blue_soaring | Supernatural - Sam&Dean - A Nice Day to Start Again (2/2)

A Nice Day to Start Again (2/2)
Supernatural. Sam and Dean. PG-13. ~11,000 words total. Co-authored with

ponderosa121.
As a favour, Sam and Dean pick up on a job where Bobby's left off. Only, the spirit the Winchester boys are attempting to usher to the other side is making things more complicated than they're supposed to be.

*

Sam hits the library again, leaving Dean to fend for himself with the journal and the internet. He rechecks local deaths, looking for clusters of women dying around the same time instead of those related directly to the lake. Two hours into his research, his fingers flying across the keys, eyes across the screen, his stomach tightens with a familiar feeling just as his phone rings.

"Dean," he says, "I got it."

A short pause, then, "Yeah?"

"In 1991, Richard Mercer's entire family was murdered on the lakeshore. Wife, two kids. Two daughters. The cops did a psych eval and put the guy in an institution."

"He saw something."

"Oh yeah, he saw something. And, in 1973, almost the same thing. Two women, both friends of a local baker-" Sam digs through his notes for the name, but abandons it when Dean makes an impatient noise. "Okay, so two women then. Every time, the cops try to nail the guy for it, but it never sticks. Not enough evidence, no motive. They're all painted as good dependable guys, faithful to their wives, families, et cetera."

"You'd think people'd stop going to the damn lake, Disney or not," Dean mutters. "So what is it?"

"A naiad."

"A naiad."

"Yeah, a type of water nymph primarily found in Greek mythology. You've probably heard of Undine, has to marry a man to get a soul? Anyway, they're mostly harmless, usually worshiped in connection with coming-of-age and fertility," Sam waves his hand, trying to rush the explanation enough for Dean to catch up. "Except--and get this--they're noted for extreme jealousy. Telling a naiad no is like asking for trouble."

Dean was quiet for a moment, the sound of him scratching at his stubble clear in Sam's ear. "You think these guys pissed of a naiad, a naiad in the middle of Nowhere, Massachusetts, and it-"

"Took out all the competition, yeah."

"Okay, good job, Geek Boy. Or is it Greek Boy? Nevermind. How do we kill it?"

"Um." Sam shifted in his seat, the back of his neck heating as if Dean were standing right there staring down at him. "That's the part I'm stuck on. These things are so old, most belief puts them as daughters of Zeus, which means they could be demi-goddesses."

"Gods," Dean mutters. "Why do we keep running into gods."

"There could be a way to neutralise it. You could call Bobby."

"Hey, I could call Bobby. And not tell him that I'm wearing his job."

"I'll finish up here in about a half hour and-"

"Bring food," Dean says, and cuts the line.

*

"That's it?" Sam looks at Dean, then at the rough sketch of symbols on the motel paper. "We nab a rock from the lake, carve these into it, and the naiad goes away?"

"Or something. Dad's journal doesn't go into a lot of deal, it just says it'll 'neutralise the threat.' My guess from some of the markings it's some kind of hypno-trick binding," Dean shrugs. "Whatever the deal, it works for me."

"Doesn't that seem... too easy to you?"

"Hey, no more dead girls with haunted wedding dresses, I'll take what I can get."

"Okay." Sam tosses the pad down onto Dean's bed and reaches for his coat. "I'll go grab a couple of rocks and we'll start carving."

"Might as well just do it at the lake," Dean says. "It might start causing trouble if it can feel what we're doing."

Sam stuffs his hands into his pockets. He can hardly blame Dean for wanting to get out of the room again, and there's no real reason to protest.

He just hopes no one sees him tromping around the woods with a combat-ready bride.

*

"Think that'll do it?"

Sam peers at the rock in Dean's hand, the lines clean and the closest match to the complicated angles and swirls etched deep into the journal's heavy paper. "One way to find out, I guess."

Dean takes Sam's hand, turns it palm up and plops the rock into it. "You throw it. This dress fucks with my arm."

"How far out do you think it needs to go?"

