Title: Speed Limit
Rating: PG - Gen
Disclaimers: SPN & characters are owned by their various creators.
Summary: Dean gets busted in a one horse town for speeding.
"Don't I get a phone call pal?"
"If you got a quarter, you go right on ahead."
Quarters. Dean eyed the ancient black pay phone that sat on the wall. That was the problem with these back woods country police stations. Too much sense of propriety.
His gaze shifted ruefully to the small pile of his belongings that the grizzled old cop had taken from his person. Keys, wallet with a various ID, Swiss army pocket knife, his zippo... his cell phone. He knew it wouldn't pick up a signal around here anyway but the sight of it through a row of badly painted steel bars was aggravating. Getting pulled over speeding wasn't an uncommon thing but he'd never been hauled in before. That was another thing about these bumps in the road precincts, they tended to get a little cow boy whenever they got any action. Dean shifted his hand cuffed wrists behind him and tried to get a little more comfortable on the hard metal bench that ran against the cell wall.
The old cop settled behind his desk, the room pleasantly lit with the warm glow of the lamp that sat on it. With the dark wood paneled walls and red carpet, it felt more like being in someone's living room instead of the clink. In fact, hand cuffs and locked cages aside, it was almost charming.
He really hated it when cops started calling you son. Mostly because it meant something really bad was about to come next.
"I bet you're wondering why you're sitting in there and not on your way out of town with a nice little fine."
"It'd crossed my mind." Dean admitted while sagging down into his seat dejectedly.
"I ran your plate down with county and it seems that whoever owns that car has about 4 years of backed up and unpaid tickets from about every state on the map."
Dean considered the implications of what sounded fairly benign. What's a few parking tickets? It couldn't be that bad--
"Looks like you owe the great state of Missouri alone a number with about three zeros behind it."
"Huh." Dean said. It would figure he'd end up handcuffed and sitting in a holding cell for not doing the right paper work. He wondered how long it would take before this old guy got into the Chevy's trunk and turned that charge into something a bit more slightly complicated.
"Gotta keep you right here for the state boys to come get ya." He sighed, snapping his manila folder shut and giving him a long hard look.
Dean imagined winding the tacky Mallard themed clock on the wall right back to that moment when he lost sight of the odometer while getting too involved with the end of Guns-n-Roses 'Paradise City'. Come to think of it, he'd been pulled over at least almost five times to that particular guitar solo... Sam was going to be wondering what the hell happened to him. Hell, Dean was half wondering that himself. He tipped his head back against the wall. He was so unbelievably tired.
The look the cop was regarding him with turned into something that made Dean for no reason he could name, slightly nervous. The gaze became less hard, and shifted into something much more curious and strangely removed from the roles life had currently placed them in.
"You've been on the road a while." The older man stated as he leaned back into his squeaky cracked leather chair. "Can tell."
Dean blinked up at him.
"You eat today son?"
The change in the old cop's tone made Dean look back down at his boots. He felt the vague pains that he had been ignoring down in his belly and shrugged.
The cop slid open his desk drawer and pulled out a brown paper bag. "Wife made meatloaf last week, been eatin' sandwiches ever since."
Dean felt his hunger turn into actual pain, his gaze going back uncertainly to the gray haired officer.
"I tell you after a time..." The guy stiffly stood and stretched, fishing out his keys from his belt. "I've done lost the taste for them."
That was the really nice thing about these podunk blips on the map. They didn't always follow and adhere to every rule if you didn't seem like a raving lunatic.
Dean ate, much too fast than he knew was polite, hands gratefully uncuffed and cage door shut without him in it. After just one assurance that he wasn't going to try any funny business the old guy had let him right out so he could have dinner seated on the sagging loud plaid couch with the snowy TV playing some game show. He'd had cold meatloaf before but this stuff was better than anything he'd ever tasted. Onions and green peppers, glazed with brown sugared tomato sauce and set right between two crusty pieces of white sourdough bread. He had a sneaking suspicion that the aging officer knew just how good it was even if you had been forced to have nothing but for no matter how many days.
A plaid thermos that matched the sofa was lifted to pour him another cup of coffee.
"Coffee maker been broke since last week." The cop explained as he screwed the lid back on.
"I can take a look at it if you'd like." Dean said absently. "Probably the coil."
The cop sat back and nodded as he flipped through a stack of printouts of tickets from who knew how many states. "So, what is it that you do?"
Dean paused before shoving the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth. "Just help people out."
The man opposite him considered him thoughtfully before nodding again.
Dean wondered if the end of his dinner meant it was back into handcuffs and the cell for him. Before he could wonder further the sound of the door chimed. A small bell hung over the creaking wooden frame, like some small shop instead of a police station.
The old guy laboriously stood up, straightening his wrinkled beige uniform shirt and adjusting his badge to greet the arrival.
The state police had finally made their appearance.
Stepping into the room, the officer politely removed his broad rimmed Trooper hat, he was a picture of friendly but grim professionalism.
"Officer Heidegger, here for the tag out on Route 30."
Dean had to look down at the floor to avoid smiling and maybe even laughing in relief at his brother tricked out in full State Police gear. He wondered how Sam had managed to score it all within the scant hours between the buzz of his pick up on the police band radio. From the motel to here, Sammy must have beat the all time Winchester bullshit record.
Honestly, he didn't really care as long as he was seeing the end of this place from the rear view of the Impala and not shackled in a windowless paddywagon headed for a federal lock down. Moved roughly to the wall, he was handcuffed once again, only this time by his extremely irritated brother. The metal cinched a little too tightly, painfully sharp and hard around his wrists. He felt the muscles in his jaw twitch with keeping back the words he had to stop behind clenched teeth. But he kept it quiet. Soon this place would be just another story over some beer in a state far away.
Sam ushered him unkindly towards the door.
"Thanks for the grub." Dean said over his shoulder.
The cop was behind his desk, feet rested with ankles crossed up on it. He looked at him with something like amusement in his cloudy blue eyes, the gaze briefly flickering to Sam and his very clean and cut uniform. The half hidden badge. The clutter of release forms that Sam had barely looked at before shoving them up under his arm.
"You take care."
Dean looked back one more time while Sam impatiently opened the door for him.