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apocalypsosTitle: Down The Line From Nowhere
Author: Troll Princess
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: R
Word Count: 1,600 words
Spoilers: General season one spoilers
Characters/Pairings: Sam/Dean
Warnings: Incest between brothers, bad language
Disclaimer: I don't own the Winchester boys. Eric Kripke keeps them in a closet at his house, which explains a LOT.
Summary: Sam and Dean pass through Northeastern Pennsylvania and take it easy. Well, you know, their kind of "taking it easy."
Author's note: For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
spn_50states, Pennsylvania. Set in the Scranton area.
*****
Down The Line From Nowhere
*****
Dean doesn't know what the hell he expected. He was in New Orleans after the hurricane, though, so he blames that. Not that it was a fucking hurricane or anything, but it was still flooding. He usually didn't notice a lot on his way to the obituaries -- weird headlines and box scores, mostly -- but that, he'd noticed.
"Well, it's not a disaster area," he says. The rivers aren't even that high right now, but August had been hot as hell everywhere.
Sam just grins from the passenger seat, his legs sprawled all over, his long fingers flipping through the Times-Leader, the Citizens' Voice. They hadn't found anything before coming here, but they're just passing through and it never hurts to check.
"They've had a couple of months to clean up," Sam points out.
Dean's shoulders roll in an uneasy shrug. "Must not have been so bad, then."
He thinks of muddy lines to the tops of buildings, of graffiti and chaos and a few bloated bodies in the street.
Not that bad at all.
*
They go to Denny's mostly for the laugh. Seriously, what self-respecting paranormal group meets at Denny's?
The schedule Sam found on the Internet said the meeting starts at six at night, like a deranged prom committee gathering to discuss a formal dance theme. The leader's dressed like he raided a Hot Topic and demands his hamburger be brought to him as rare as possible. Just let it look at the oven in horror and bring it out bleeding.
The others call him Spike, and Dean nearly chokes on his soda.
"Come on, man, this is just mean," Sam whispers.
But he smiles when he says it, and when Dean waits until the waitress turns around to whip out a little bottle of vodka, Sam shakes his head and slides over his Sprite for Dean to spike.
"You know the rules, Sammy," Dean says. "Sip for all the bullshit, and chug for anything they get right."
"Yeah, yeah."
Spike. Oh, for Christ's sake.
*
Dean says something about it being the last home game of the season, but their last credit card's busted and finding a pool game in the area's hard as anything. It's just a farm team, nothing major, and the season hasn't been that good from what Sam picked up in the papers.
But things have been hectic lately and they could use the break, so Dean parks the Impala at the edge of the parking lot for the movie theater. They're not the only ones here, a few other people doing a bargain-basement Triple-A tailgate from the one place on the mountain where you can clearly see and hear into the stadium at almost the same level as the nosebleed seats.
The two of them lean against the hood of the Impala, passing a pair of binoculars back and forth.
"You know, I could go get us some drive-thru," Dean says.
Sam shakes his head and settles back on the hood. "That's okay. This is good."
A little girl eating a hot dog in the bed of the truck next to them catches his gaze and waves. Sam grins and waves back.
*
"Jesus Christ, Dean," Sam hisses.
He wraps his hand around the back of Dean's head so fucking tight that Dean half-expects Sam's fingers to fuse to his skin. Sam moans, low and gravelly like Dean's wringing the sound out of him.
Dean pulls off Sam's cock just long enough to say, "You trying to get them talking?", then sinks right back down again, lips sliding along Sam's flesh as his tongue dances along Sam's dick in just the right way to drive his little brother out of his fucking mind.
The grass in the graveyard is dampened from an earlier drizzle, and the knees of Dean's jeans soak through. He doesn't much care right now.
He can already hear the whispers, the shushing on the breeze.