"Doesn't say," Dean says, but he picks up the journal from the massive folds of his dress and flips through it once again. "All it says is it needs to be submerged in the naiad's home water. You could probably just drop it under the dock and it'll work, but why chance a drop in the waterline or some kid coming along and adding it to their nerdy rock collection?"

"I didn't have a collection," Sam says, "just that one rock. That one time." Marching to the edge of the lake, Dean's eyes on him and a warning for him to be careful, don't get too close burned into the back of his neck without words, Sam draws off and lets the rock fly. It arcs a little too high in the centre but makes it a good distance out, breaking the surface with a milder version of the eruption that wiped out Emma's spirit.

"Great." Dean stands up, brushing off his hands and beaming brighter than midday sun in California. "Now get this damn thing offa me."

"Now?"

"Yeah, now. I'm fuckin' dying for a shower."

Sam glances around, sees nothing but rocks and trees and water. Even if there's no sign of anyone else, that doesn't mean squat, but if Dean wants to flash all he's got to the world, it's his choice.

"Okay, but I'm still driving back."

Dean makes a sharp frustrated noise and gestures wildly at the back of his neck.

Scrubbing his palms dry on his jeans, Sam fumbles for the tiny, teardrop zipper. It slips out of his grip twice and he grabs onto Dean's shoulder, muttering for him to shut up and stop flailing.

"C'mon, Sammy, I know you're not used to undressing girls, but it's just-"

"Not moving," Sam says. He tugs again to make sure, goes as far as digging out his knife to try cutting it again but just ends up shrugging helplessly. "It's still stuck."

"God damn it, Sammy!" Dean grabs at his skirts, puffs of the dress flying as he gets a good grip and tugs. Sam can see the veins in his arms swell with the effort as Dean starts inventing curses.

Sam jerks his head at the car, trailing in Dean's muttered, "Dead ass bitch," wake.

"Okay," he says, resting his hands on the steering wheel as if it'll help him think. Dean slides into the passenger side this time, yards upon yards of material bunched about his legs. "Assume the naiad's taken care of. Emma's spirit has a limited number of reasons to still be here, right?"

Dean rubs his hands over his face. "I think she's just trying to piss me off."

"Maybe she likes how you look in her dress," Sam says, before he can stop himself. Contrite, he just braces himself and takes the slug to the arm before continuing. "If she was warning us, or seeking vengeance or justice, if the naiad is gone, that's taken care of."

"She definitely isn't re-enacting her death or leading us to some windfall of good fortune."

"We know her story, so that's not it."

Dean says, "Unfinished business," the exact moment Sam murmurs, "She didn't get married."

Sam's almost afraid to see the expression on his brother's face.

"Oh, shit. No way, Sam. No. I'm not getting married. No. Not a chance."

There are times Sam prides himself on his level-headedness--all of which only occur when neither his nor Dean's lives are in danger, and when Dean isn't being a complete asshole. Instead of answering right away, Sam chews furiously on any possible option for getting Dean out of that dress.

"We can burn it," Dean says. "I don't care, light the fucker on fire."

"Dean," Sam says absently, "I'm not burning the dress with you in it."

"But Sam-!"

"A wedding is symbolic, right?" Sam says, turning to face Dean square-on and waiting for Dean's grudging nod. "We can fake one. Hell, it might not even need to be a wedding, there are all sorts of simple rituals we could try."

"Okay," Dean says, his voice tight and too-level. His I'm panicking but don't want Sammy to know it voice, which hasn't worked since Sam turned seven. "Okay. Just one question, Sam."

"Yeah?"

Dean glances up, his eyes wide, face pale. "Who the hell am I gonna marry?"

*

Sam takes Dean's customary place wearing a five-foot hole in the carpet, pacing back and forth talking through ideas while Dean sits on the edge of the bed in full-blown cold-feet panic.

"We can't bribe some girl to fake a symbolic marriage to you, Dean," Sam says. "Vegas is out of the question. It's on the other side of the country and I'm not sure Emma would buy that."

"But you think she'll buy a fake wedding when you keep saying it out loud like that?"

