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There's nothing to tell them when to stop. They do, or they don't. They keep going, or they don't.
There's a burning body behind them, smoldering now under salt.
Sam wasn't sure what it was exactly, and Dean didn't care before he shot it, since it attacked Sam, had killed four other people.
It had teeth, it had claws, it had evil on its mind. That was enough for Dean and there wasn't enough time for zoology, so it was enough for Sam too, once he got a good look at it, the holes from Dean's bullets bleeding out on the ground. Before they set a match to it and doused the flames with salt.
Then they drove, getting the hell out of dodge and putting what would be the rising sun ahead of them. It's night, it's pitch black, and Dean drove with single-minded purpose, and the headlights didn't do anything, just disappeared into the dark.
So when the neon appeared, after the tiny town that rose and fell with the turn in the road, after the single stoplight flashing red like what you see if you push your hands against your eyes, and they felt it, the beat of the light like a hammer in the dark, so when the neon appeared, Dean stopped.
The marquee sign has crooked letters and missing letters and two dollar pitchers for sale. Walking up to the door, Sam scuffs over the fallen letters, on the ground by the pole. He scoops them up, tries spelling things before they get inside, but he's tired, and so's Dean, even though he says, Look for a W, we should steal the W.
Now they're at a booth in the corner. It's late enough to be a blue hour, the jukebox playing something slow and brokenhearted, not many people left in the bar.
Dean asks for coffee and Sam says, Double that, wouldja please, and the waitress eyes them for a minute and says, Sure.
The coffee comes in chipped mismatched mugs and that seems fitting in the blue smoky hour.
Alcohol's for oblivion, and they're already living it right now, skin and brains stretched thin, so they don't need the liquor. Sam wraps his hands around his mug, the warmth cutting clean into his palms and Dean sighs, patting his pockets.
Smashed pack of cigarettes and he taps one out, shifts his leg out from under the table to strike the lighter against his jeans, snap and flare of fire.
He lights up, takes a draw and Sam waves a hand as Dean pushes the smoke out, up and away from Sam, before he passes the cigarette over.
Sam holds it, thumb sliding over the filter, unconscious habit he's always had when he smokes, then he takes his own drag.
Dean's jacket shrugs away and his shirt rides up as he leans in the booth, snagging the ashtray, and sliding it over, brown plastic with a crack in the side. He sips his coffee, tilts the mug on the table before motioning gimme for the cigarette.
They sit and smoke, drink their coffee in slow sips while the song ends and the jukebox clicks and another song starts, crying guitars and a midnight-walking beat.
They trade the cigarette back and forth. Sam only smokes when Dean does, and Dean only smokes to stay awake. They have holes in their jeans, but not in their pockets. So they like to share, don't mind it really, they share blood and jawlines and good aim and buying a pack for the two of them saves them money because with them, money runs like water and is as scarce as yellow-cake uranium.
The cigarette is gone before the coffee, but they're still in that blue hour which means their bones are tired and their blackout tendencies are closer to the surface, so Sam says, Dean, hey Dean, cigarette moving with his mouth and Dean nods, one hand on his coffee cup.
He pulls out the smashed pack, finds another cigarette and Sam takes the cigarette from his mouth, taps off the ash and with the glowing end between them, they reach and light the new one.
Rubbing the ash into the wood with his thumb, Sam smokes the old one down to the filter, Dean gets the new one going and they like the smell of the smoke, so different from burning bodies, burning wood and salt and accelerant.
The waitress swings by, her eyes confused when Dean asks for a refill and Sam pushes his mug towards her too, says again, Wouldja please. When she comes back with their coffee, she hovers for a minute, like she isn't sure, since they don't want liquor or company. She leaves the bill, face-down with a heart in black ink on the back.
A drunk, who's been propping up the bar since they came in, mumbles something and weaves his shaky way to the door. Dean's eyes follow him through the smoke at their booth and Sam turns a little to watch. Once the drunk's gone through the door, push of air, Sam turns back to Dean and takes the cigarette from where it's burning between his brother's lips.
They sit facing each other because even though they spend most of their life at each other's elbows and shoulders, this way they can see the exits.
The song ends and the jukebox clicks clicks clicks but no one's fed it, so there's nothing but the bartender clinking glasses and the sound of Dean's mug when he sets it down, gets the cigarette from Sam and works on his smoke rings.
Sam's humming under his breath, and Dean's leaning on his hand, smearing spilt coffee along the wood grain, ashes dropping into the liquid. He mixes the ash in the coffee as Sam slides their fingers together and comes away with the cigarette.
Dean says, Think we should look for a motel?
Sam stares into his cup, says, I'm good. You?
I'm good.
They both have shadows under their eyes and two days of stubble on their jaws and the way they smoke, their fingertips should be stained with nicotine, but there's just blood under their fingernails.
Tipping his head back, Sam looks at the ceiling, closes his eyes and blows smoke into the air, reaching out blindly and Dean catches his wrist, fingers curling tight. He doesn't let go once he's got the cigarette, just smokes it to the end and crushes it in the ashtray.
So, we keep going, Sam says, and Dean says, Yeah.
You driving?
What a dumb question, Sammy. It's my car, I drive.
C'mon, Dean.
Sam smiles and it's in his eyes even though he's tired and Dean
smiles back because he can't look at Sam like that and not smile
back. Elbow on the table and Sam says, Wrestle you for it.