Sam's hips buck, but Dean presses him back against the tree trunk with one hand. Maybe he shouldn't have dragged him back to the tree line for this, just blew him towards the front of the graveyard in the shadows of one of the tombstones or something. But the voices are like a dare, like something to taunt, and there's a thrill in trying to get them to speak that makes Dean that much harder. His other hand sneaks back to tease along Sam's opening, and Dean licks a long heated stripe along Sam's erection from root to head that has Sam crying out like he's dying.
"Quiet now," someone says from below ground.
"We're trying to rest," another voice calls out from a grave to Dean's left, soft and loud all at once.
"That's what I tried to tell him," Dean mutters.
He mouths at the dip of Sam's hipbone, hungry and wild, savoring the salty taste of his skin, and Sam's knees nearly buckle as a groan rips from the depths of his chest.
"Shhhhh," Sarah Kowalski warns, her voice muffled by the grass.
She died in 1896.
*
Over the weekend, the streets shut down for some kind of festival, food stands lining the sidewalks of Courthouse Square. They find an open spot on the grass by Linden Street, the air thick with the mingling scents of cooking meat and marinara sauce and fried dough. A polka band plays on a makeshift stage at the nearby intersection, and every few minutes Dean makes a face at the noise like he's about to pull out his Glock and make them stop.
Dean's on his third container of pierogies. Sam can't stop staring at the spot on Dean's T-shirt where a drop of butter stained the cotton.
"You gonna eat something or what, dude?"
Sam shrugs. "Eventually."
"Yeah, I'll bet." Dean shakes his head. "You can't tell me you couldn't go for a cheesesteak right --"
And Sam makes this noise, all strangled and stuff like he's holding back laughter, and Dean lifts his gaze from the styrofoam container in his hand. He can see it now, though, what Sam's staring at. The nightclub across the way with the longboat attached to the facade, the crew of skeletons clutching oars as they look down on the crowd below.
Dean makes a face and mutters, "Well, that's attractive," before stuffing another pierogie into his mouth.
*
There's this lookout spot off Route 6 that Dean stops at every time he passes through the area. Nothing fancy, just a rest stop with a garbage can and nothing else to advertise. It's out of the way, too, but it doesn't seem to matter at the moment. Hit the right spot around here and the view's gorgeous, rolls and ripples in the land like mottled green silk wadded up and thrown to the ground. Give it a few weeks and it'll go red, orange and gold, the leaves on fire and not all at the same time. But until then, it's not bad.
"Hell of a makeout spot," Sam says.
Dean wasn't even thinking it, not about the isolation of it, not about how it is seeing ten miles of amazing in either direction.
Kid's got a point, though.
Sam tugs at Dean's zipper, nibbles along the curve of his ear and says, "Tell me if the view gets any better," before lowering his head.
And oh, does it ever. You know, when Dean can still keep his eyes open.
*
"We could stay until Halloween, just in case."
Sam looks up from the gas can, nearly regretting it when some of it almost gets on his sneakers. "Dean, we are not waiting around for two months for some half-assed seance that never works."
"I'm just saying."
Dean isn't even doing what he's supposed to be doing, spreading more gasoline on the other side of the building and double-checking to make sure no one's watching. The place gets a lot of visitors, they hear, curious teenagers with nothing better to do on a Friday night. The last thing they need for this is an audience.
"'Come to the Houdini Museum and learn about Houdini's exploits in Scranton.'" Dean lets loose with this derisive snort and crumples up the pamphlet, tossing it onto one of the places on the ground where gasoline's been splashed. "I didn't even know it was possible to have 'exploits' in Scranton."
"It's not," Sam mutters, then lifts a matchbook. "Care to do the honors?"
Dean smiles and takes it. "You know it," he says.
He turns to light one, facing the rows of rusted hospital beds. It takes him a second to notice the man lying on one of them, a straitjacket hanging loosely from his frame. The kids who come here like to play tricks, leave mannequins in the beds to scare the hell out of their friends. This isn't a mannequin.
Dean frowns, gives the bed a good kick. The ghost disappears like smoke on the breeze.
"I hate fucking asylums," he says.