Sam stops, frowns as he pulls out his cell. "Maybe I should call Ellen."

"Dude, I'm not marrying Ellen!"

"For advice, Dean."

Dean eyes Sam like he doesn't really believe it, but says, "Last resort. Jo'll-"

"Right," Sam says, snapping the phone shut. "And Bobby's still out of contact?"

Dean winces. "Man, I'm not calling up Bobby just to tell him I can't follow simple instructions and got stuck in this thing. 'Burn the package,' he says, but it might've been nice if he'd said, y'know, burn the package."

"Right," Sam repeats, a bit more slowly than the first time. Dean-logic. "We can do this ourselves. I'll find some ribbon, you look up handfasting, and we'll do the ceremony."

"Yeah, okay, Braveheart style, but that still doesn't clear up this little issue of who... who... aw, hell no, Sammy."

Sam's jaw goes tight, chin thrust out. "Symbolic. There's no one else, Dean."

"But-"

"Dean, honestly," Sam says, ignoring the way his skin prickles with little cactus needles of heat. "This is crazy, but who're we going to get to marry you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, for one, you're in a dress," Sam says, warming up to the logic and well aware he's pulling off a classic self-justification. "Two, nobody within about a thousand miles knows you--and that's saying that someone who knows you would want to marry you, even faking it--and three, there's no way we can convince anyone in this town that you're stuck in a haunted wedding dress and if they'd just take fake vows with you, it'll all be okay."

"Sure, when you put it like that. But Jesus, Sammy," Dean protests, shaking his head sharply as if to drive the idea away. "That's messed up."

Sam snatches the keys from the pile of books on the desk. "Yeah. I'll be back in a bit with the ribbon."

*

"You're still in a dress."

"I'm still in a dress."

"I guess faking it didn't work."

"I guess not."

"Shit." Sam drops onto his bed, rubbing his wrist where Dean yanked the ribbon a little too tightly. "I was almost sure about that."

"Maybe she doesn't believe in the Double Sausage Special, Sammy-"

"That's disgusting."

"Small town girl," Dean goes on, his smirk the only sign he even heard Sam, "church-goer, white wedding, the whole Neopagan gay handfasting thing just isn't her style."

Sam's half-closed eyes snap open. "You're right. You're right, Dean. She's traditional."

Dean nods, smug and satisfied.

"She wants a traditional wedding. Probably in her church. We need to get married in her church."

"Jesus Christ, Sam, are you nuts?"

"No, no, it fits," Sam says, sitting up straight. He holds out a hand to stall Dean's protests, flicking his fingers when Dean doesn't quiet right away. "She doesn't want just any wedding, she wants her wedding, or at least something really close to it."

Dean's mouth works like a beached fish's.

"Maybe not in her church, alright, but the symbolism is the important part. It doesn't have to be legal. A minister, a couple of rings, that's it."

"You," Dean says, "you, and, you want to get married?"

"Fake!" Sam shouts, flinging his hands out. "We can fake it, and it'll get you out of that dress without the third-degree burns."

Dean knuckles at his eye, sits down. Massages his temples like he has the world's worst hangover. "How're we-"

"Don't worry about it, Dean, I got a plan." Sam glances at the clock--quarter to 8, too late to get supplies but not too late to start things rolling. "You stay here."

"Sam, wait. Dude, wait!"

Sam slams the door behind him and sprints for the car before he can change his mind.

*

The next morning, Sam wakes up with Dean looming over him like a thundercloud.

"Okay, Sam," Dean says, "what the hell did you do?"

"Ung," is Sam's brilliant response.

"Sam."

Sam swallows once and waves a hand weakly in the direction of the alarm clock. Managing to get a grip on it and shuffling it around, he squints at the glaring red numbers before dropping back on the pillow with a groan.

"Sam."

Sam wonders how many people in Vegas wake up one morning with a pissed off bride glaring daggers at them.

"Sam!"

"I found a priest."

"Oh, god."

Scratching at his side, Sam heaves himself up to sitting, the blankets pooling around his hips. "Reverend," he corrects himself, following the pesky itch up to the curve of his arm, "Holsapple. Gerald Keddy's making a sizable donation to the church's new roof fund."

