in shoving the carcass of the cassette into a dead man's mouth.
And boy, did Dean have a mouth. His lips were full and perfect and seemed as though God himself had crafted them to fit Dean's charming smile. The dusky pink made them seem so soft and the way they seemed to caress words when he spoke made Sam wonder what it would feel like to have those lips caress-
"You okay there, Sammy?"
"Wha?" Sam replied even as he silently cursed himself, having heard Dean's question perfectly. He had just been too distracted to formulate an answer.
"I asked if you were all right. You look a little out of it."
"I'm fine," Sam mumbled. He was not flushed!
"You sure?" Dean didn't sound like he believed it for a second. Sam was fairly certain if Dean hadn't been driving he would have checked Sam's temperature.
Oh God. The last thing Sam needed was Dean touching him. This was not happening. "I told you, I'm fine." No. He wasn't fine. Why the hell had he been thinking of Dean's lips? What the hell was wrong with him?
Sam bit back a snort. He had a laundry list of things wrong with him. Having sick fantasies of the man who saved his life actually fit on it quite nicely. But Dean didn't need to know. Sam could hate himself enough for the both of then.
"Well I'm not." Dean's voice was as serious as Sam had ever heard it. "I needs to get me some pie."
"What?" Sam blinked at the driver. That was… random.
"I said I needs to gets me some pie. I loves me some pie." There wasn't even a hint of jest in Dean's face.
"Okay…" Sam agreed cautiously, waiting for some kind of trap to spring.
Instead Dean pulled into to Lou's Diner, which was actually run by a big burly black man named Earl. Now, Earl had inherited the restaurant, as well as all of his recipes, from his momma. Her name, God keep her soul, had been Gretchen. She had worked at the restaurant for her daddy, a shy man by the name of George, before he had died in from pneumonia. George had been the one to buy the land and set up shop. He and a few of his friends had built the structure from the ground up so George could run the restaurant that his wife had always wanted. Despite what you may be thinking, her name wasn't Lou either.
After George died Gretchen, a woman whose only man was the toddler she bounced on her hip, did the best she could with her daddy's recipes. She practiced cutting and chopping and dicing and even went on to learn how to coddle and reduce and emulsify. Not that it did her any good.
Gretchen couldn't cook worth shit.
But man, could she make pie. Stories were told how the angels themselves descended on the occasional Thursday to get a slice of the weekly special. The restaurant, a place where you could expect to get your water hot, your coffee cold and your eggs chirping, survived off of Gretchen's pie.
Earl kept the place the exact same in honor of his momma.
If Dean had known that it was Earl making the pie that was currently melting in his mouth he would have offered to marry to man, legal or not. Hell, Dean would have been willing to research a spell to carry the man's offspring if it meant he could eat pie this good everyday.
"Can you stop that?" Sam hissed in panic.
Dean slowly pulled the fork out of his mouth, using his tongue to scrape off every ounce of peach filling before returning it to his plate. "St'p wh't?"
"For one, talking with your mouth full. You weren't raised in a barn." Dean grinned and Sam rolled his eyes. The kid seemed to do that a lot. "I assume you weren't raised in a barn."
Dean swallowed noisily. "Well Sammy, you know what they say about "assuming"-" The kid cut him off with an angry wave.
"Whatever." Oooh. Someone was pissy. Dean really shouldn't let it amuse him. Then again, Dean did a lot that he really shouldn't.
Sam snapped his fingers in Dean's face, drawing the man's attention. "Second. You need to stop moaning. I don't care what you do with your pie in private but there are children in here."
Dean raised his head for show, pretending to catalogue the other diners. He was already well aware of everyone who was inside. He had been since the moment he entered the place. He also had mapped out every possible exit in case of attack and had chosen a seating position that optimized surveillance while providing cover. He didn't need to look.
But he did, because if he didn't Sam would probably ask some jackass question to make Dean prove his stuff. Not that Dean wouldn't in the same position but he really wasn't in the mood to describe the trench coat wearing tax accountant and his band of merry misfits, or recall the orders of the old ladies talking about their quilting group.
Ducking his head back down after he had wasted enough time with his "check" he flashed Sam another cocky grin. "I don't see any children here." He leaned forward and gave Sam a conspiring whisper. "Unless you're referring to yourself."
The reaction couldn't have been better if Dean had scripted it. The kid sputtered as his face splashed scarlet. Sam tilted his head, trying to use his shaggy bangs to hide some of his embarrassment even as he searched for a witty retort. And he would find one. The kid was good with comebacks and in a fair fight he could hold his own in a reasonable argument.
