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VIDEOFILE: 2006_KNIFE_THROWING.MP4
“No way.” Ash says, voice low and disbelieving, nearly inaudible over the dry breeze carrying willow pollen and tumble weeds across the pavement leading to the Roadhouse.
“Watch and learn.” Dean grins, and turns his back to the mullet-wearing genius, tossing a knife without looking at the back of the road sign. There’s a twang, and an unnerving grate of the blade colliding against another blade, and Dean finally looks and prays that he didn’t just make an ass of himself.
Miraculously— no, scratch that, obviously (‘cause he’s fucking awesome), his knife split the wood handle of Ash’s, and the blade is now nestled inside it. A perfect throw. After a second, the combined weight causes both to fall to the ground with a dull thud. Sam shakes his head, annoyed by Dean’s self-satisfied smirk, and kicks the knife back over.
Jo whistles.
“Bet you can’t do it again.” Ash frowns, hands on his hips, the perfect picture of an entirely confounded man.
“Gonna put your money where your mouth is, bud?”
Fifteen minutes and forty dollars later, Ash has grabbed the video camera that he owns for undisclosed purposes (ew?) and he’s set it up on a tripod that he also owns (double ew?), and he’s standing behind it squinting, trying to adjust the exposure to the nearly painful midday sun.
“I don’t understand, Jo. He’s too pretty to be good at everything. It’s unfair.”
Jo grins. She’s standing spread eagle, back to the board, down to a blue five dollar tank top and her jeans, sweat beading at her temple. “Sorry that your genepool is equivalent to a pug’s.”
“Hey.” Ash quips, pushing a hand over the front of his mullet in a practised, entirely grotesque mannerism that reeks of all the bad parts of the 80s. “They may be ugly, but everybody loves them.”
“Shut up.” Dean readjusts his stance and the blade between his fingers. “I’m trying to concentrate here.” He flicks his hand, and twhick, another blade imbeds itself into the wood board, right next to Jo’s ear.
Sam is leaning against the impala. Ellen forbade alcohol if they insisted on doing something as stupid as this, so he’s got a glass bottle of lemonade perspiring against his palm. The sun is too warm, and the black metal hood is starting to burn through his clothes, but it’s nice. This moment. There’s no demon at their throats, no poltergeist waiting to be banished.
He could sit like this forever.
Dean is thinking the same thing. Though he wouldn’t admit it to anyone this is the closest thing he’s ever had to a real friendship in his life. Jo looks like a thousand bucks, a smile splitting her face, eyes focused to the side as she tries to see all the knives around her. He won’t tell her that, ‘cause one, she doesn’t care and two, she’s like, totally off limits.
He’s not interested in waking up with the end of Ellen’s shotgun pointed at his nose. Or, honestly, with Jo’s herself. Nah. This is good. As is.
He steps back, to grab another knife before he realizes he’s all out. “You wanna try?”
“Hell yes.” She pushes herself off the board daintily, bounding towards him.
Yeah
, the Winchesters think at the same time, small smiles resting on their faces,
we’ve got a good thing. We deserve at least this.