"Dude, you bribed the holy guy with a fake credit card?"

"Yup," Sam says, gratefully taking the half bottle of lukewarm water Dean hands over and downing it. "Keddy's a good buddy of yours, really good, and a little bit eccentric. He wants pictures of your wedding day."

Dean sits so quickly air gets trapped in his dress, inflating it like a balloon. "I think," Dean says, rather seriously, "I think I'm proud of you, but I'm not sure."

"Dean?"

"I can't believe I'm doing this."

"Not for real," Sam points out again, cautiously. The dress's curse seems to be limited to the physical, but Dean's been stuck in it for close to three days now and Sam's not taking any chances. "Sam Loeffler and Dean Bernardini are just looking for a symbolic affirmation of their, uh, love. That's it."

"This is really fucked up," Dean says. "And it's just great, 'cause if the FBI catches wind of this, they're going to have us up on incest charges, too. That'll look fantastic next to the grave desecration."

Sam stretches, amused despite the hard knot of worry in his gut that even this isn't going to be enough to finish Emma's business for her. He pushes it away, packs it down, and flings back the covers.

After his shower and Dean's half-assed self-administered spongebath, Sam starts digging through his pack. The black suit is a little worn at the edges, tired-looking, but it's the best he has. A quick spin in the wash and it should do.

"What's that for?" Dean asks, rooting around through what's left of their dry goods for something probably calorie-filled and cake-like.

"For the wedding," Sam says, and tries not to dwell on exactly how messed up that is. He holds it up in front of himself, eyebrows raised.

"Rent a tux."

"What, why?"

"Because this chick is crazy, Sam," Dean says, flopping down in an explosion of white. "And if I'm stuck in a dress, you're gonna damn well be stuck in an over-starched penguin suit."

"Do you think we really need to?"

"Are you really buying rings?"

Sam shifts, tucking the suit away. "If I couldn't steal them, yeah."

"That's my boy." Dean glances down at Sam's outstretched hand and cocks an eyebrow. "What?"

"Money."

Dean purses his lips in a whistle but points at his wallet on the nightstand. "Didn't figure you for a gold-digger, Sammy."

"I'm not marrying you for your cooking."

*

"For a special someone?" the middle-aged woman behind the counter says, fixing Sam with a sly, knowing look.

Sam chokes back the lump in his throat and smiles a little sickly. "Yeah, special. Real special."

"Well." The woman--Mattie, her nametag says--comes around and takes Sam's hand in her two small ones. "What does she like?"

Not roses. Fuck, he'll need to get Dean a bouquet and a boutonniere for himself.

"I-"

Mattie nods, her smile still firmly in place. She's probably accustomed to dealing with scared-shitless men. Only, Sam's not. He's just a little queasy. "Traditional gold or white?"

"Not gold," Sam says, frantically trying to remember the limits on the credit cards he'd taken from Dean's wallet.

"Mm." Some of Mattie's enthusiasm dims. "And might I inquire as to your range, mister...?"

Sam's mind blanks. "Keddy," he says after a noticeable pause. "Gerald Keddy. I'm sorry, ma'am, I admit I'm a little nervous."

Warmth shines in Mattie's eyes, her maternal instinct apparently overpowering her disappointment at a low-budget sale. "Have you picked out your own yet, or are you looking for a set, Mr. Keddy?"

"A set, I guess. It's a bit of a short notice wedding."

Mattie makes a few grandmotherly sounds, bustling through the rows and rows of glass display cases with Sam firmly in tow. She stops at a showcase of glittering diamonds and launches into a spiel about financing and payment plans. Sam squints at the tastefully printed tags, feeling his stomach drop.

He can afford some of these flat out on Dean's cards. He wouldn't need payment options this time.

"Mattie," Sam says, steeling himself. "These are nice, but I'll need a set of men's."

Mattie's brow furrows, tiny cracks appearing in the make-up around her lips as she frowns. "You-"

"Plain bands," Sam says, "with engravings. Can you do custom engravings?"