Dean was neither fair nor reasonable.
He shoved another forkful of pie into his mouth, taking care to make a long, exaggerated moan. It increased in volume when Sam tried to shrink further into the booth. His mind was desperately seeking a way to escape from Dean and his sex pie noises but since the guy had the keys, cutting and running wasn't really a choice. So Sam fell back into hunting strategies. He couldn't escape from his opponent and slaying the thing wasn't an option. That left him with distractions.
"What's the case about?" Sam threw out. Hunting was the only part of Dean's life where the guy showed any sense of maturity. Relatively speaking.
Dean frowned at the younger man but took the bait, letting the fork clatter to the plate. "I already told you."
Sam snorted. "No. I asked and you cranked Nothing Else Matters. I don't think Longfellow is meant to be taken quite so literally." Sam sighed at Dean's blank look. "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow?" No recognition. " 'Music is the universal language of mankind'?" Still nothing. "American poet from the nineteenth century?"
"Ah." Dean smiled in acknowledgement. "You're geeking it up. Gotcha." Sam glared. It only made Dean smile brighter. "Alright, Professor Keating, ready for this?" He absently mindedly scooped some pie as he pulled out a receipt with notes on the back. "Suspected haunting in Fox Point, New Mexico. The victims were all last spotted in the local mall. Get this," Dean leaned forward and whispered conspiringly, "They were all found stuffed in their own trunks. The rest is the usual. No leads, no fingerprints, no witnesses, no suspects, and the security cams show nothing but static."
Sam frowned and tapped his fingers against his cup of coffee. "Cause of death?"
"Hasn't been released. Either cops are thinking serial killer or they don't actually know." Dean took another bite of pie as he scanned his hasty notes.
Sam ran a hand through his hair. "So we're probably dealing with a spirit of some sort."
"You sound disappointed."
"I was hoping for something cool."
Sam stared at Dean in disbelief. "Cool?"
"Yeah!" Dean smiled like a schoolboy. "Like a werewolf or something. Those things are the shit. I mean, tearing the heart out? Only stopped by silver? That shit is awesome!" He wrinkled his nose. "Spirits are kinda lame."
"I'll be sure to let this one know that it's boring you."
Dean responded to Sam's sarcasm with a serious nod. "I'd sure appreciate that. Do you know what else I'd appreciate?" Dean waggled his eyebrows. "More pie!"
His chocolate hand was a stark contrast to his white phone. He liked the way it looked, like a shadow across snow. That had to be the reason he kept purchasing his cellular in ivory. After all, it was hardly a practical color for people who didn't have the habit of coming home covered in blood. Plastic was a bitch to get stains out of.
The device in his hand squealed shrilly. He didn't bother to check the caller ID. He knew who it was.
"They've been spotted." He didn't bother with a greeting. The man on the other end didn't care for social niceties. He barely managed social at the best of times, and today was not the best of times. "Singer is taking his and heading up to Oregon."
He listened to the low rumble thunder on the other end. "No. I don't think this was too easy."
A deep growl cut him off. He rolled his eyes, glad that the other man was a hundred miles away and couldn't see the gesture. It wasn't as satisfying as hanging up on the man mid-rant would be but it also wasn't going to get him shot the next time he met up with his ally.
His co-conspirator finished the diatribe soon enough. "Fine." He was going to humor the older man. "I'll send some people to Singer's place and that 'secret' cabin he keeps in Georgia. I've got feelers out in the rest of the country. If Singer is trying to pull a fast one, I'll catch him."
The man on the other end grunted and ended the call.
The dark skinned man glared at his phone before stuffing the device into his back pocket. He really should stick to working with people who knew that he was the man in charge. It made life so much easier.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Sam went rigid, as though by not moving he could somehow become invisible. "What?" he asked cautiously. Dean could see the gears grinding as Sam tried to work out what taboo he had engaged in.
Dean decided to help the fellow out. "That," he proclaimed loudly, "Is my bed. It's always my bed." Not that it actually was. Dean had always been forced to sleep on the bed farthest from the door. It was one of the few small ways that John was able to show his son he cared without treading into the ominous realm of chick flick moments and heartfelt discussions.
The tension seemed to rush out of Sam's body as the younger man rolled his eyes. "Sorry. Forgive me for not reading your mind. I'll make sure to work on my psychic prowess for the future." He returned to scribbling weird squigglies on the window frame. Dean presumed they were obscure protection sigils from some long dead culture designed to keep the spooks at bay.
