Rated: PG - Gen
Spoilers: General (for all aired episodes)
Disclaimers: SPN & characters are owned by their various creators.
Summary: Car breaks down. Sam kinda freaks. Dean is zen.
Sam never thought he'd actually be that guy that would be cursing incoherently on a road side while kicking a tire but there was a first time for everything.
He hopped and hissed for several seconds, the Impala's solid rubber, even when deflated, was stubbornly unforgiving. It felt more than good to spread his arms wide and shout a stream of obscenities that he usually would think twice about repeating off a written page. However, his momentary feeling of blissful venting was tempered by his brother's low chuckle behind him.
"Well, there's not much room left in the trunk for a freakin' spare Sam, what do you want me to do?"
"I can't even get a signal..." Sam grumbled, stabbing the numbers on his phone for the umpteenth time.
"Show some thigh or somethin'," Dean suggested, leaning down to take a good look at the front drivers side wheel that was sagging up into the rim. "Maybe you can score us a lift to the nearest town."
"What town Dean?" Sam growled, shoving his phone back into his jacket pocket. "We are off the map in ten different directions."
Dean straightened and leaned back to take in the Southwest twilight. "All ten huh?"
Sam watched his brother while nervously chewing on his lower lip. There was something sometimes about these quiet stops that got to him. The empty and the silence in these rarely visited moments of road did something that made him find it hard to breathe. The only thing that made it scenery and not his sentence was the low rumble idle of the car. Knowing they couldn't just go made him anxious and unsettled. It made him feel like a road sign, with chipped paint and bullet holes, made to be glanced at as you passed at 95 miles per hour, left far far behind and forgotten as soon as it left your headlights.
"Well..." Dean sighed, nodding towards the car and scrub brush. There was nothing but canyon, rock and the tall and squat figures of saguaro cactus all the way to the horizon. The deep burnt red and gold of the land fading to purple black as it met the painted desert sky.
"Well, what?" Sam asked impatiently.
"I'm going to make s'mores."
Sam blinked at his older brother. "What?"
"Hey Sam, do you remember when dad took us camping up by that state park in Oregon?" Dean smiled over his shoulder as he hefted up the trunk lid.
"First of all," Sam rubbed at a spot between his eyes. "Dad was looking for a yeti, second of all, sleeping in the car in January doesn't qualify as camping, third of--"
"We stayed up almost every night, remember?"
Sam paused. He did remember. It had rained every morning, drumming on the metal top and leaving the car windows fogged and opaque. He remembered Dean with that dented crappy police flashlight making up stupid ghost stories that only made them both laugh. He remembered boiling water over their portable gas stove to make even crappier Marconi and cheese with chopped up hot-dogs. But most of all, he remembered the smell and sound of the wood crackling in the fire all through the night as they sat as close as they could, their damp jeans and sneakers steaming in its bright hot glow.
Without answering, he looked around. There was plenty around here to build a fire.
Sam sighed and shook his head, breathing a small laugh through the hands he had over his face. He let his unease go like a balloon. He didn't even take the pleasure in watching it recede and vanish up into the air. Sam was never sure if Dean meant to or not, but he could always do that. Make anything feel as comfortable as whatever it was that was home. Your bed. Your worn blankets. A big old dog that was always happy as hell to see you. Some ancient chair that had all your dents in it. If you never had those constants, whatever it was that was left, was always right there, easy and ready in his brother's eyes.
Dean shook a tattered grocery bag. "We got a few Mars bars, we got crackers and thanks to me, we even have three marshmallows."
Sam eyed the box of saltines Dean was proudly holding. "Sounds um, what's the word I'm looking for ... oh yeah, it rhymes with 'fucking disgusting.'"
"More for me dude."
"Just make mine with wonder bread."
"Yer weird." Dean distractedly deemed him, flipping and sparking his zippo idly as he looked around for a good spot. "Over there."
Sam zipped up his jacket with the night's swift coming chill and bent down to start gathering up fallen shrub branches and brittle grass.
"Once you get that started, we'll sing a few rounds of kumbaya." Dean announced while sorting through bottles of water, cans of spreadable meat and a sadly smushed bag of sliced bread. "Whatever the hell kumbaya means anyway..."
"It means 'Come by here', it's a Gullah spiritual. They were Africans on the southern coast that lived on the Sea Islands of--"
"Oh my God, nevermind."
Sam smirked and caught the zippo his brother tossed him.