"I- I can arrange it, for a reasonable price," Mattie says. "Are you certain about plain bands, Mr. Keddy?"

"Definitely," Sam says. "Do you have a piece of paper and a pencil? The design I want is very specific."

*

Dean picks up one of the small, black velvet boxes, turning it over in his hands. "You bought them straight up? And the card was good for it?"

"It's not good for much else now," Sam says. He plucks at a bit of lint in his pocket, waiting for Dean to just hurry up and open the box. "Look, I figured since we needed rings, we might as well make them useful, right?" Impatience makes him reach out, take the other box and flip it open. "Two complimentary symbols from the Key are etched into each ring. Can't have too much protection against demons, right?"

Dean tugs the ring free and turns it over, squinting at the inside of the band. The silence stretches. Sam jiggles his knee, wishing Dean would just say something, because this is ridiculous.

"Huh," Dean finally says. "Guess not. Yours matches?"

"Um, yeah. Wedding bands."

"Why'd you get them engraved, Sammy?" Dean asks, honest curiosity softening his tone. "It's not like the card would've worked after the church got through with it anyway, but we didn't have to keep them."

Sam freezes. Dean's right, though that's not what's thrown Sam for a loop. What Dean's saying, that's the way Sam thinks--cheat and lie when you have to, but try to cut people's losses, even monetary ones. In the jewellery store, he'd been thinking too much, taking this too seriously. It's an elaborate scam in an inconvenient situation. Dean's life isn't even on the line here as far as they know.

And still, Sam had acted almost exactly the same way as the last time he'd been out of his depth in the middle of a glittering, diamond-band sea.

"I just thought," Sam says, sounding lame to his own ears, "I got them purified, and there are a bunch of theories about the protective power of commitment," he trails off with a helpless shrug. "This job is messing with my head, man."

"Messing with your head," Dean snorts. "Every time I gotta take a leak, it's an Olympic triathlon event."

Sheepish, Sam rubs the back of his head.

"You rented the tux, right, Sammy?" Dean asks, one eyebrow winging up. "You didn't buy it and a wedding album along with that six pack, did you?"

Sam flings the remote at Dean's head. Instead of ducking, Dean collapses to the side, bringing up a handful of his dress as a shield. The cheap plastic bounces off with a dull whump.

"How long have you been practicing that?" Sam asks.

"Just came to me. Worked better than I thought."

Rising, Sam moves to poke restlessly through their meagre supplies. Mentally checking items off his list, he almost misses Dean's muttered, "Stop fidgeting."

"I'm not fidgeting."

"That's the third time you've folded that shirt."

Sam heaves a sigh and settles his back against the wall. "I feel like we're missing something."

"Got the rings, got the duds," Dean says, gesturing at his lazy sprawl. "Got the preacher, got the church. We're good."

"I don't know, Dean."

"As good as we're gonna get."

"Yeah," Sam breathes. "Yeah, that I can agree with."

"Great, now gimme a beer. Best idea you've come up with all damn day. Even if it's in cans."

Sam pops open two, hands one off and takes a long pull on the other. "They're, uh. They're actually to tie to the back of the car."

*

At quarter after nine on Tuesday, Sam discovers that it is actually physically possible to tie your stomach in knots and have your feet turn into giant iceblocks. Dean seems fine. He bitches and curses and mutters under his breath, but that's par for the course even without the haunted wedding dress.

Sam feels like he's going to puke.

"Maybe we should've called Jo," Sam says.

"Heh, yeah." Dean grins and twists the blade in his hand into the light. "Could've made her a bridesmaid, stuck her in an even uglier dress."

"Yeah," Sam says, a little too slow.

"But only if Dr. Badass was your best man."

"Dude, that's so not funny." Sam tugs at his bowtie. He should've gotten the pre-tied one. It'd look cheaper, probably dorkier, but at least he still wouldn't be standing in front of the mirror staring at himself in a wedding tux.

"Ellen could've given me away."

"Dean, god. Shut up."