You're on.
They push the mugs and ashtray out of the way. Smack of hands, then they're arm-wrestling, gritted teeth and stop cheating, motherfucker, you always cheat, I never cheat, you pansy-ass, what happened, you aren't strong enough, c'mon.
Sam wins, hard wrench of their arms and the cups rattle as he laughs and Dean curses. He makes a show of rubbing his wrist and Sam scoots his coffee back in front of him, then pauses and pushes Dean's too.
Over the edge of his cup, Sam raises his eyebrows and Dean flips him off, so Sam flips Dean off too, double, both hands.
Dregs of coffee and the bartender saying, We're closing up, boys, need anything else, the waitress leaning against the bar with a rag in her hands and Dean shakes his head, says, Nah, we'll be on our way.
He gets out his wallet, fishes about for some cash and Sam's got some change in his pocket, sets it down with the bills and a nickel rolls a ways before Dean catches it.
They're elbows and shoulders out the door and the neon's bright out under the waning moon.
Dean is at the driver's side before Sam says, Oh hell no, you lost, pushing him against the car with a smirk and the flat of his hand. Dean grumbles, Oh fuck you, sparky. Fine, but you don't break her, got it?
Yeah, yeah, Dean, I know. Won't hurt your baby.
Dean sounds like cigarettes and Sam sounds like black coffee and there's roadside dust on their boots.
The night's warm, so they crack the windows as Dean fumbles for another cigarette, last in the pack, Sammy, and Sam shrugs, gets them out on the road again, the stoplight in their rearview mirror.
The car speeds up as there's a flash from the lighter. All Sam can see is Dean's eyes and the red tip of the cigarette where his mouth is and all Dean can see is Sam's smile and the shadows from his hair.
Sam drives, loose behind the wheel, and Dean turns up the radio, passes the cigarette to Sam. They flick ash out the windows and drive with the moon behind them.
There's nothing but fields and fence posts, dips in the road with population signs, blink-and-you'll-miss-them towns, three maybe four and then the cigarette's gone and Dean sighs.
That might be a sign, maybe not, probably not but next town and Sam says, Keep going?
Dean says, We can stop. If you want.
We good on money?
Dean nods, tosses the cigarette butt out the window.
And Sam nods too.
There's two motels within their sight, within their price range and they park across the road, considering. Until Dean picks one, based on the name and the manager's car parked out front, something old and busted-looking, but it's Detroit steel, might've given his baby a run for her money back in their day.
The clerk is bored, wants to talk attitude, but the kid has never been tired down to his belly, that sort of tired that pushes through to awake, like living on coffee and cigarettes for more than a day, like more than insomnia and less than waking up in a coffin, so Sam just curls his lip and snatches the key from him.
Dean claps him on the shoulder, says, Let's get you some sleep.
Sam doesn't shrug him off and Dean leaves his hand there, like they're leading each other out to the car.
They cart stuff into the room, won't leave it out in the car even if the sky is lightening in the west because Dean's neurotic that way and Sam's tired enough to humor him.
It's a king bed and a bed is a bed is a bed, they don't question it because sometimes it's blowing through town, skipping the motel because money's low and the cards are hot and it's sleeping in the car, pulling out sleeping bags, curling up on the ground, and it's never about luck, just a wad of cash or not, Francis E. Wolowitz on plastic or not. A bad spring or a sagging mattress is nothing.
It's a king bed and Sam laughs as Dean flops back and says, Mine, all mine.
Nice try, jerk. Too bad that doesn't work.
It should. Like calling shotgun.
Sam shakes his head and Dean grins as he toes off his boots, sits up to shrug off his jacket. The empty cellophane pack falls to the carpet and Sam picks it up, throws it away as he heads to the bathroom. They'll buy more later, only buy one pack at a time, at the next gas station or convenience store as they load up on sodas and candy and twinkies and heat-lamp hotdogs and Dean wears his sunglasses, says gimme a pack.
They move around, bumping into things in the unfamiliar motel room, bumping into each other, kicking off jeans and Sam sighs as he slips into a clean t-shirt. They're elbows and shoulders in the bathroom, brushing the smoke and coffee out of their mouths and Sam sticks his tongue out at Dean and Dean pushes him into the doorjamb as they both try to leave.
The sun's just about up as they creep into bed, like they've been left in their bare bones. Sam's hot and Dean's cold, so the blankets end up shoved onto Dean's side and the sheet ends up twisted to Sam's side.
Dean is on his stomach and Sam oofs when he slings an arm over Sam's belly, hand smacking him in the chest. And Sam wriggles, gets his hand underneath Dean, palm curled around his neck, fingertips on his pulse.
They're still awake and they're reaching for sleep and the curtains mostly block out the sun.
Dean mumbles something about blacking out the windows and Sam squeezes his neck, but the sunlight is still too weak, not cutting enough to break behind their eyelids.
Then Sam pulls the sheet up over their heads and they shift around to fit together.
The world wakes up from its dreams and nightmares, goes on without them, and people start drinking coffee and looking for their cigarettes, and somewhere there's something with long teeth and evil on its mind, but it'll wait until dark.
Sam says, Dean.
Dean says, Go to sleep, Sammy.
Okay. You first.
The blankets are slipping sideways. The sheet is faded blue with white bleach spots. They fall asleep under it and they don't dream of anything.