whiskey•on•the•road

this blog has moved.  i will selectively bring a few threads/verses with me to the new blog. no ships will transfer.

           ♠ — … but it doesn’t mean we shouldn’t fight.

           indie dean winchester || multi-everything || primarily s1-5 & au || selective&private 

this blog has moved.  i will selectively bring a few threads/verses with me to the new blog. no ships will transfer.

           ♠ — … but it doesn’t mean we shouldn’t fight.

           indie dean winchester || multi-everything || primarily s1-5 & au || selective&private 

this blog has moved.  i will selectively bring a few threads/verses with me to the new blog. no ships will transfer.

this blog has moved.  i will selectively bring a few threads/verses with me to the new blog. no ships will transfer.

Happy Unattached Drifter Christmas

not because of the tape being tossed away. but because of the questions that follow. and he just turns before it fades, looking out of the window.  lights and asphalt flashing by.

and he doesn’t really know how to answer ( or he does, but the words would come out wrong, would give dean the wrong impression and no doubt leave a bad taste in his mouth as they slipped from lips in a poor effort of explanation ).

he’s doing it because he can.  because it - feels good.  because ( and god forbid this ever factor into something ) - it’s fun.  he enjoys it.  and it’s not taking anyone for a ride ( no pun intended ) - everyone gets out of it exactly what they expect.  there’s no cheating, no lying, and no crack of pool cue across someone’s head when they decide they don’t appreciate being hustled by a couple of strangers in ‘their bar’ or ‘their town’.

sure, hustling works.  it puts money in their pockets.  but there’s always a sense of… dishonesty about it.  sure, it was arguable that if the schmucks didn’t have the cash to lose and the talent to back it up, they shouldn’t be betting in the first place…  and this - this doesn’t feel like that.   and there’s the fact that he can do it - without dean.  and that’s the part that would come out wrong.  the part he can’t bear to say.   no, he doesn’t need to do it ( other than the fact that one good night could pull in as much, if not more than a decent hustle - sometimes way more ) - but he can.  he did.  it had paid rent.  it had paid bills.  it meant that he didn’t have to work two part time jobs as well as take classes and grind himself into a state of exhaustion.

it was something that was just… his…

so no.  he’s not going to say that aloud.   because dean would likely take it wholly the wrong way and think that sam didn’t want him around.  which wasn’t the case.  not at all ( well, maybe not when he’s actually ON STAGE, because that’d be kinda weird… wouldn’t it? )

“…i’m good at this.”

he’s talking to the window.  breath misting over the flickering reflection.  voice quiet, but still loud enough to be heard over the deep rumble of the engine.

he doesn’t understand the need to do something that brings attention to you on an entirely new level than what they normally have to. people notice when you win big at pool, or darts, or black jack or poker. people notice when you walk out of a dive bar with your pockets five and six times more full than they were when you walked in. 

but people are paying to notice when you take the stage ON PURPOSE.  they notice a hell of a lot more about you when that’s what the job requires. when you’re TRYING to get them to notice you.

and that’s what makes Dean nervous and uncomfortable about the entire situation. the fact that people will remember Sam’s face in the morning when the whiskey and other various alcoholic beverages are still weaving their way out of their systems.  and who WOULDN’T notice a kid that’s six-foot-four ( & 3/4 ) and built like a shit brick house mated with Adonis?? no one. everyone would see him. and that, in and of itself, is the main problem dean has with this whole situation. it’s bad enough that there are evil sons of bitches out there with the name Winchester at the top of their list of things to rip apart piece by piece, and it’s bad enough that the anonymity factor was compromised the moment one shows his or her face in front of crowds the size that that place gets ( and dean has checked the joint out, a time or two... or three...) so he knows what he’s talking about.

“ i hate to say it but... i have no doubt that y'er good at it, okay?”

his fingers grip tighter on the wheel, knuckles whitening for a long moment as he works to wrap his head around everything. takes the time to wonder just how hard he should start working to find a new case in a place far away from here. but he can tell. he can see it written clearly in sam’s eyes and hear it in the surety in his voice... the kid likes it there.