The steady scrape of metal on whetstone gives way to ringing silence. "You having some issues there, Sammy?"

"I can't get this," Sam grumbles, and wrenches the knot back into place at the hollow of his throat. He cranes his neck from side to side. "Okay, there. Good enough."

"Man, that's pathetic." The air conditioner clicks on, humming in a quiet counterpoint to the rustle of Dean's dress. "C'mere."

"What, you can do better?"

Sam swears Dean's eyes twinkle. "Just bend over, Sasquatch, and I'll show you what I can do."

Leaning down a few inches, Sam glances at Dean's face and quickly away. He can feel Dean watching him between the deft twists of strong fingers.

"Alright, now you're good," Dean says, patting him on the chest. Stepping back, he gives Sam the once over, so intent about it Sam gives into the urge to spread his arms and turn in a slow, deliberate circle. When Sam finally turns back to him, Dean's face has gone soft, distant. "You look good, Sammy."

Stock-still, Sam doesn't respond right away, barely feels Dean clapping his shoulder. Finally, at the question in Dean's eyes, Sam says, "Er, thanks, Dean. You look... you look like a guy in an ugly dress."

"Don't go getting all teary and sentimental on me now, Sam. You'll just embarrass yourself."

"The lace is very, uh, fetching?" Sam offers.

"Go fetch the fucking car, Sammy."

*

Reverend Holsapple meets them at the side door, oblivious to Dean's quick hustle inside. The church looks much the same as their first visit, worn but still cared for, and the odd disconnected strains of the organist warming up fills the stuffy air.

"It's not really my place to say this to my parishioners," the Reverend says, between running them quickly through their lines and the scripted movements, reassuring them that he'll prompt them each time and they merely need to repeat directly after him, "but I think what you boys are doing is a brave thing."

"Thank you," Sam says, because it seems the natural thing to say and Dean is busy trying to cough back up his tongue.

"And I know you were worried, Sam, doing all of this on such short notice, but I talked with Helen," he continues, waving jovially at the grey-haired woman jabbing angrily at a stuck pedal, "and she agreed to be a witness."

Dean croaks, "A witness?"

Holsapple beams. "We'll make it nice and legal for you boys, let you get on with your lives the way you were meant to."

"Legal," Sam echoes.

The Reverend's smile widens to epic proportions. He claps them both on the shoulder one last time and turns in a swirl of white robes. "Helen! We're ready to begin."

"Oh, Jesus," Dean moans.

The abbreviated ceremony is a surrealist smear in Sam's memory. He doesn't remember speaking, though he obviously obediently parroted the minister because the image of Dean's hand in his is stark, overexposed and seared into his retinas. Dean's fingers are rough but his grip gentle; the cuticle on his index finger is torn and red, the scar on his middle knuckle raised and white. Dean's gaze, when Sam's eyes meet his, is steady and warm and doesn't mirror one bit of the churning in Sam's gut.

When Reverend Hoslapple booms, "Mr. and Mr. Bernardini," to the empty church--Dean is the one in the dress, but he won the pointless argument about who took whose name by virtue of it being the easiest to pronounce--the ground vanishes from beneath Sam's feet.

Holsapple sparkles at them like a grandfather with a new baby on his knee. Dean stares resolutely forward, hand stiff and clammy in Sam's. "Go on, son," the Reverend whispers. "I agreed to marry you, I'm not squeamish."

Sam opens his mouth, clearing his throat when all that comes out is a squeak of noise. "Sir," he says, searching for the easiest, most believable lie he can find, "He, Dean, what I mean is," and usually he's much better at bullshit than this, "public displays-"

The Reverend's smile fades at the corners, a sad, knowing light in his eyes. "Don't worry, boys. It sounds trite, but love really is all you need. Love and understanding, and the power to forgive."

Sam swallows and he feels the furrow forming between his brows. He isn't sure why he does what he does next. He doesn't even really think about it. But between one breath and the next, Dean's face is cupped between his palms and their mouths are crushed together, no finesse, no style, just the hard press of dry, chapped lips.

