Chapter Text
Above the motel, the streetlights bathed the parking lot in a warm yellow hue, dulling the wind's bite blowing off the prairie. This wasn't the first time Dean had ended up in the middle of buttfuck nowhere responsible for more that could be asked of him; the sign leading into town read 'A Great Place to Live' in weather-worn paint. Looking at the greasy tinted glass of the front office, Dean had a hard time believing that.
"Get your bag, Sam," said Dean, opening the trunk.
Reflected in the kaleidoscope of pull-tab posters and advertisements plastered to the edges of the window was a familiar scene: John, crumpled bills in hand, paying for the next week's lease. Jaundiced and worn, Dean's father faced the world with a scowl. Wrinkles cut through the craggy outline of his face, catching the light and settling into his face like old friends. The fluorescents' sickly glow didn't do John any favors, highlighting the grime caked to his figure.
Heaving his and his father's duffle bags over his shoulder, Dean slammed the trunk shut and began towards the silhouette of his Dad. Making sure his little brother trailed behind him, Dean counted the hours of work he would have in front of him before he could sleep. The middle of the night bearing down on him, it seemed to Dean that he would be working well into the morning. Sitting down on the curb outside of the front office, Sam and Dean stared aimlessly into the parking lot.
"How far are you into the new book?" Asked Dean, as moths battered themselves against the streetlamps' tinged light.
"I finished it in Rapid City. It was too easy anyway," sighed Sam.
The dime novel loose in hand, his little brother began to arrange the parking lot's gravel into lines scattering them after each row: biggest to smallest and then smallest to biggest, then back again. At eleven years old, Sam had already outgrown Dean's hand-me-downs. White socks peaked through the bottom hem of Dean's old pants, or more accurately, Sam's new capris. Dean had been a skinny knobby-kneed kid at his age, barely big enough to fit into those pants, let alone outgrow them.
"So what was this one about? Cowboys or vampires?" asked Dean.
"This one was both, I guess? I think the author tried to put a new spin on Western horror, but she lost track of her ideas halfway through," said Sam nonchalantly, Slaughterhouse Saloon slipping off of his hand and to the concrete left of the pebble pyramid.
"They can't all be winners," shrugged Dean, as the moths continued their frantic dance under the fuzz of the light.
Dean had had a hard time finding Sam's books lately. Just like his clothes, the kid's mind seemed to outgrow what Dean could give him all too quickly. The most recent pickup had only lasted Sam a day. Looking at his little brother, Dean is washed in a wave of frustration. Sam deserves better than this, Dean thought. Pebbles organized halfway into a pyramid, Sam was oblivious to Dean's musing. The door behind them swung open as John walked out of the front office. Shoving the keys and twenty dollars into Dean's hand, John made his leave.
"I'm going out," snapped John, walking towards the Impala. Sparing a glance behind him, John gave Sam and Dean a once over. "Don't get me in any fucking trouble."
The Impala came to life under John's hand, carrying him to God knows where with God knows who for God knows how long. The twenty dollars sat limp in Dean's hand, not nearly enough for the coming weeks. Standing with a sigh, Dean gathered his and his father's bags and set off towards his home for the next couple of months.
Room 4B smelled worse than Dean thought it would. Two full-sized beds took up most of the room, their threadbare white sheets tucked lumpily under the mattress. Shag carpeting covered the floor in matted clumps, its original burnt orange long since faded with footfall and negligence.
"He really spared no expense," muttered Dean. "C'mon, Sam. Let's get started."
Without thinking, the boys fell into their usual routine. Dean headed to the bathroom with a half-filled gallon of bleach, gloves, and a very used sponge in hand. Meanwhile, Sam began stripping one of the beds, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake. Throwing pillows and bedding aside as he went, the pile of linen on the floor grew until all that was left on the bed was a mattress pad. Fatigue settled into Sam's bones as he grabbed clean bedding from his brother's duffel. Since early that morning, he had been awake when John announced they would be skipping town again. With less than a day to prepare, he and Dean had had to pack up and cut ties once again. They had only stayed in Martin for a month.
"So what's the plan after this?" asked Sam, slipping a pillowcase over the lumpy hotel pillow. "T.V. or shopping?"
"Probably shopping," replied Dean poking his head out of the bathroom. Resisting the urge to cough, Dean continued scrubbing bleach into the tiles' blackened grout around the sink.
"The toilet's gonna have to soak, I think. Some of this shit isn't gonna come off in a night," said Dean gesturing to the blackened grime caked on the toilet bowl. Splashing another glug of bleach in the bowl to marinate, Dean shucked off his gloves and washed his hands in the newly cleaned sink.
"I saw a gas station about a mile down the road whenever you're done." Tucking in the edges of a thin yellow blanket, Sam finished up the bed. "They might have something to do, too." Whined Sam, "No offense, Dean, but you're kinda boring."
"Oh, so I'm the boring one! That's rich coming from Mr. Slaughterhouse Saloon." scoffed Dean walking out of the bathroom. "Go empty your backpack; you gotta carry some of the groceries too." Ruffling Sam's hair as he passed, Dean headed towards his duffel bag. Sam began opening the dresser drawers for his and Dean's clothes one step behind him.
"At least I read stuff; all you do watch T.V. and flirt with random strangers," smirked Sam.
"Shut up, turd." snapped Dean. "It just so happens that I read stuff too."
"What, the T.V. guide?" laughed Sam.
Glaring at his brother, Dean tucked the last of his stuff into the lower drawer, leaving the middle for Sam. This little shit is going to be the end of me, though Dean. Sam, smug in his victory, dumped his stuff in his drawer in one tangled heap.
"Ya know, Sam. I do have something exciting to tell you about," remarked Dean. "It's this crazy thing called 'folding' I don't know if you've ever heard of it?"
"I'll have you know that I can wear my clothes just fine without folding them. And It's not my fault that I can't fold them. Being the smarter, more handsome brother takes a lot of work, and I just don't have any energy left to worry about socks." huffed Sam
"Good comeback, dingus. Now get your backpack. We gotta get walking before I starve to death."
Closing the drawer, Sam grabbed his backpack and dumped its contents onto the newly made bed. Empty bag slung over his shoulder, Sam set off after his brother.