“man it just makes me a little nervous is all. but look, you go ahead and do your thing. i trust you t’know how t’take care’a yourself. but man we gotta get back on the road sometime... i just don’t want you to get too attached to this place. m’not gonna stop you from... dancing... because i can’t. but just be careful, a’right?”

he has.  he’s spent every moment since this whole thing started trying to find him.  but sometimes -                                     sam would like to just punch him in the face.

( which was always an interesting fight.  the military man, combat trained and honed and drilled - the perfect fighting machine… at least, when it came to tactics.  steely and logical and precise.  and then there was sam… the street fighter.  who was chaos and emotion and a whole lot of sheer size and brute strength.  who’d grown up fighting with gangs and running from the cops.  who’d tangled with bikers in back alleys and walked away with not so much more than a blacked eye. )

there’s just a ‘mph’ of an answer to the ‘she sounds hot’ comment.   because - yes - she is and - no - sam is not walking himself right into that trap.

however, he waits by the door and follows dean. and he kind of can’t believe it - but also kind of - can… baby… 

“wow, she’s a sight for sore eyes…”

he has to wonder how dean managed to roll through the freaking apocalypse with his car in tact, then again, he can’t really imagine him leaving her behind.  

and fingers tentatively trail over cold metal.  two ton of detroit steel, looking just as good today ( so freaking good to sam’s mind ) as she had when they’d been kids.  but he has to touch because everything just seems a little surreal, and it’s grounding, in a way that sometimes just seeing things wasn’t.

however, he does take a moment to check the coast is clear, stripping off his blood soaked jacket and shirt, leaving only t-shirt which wasn’t quite as stained, bundling them up and tossing them in the trunk.

and it’s odd - slipping into the passenger seat.  supple leather easing him into a strange sense of deja-vu.  and there’s a moment, after pulling the door closed, where sam just sinks down,  another run of his hand along the dash, a tilt of his head against the cool glass of the window and he just… breathes.

it smells like… home… 

but apparently dean had said something and was waiting for a reply…

“i trust her with my life… the rest? i… don’t know them.  only been here a couple of days, but i don’t think they’ll shoot at the car.  if you can drive, generally you’re not dead.  but we can park up close and go in on foot if you think that’s better.”

however, the moment of reminiscence evaporates, jaw set firm and he just gives the slightest shake of his head.

“they’re alive.”

that’s as much as he’s saying on the matter. dean is here - and that’s proof enough that there’s still - hope.

of course sam believes that. has always believed the best in every situation. to him, there’s always a way — and even dean has to admit that’s a better way of seeing the world than to see it for how it really is.

the more deployments and combat missions he’s been sent on... the more times he’s had to clear building to find insurgents and terrorists waiting... ready to blow him up at the push of a button...   the harder it is to convince himself that there’s any good left in the world at all. but sammy is convinced, about the people he’s been bunking with, the girl that’s apparently made some kind of impact on him, and for once in his life, dean’s willing to follow that faith blindly.

and maybe it’s stupid — no, he knows it’s stupid to put your trust - your life - in the hands of others that way, but it’s not like they have a whole lot of choice anymore.

baby moves through the streets like water, gliding over asphalt and gravel. dean’s been busy, moving cars and obstructions over the past week or so, just enough that when the time came to make a break for it there wouldn’t be anything standing in his way. get in, get sam, get out. that was the plan. a simple extraction — now made more difficult because sam’s made another friend.  but it’s okay... just a hiccup. that’s all it is. or at least, that’s all dean hoped it was.

“comes with? are you serious?” with the situation coming to light more as his little brother unraveled the plan he’d made, the pact of sorts, dean shook his head. “sammy we got people of our own to find. we gotta find mom and dad. how we gonna do that when we gotta keep our eyes peeled for whoever this girl’s lookin’ for too?”

he doesn’t like it. doesn’t like letting more and more days pass without knowing his folks are okay. without knowing he did everything he could to locate, assess and get the job done. it’s so heavily ingrained into him now that his focus has been fully on completing this self-given mission and nothing else.

the only problem now was working past that look on sam’s face.  the clenched jaw and the ‘i’m-gonna-stand-my-ground-on-this-one’ look in his eyes that he expected to come out at any moment now. if there was one thing he could always depend on when it came to his little brother,  it was that rebellious streak a mile long that he very clearly got from mary winchester.