Dean bit back a snort. It irritated him, the fact that hunters used tidbits from people that had been wiped out ages ago in order to try and protect themselves. Like Latin. It was a dead language. If you could exorcise demons with it then why the hell did people stop using it? Not that Dean was denying that the stuff worked. It did. The why wasn't something he was invested in discovering. As long as it worked he was happy. He just had this nagging thought that it shouldn't.
Dean shook his head, sending his worries on the metaphysics of the preternatural skittering back to the dark recesses of his mind and focused on more immediately problems. Namely, Sam's shit on his bed.
He lifted the duffle with a grunt of surprise before dropping it back on the bed. He gave the bag a hard stare.
"What?" Sam had finished his doodles and was watching Dean's consternation with concern.
Dean didn't look away from the bag. "This thing is light. What the hell do you have in there?"
Sam lifted his eyebrows in surprise. "Uh, clothes? Is that okay with you or would you rather have be walk around naked?"
It wasn't often that Dean was struck speechless, but the idea of Sam wandering around naked was potent enough to strip the comeback from his tongue. He settled for flashing Sam a little leer and mentally peeling Sam's layers.
Sam's reaction was a bucket of cold water. The kid's expressive face closed up tighter than a nun's thighs in a strip club as he wrapped an arm over his large chest. Hazel eyes became wary and calculating. Dean could practically see the scales as the kid weighed his words, sifting through them as though he was looking for a bear trap to spring and take his leg off.
Dean's fingers twitched.
When he flirted with people one of three things happened. They either flirted with him (usually), ignored him (occasionally), or they shut him down (it happened once). Sam was the first person to look at Dean as though he had suggested they go shark diving after bathing in chicken blood. It was maddening, but it was a problem that Dean couldn't solve in the next five minute, unlike the mystery of the way too freaking light bag.
He gave the zipper a tug.
"What the hell?"
"Dude! Stay out of my stuff!" Sam moved from the window, his long legs carrying his lanky frame to Dean in a matter of seconds but it was still far too late.
Dean lifted the rainbow thong from the bag with a single finger. "Well Samantha," Dean drawled the name, "is there something you're not telling me?" He twirled the panties in his hand, watching how Sam's eyes tracked the undergarment. Dean wished he had seen this side of Sam before challenging the kid to a poker game. If he had maybe he would still have some M&Ms left.
Sam's face was blank. Perfectly blank. The expression made Dean want to take a marker and give the guy a monocle or something, the same way freshly fallen snow made Dean want to leave giant boot treads across the neighbor's yard. It was both impressive and eerie. Had Dean not seen Sam stalking towards him seconds ago, he would have sworn that the kid had simply been replaced by a very lifelike statue.
The illusion shattered when Sam snagged the bag from Dean as quick as a mongoose. He clamped the duffle close to his chest, as though he could strangle the thing to prevent it from betraying him again. He lifted his chin at Dean, daring him to say something, to say anything.
In hazel eyes Dean saw someone who might be just as broken as him.
"So what are we going to do about this?" The thong continued to dance around his fingers, jerking occasionally as soft material caught on his callused finger.
"I'll leave." Christ, Dean had drunk beer that had sat open in the sun all day that wasn't as flat as Sam's voice. His heart ached for the kid.
"And what? Make me come up with a counter all by myself?" Some of the stiffness in Sam's face shifted into a look that Dean knew he didn't understand. He also knew he didn't ever want to see that expression on Sam's face again. "Jo won't know what hit her." He sniffed disdainfully at the panties. "Man, that was weak, even for a ten year old. Besides," he offered with a wink, "I already knew you were a girl. The hair gave it away." His smile never wavered.
Sam didn't relax his grip but he did tilt his head down and gave Dean a smile so sweet it should only be given out on Halloween. It was there for only a moment, like the sun's corona during an eclipse, before it was once again swallowed by the shadows in Sam's eyes. "Uh, Dean? What do you mean by "counter"?
Dean laughed. "Come, young Padiwan. I have much to teach you."
Turns out that Dean didn't, actually. Once he explained the basics of Pranking 101 Sam caught on to the nuances like a duck to water. The kid was sharp and he had a potential devious streak that Dean was going to nurse to maturity. It didn't take long for the two of them to concoct several possible recourses against one Joanna Beth Harvelle.
When Dean settled into bed, the one closest to the door, he did so almost completely content. There was just one issue, pressing on his mind. "Sam? What if that was Ellen's thong?"
"What? I think she'd look good in it."
Sam gave a half strangled cry of horror.
Dean fell asleep with a satisfied smile.
AN-for everyone going "Chapter title was misleading!" Guys? This is supernatural. Of course the chapter was gonna be about pie. Or the Impala, but I don't know anything about cars, so pie.