The Reverend and the blushing altar server burst into applause as Helen breaks into rousing, enthusiastic song, her voice hinting at something that once used to soar with the strength of the organ but now struggles to keep pace. Holsapple leads them down the centre aisle, his voice joining Helen's in what Sam supposes to be a traditional hymn. The words feel old.

At the main doors, Holsapple turns. "Sam, Dean," he says, taking their still-clasped hands in his. "I told you the truth up there. My wife's been gone nearly five years now, and I won't lie and say we had the perfect marriage. Sometimes, no matter what, we never saw eye to eye. But we never let that get in the way of our happiness, and you shouldn't either. There's nothing, nothing," he says, squeezing their hands tight enough Sam can feel the wedding band digging into his flesh, "more powerful than this."

Mutely, Sam nods. Dean's insistent tug on his hand pulls him out into the sunlight, into the small church yard with its freshly-planted beds and ancient, gnarled trees. Under the Reverend's steady gaze they round the corner of the churchyard, Sam's hand already fishing for the keys.

He holds Dean's door open before sliding in himself.

"Dude," Dean says, face twisted and voice slurred. "You didn't have to slip me tongue, man, you're my brother."

"What if it had to be a real kiss, Dean!" Sam shouts, turning the engine over and barely resisting the urge to peel out of the lot, kicking up gravel behind them, before Helen and the Reverend see his bride rooting around for mouthwash. "Huh? What if you got stuck in that dress because we faked it?"

"You mean like we were supposed to fake the marriage?"

Sam closes his mouth with an audible snap. "Yes," he grates.

"Whatever, Sammy." Dean slides the ribbon off the thick roll of paper in his lap, staring speculatively down at the certificate bearing all their signatures. "This could come in handy, if the Feds don't nail it too quick. A nice legal marriage is pretty solid cover."

"It's only legal in Massachusetts," Sam mumbles. "And Canada."

"Still," Dean says, re-rolling the paper and wrestling the ribbon back on. "Not bad, Mr. Bernardini."

*

"Do you think I should've carried you over the threshold?"

"Haha, funny. Really. Screw you." Clearly enjoying the freedom of jeans, Dean kicks the door to their motel room shut behind him.

Sam jabs the bag with the wrinkled tux into the backseat. "And you never got to toss your bouquet."

Dean shoves the weapons duffle into Sam's arms. "Next time, you can be the chick."

"Hey, at least you're out of the dress, right?" Without giving Dean the chance to protest, Sam slides into the driver's seat.

"I've never been so happy to salt and burn something in my entire life," Dean grunts.

Which Sam sort of thought was extreme and unnecessary, but then, he hadn't been the one stuck with bathroom issues and stray drafts and the desperate need for a real shower. Though he'd heard all about it and participated way more than he's really comfortable with admitting. Ever.

"Which direction?" Sam asks.

"West," Dean says. "And don't stop until sundown."

Sam bends low, twisting to jerk the old shoebox of tapes out from underneath Dean's side of the seat. He pokes randomly through the offerings, picking one with the label half-obscured that he's sure he hasn't seen Dean play in month. It's almost as good as a gold-lettered guarantee that whatever it is, he's not sick of it.

Billy Idol gets two words in edgewise before Sam lunges for the player, the tape ejected and flung out the window while Dean jams an overplayed Metallica cassette in its place.

For once, James Hetfield belting it out in Sam's ears is sweet, soothing relief.

And my ties are severed clean
The less I have the more I gain
Off the beaten path I reign
Rover wanderer
Nomad vagabond
Call me what you will...

*
End

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Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

moonsliver.livejournal.com

...you know. >> You always seem to manage to draw me out of lurkdom for Reno's sake. And now...this?

Hi, guh. I think you salted and burned my brain. Not that I was planning on using it, so it's all good~ *__*

Also..."Dean, you're in a dress."

Best understatement of the obvious ever~ I think I love you. :D

Also, I think White Wedding would be the perfect song for them. >D

From:

looking for my suicide king

Supernatural - Sam&Dean - A Nice Day to Start Again (2/2)

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