Sam glares at the empty spot where the spirit had been. "Yeah, you and me both."
Author: Troll Princess
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: R
Word Count: 1,600 words
Spoilers: General season one spoilers
Characters/Pairings: Sam/Dean
Warnings: Incest between brothers, bad language
Disclaimer: I don't own the Winchester boys. Eric Kripke keeps them in a closet at his house, which explains a LOT.
Summary: Sam and Dean pass through Northeastern Pennsylvania and take it easy. Well, you know, their kind of "taking it easy."
Author's note: For
spn_50states, Pennsylvania. Set in the Scranton area.Down The Line From Nowhere
*****
Dean doesn't know what the hell he expected. He was in New Orleans after the hurricane, though, so he blames that. Not that it was a fucking hurricane or anything, but it was still flooding. He usually didn't notice a lot on his way to the obituaries -- weird headlines and box scores, mostly -- but that, he'd noticed.
"Well, it's not a disaster area," he says. The rivers aren't even that high right now, but August had been hot as hell everywhere.
Sam just grins from the passenger seat, his legs sprawled all over, his long fingers flipping through the Times-Leader, the Citizens' Voice. They hadn't found anything before coming here, but they're just passing through and it never hurts to check.
"They've had a couple of months to clean up," Sam points out.
Dean's shoulders roll in an uneasy shrug. "Must not have been so bad, then."
He thinks of muddy lines to the tops of buildings, of graffiti and chaos and a few bloated bodies in the street.
Not that bad at all.
They go to Denny's mostly for the laugh. Seriously, what self-respecting paranormal group meets at Denny's?
The schedule Sam found on the Internet said the meeting starts at six at night, like a deranged prom committee gathering to discuss a formal dance theme. The leader's dressed like he raided a Hot Topic and demands his hamburger be brought to him as rare as possible. Just let it look at the oven in horror and bring it out bleeding.
The others call him Spike, and Dean nearly chokes on his soda.
"Come on, man, this is just mean," Sam whispers.
But he smiles when he says it, and when Dean waits until the waitress turns around to whip out a little bottle of vodka, Sam shakes his head and slides over his Sprite for Dean to spike.
"You know the rules, Sammy," Dean says. "Sip for all the bullshit, and chug for anything they get right."
"Yeah, yeah."
Spike. Oh, for Christ's sake.
Dean says something about it being the last home game of the season, but their last credit card's busted and finding a pool game in the area's hard as anything. It's just a farm team, nothing major, and the season hasn't been that good from what Sam picked up in the papers.
But things have been hectic lately and they could use the break, so Dean parks the Impala at the edge of the parking lot for the movie theater. They're not the only ones here, a few other people doing a bargain-basement Triple-A tailgate from the one place on the mountain where you can clearly see and hear into the stadium at almost the same level as the nosebleed seats.
The two of them lean against the hood of the Impala, passing a pair of binoculars back and forth.
"You know, I could go get us some drive-thru," Dean says.
Sam shakes his head and settles back on the hood. "That's okay. This is good."
A little girl eating a hot dog in the bed of the truck next to them catches his gaze and waves. Sam grins and waves back.
"Jesus Christ, Dean," Sam hisses.
He wraps his hand around the back of Dean's head so fucking tight that Dean half-expects Sam's fingers to fuse to his skin. Sam moans, low and gravelly like Dean's wringing the sound out of him.
Dean pulls off Sam's cock just long enough to say, "You trying to get them talking?", then sinks right back down again, lips sliding along Sam's flesh as his tongue dances along Sam's dick in just the right way to drive his little brother out of his fucking mind.
The grass in the graveyard is dampened from an earlier drizzle, and the knees of Dean's jeans soak through. He doesn't much care right now.
He can already hear the whispers, the shushing on the breeze.
Sam's hips buck, but Dean presses him back against the tree trunk with one hand. Maybe he shouldn't have dragged him back to the tree line for this, just blew him towards the front of the graveyard in the shadows of one of the tombstones or something. But the voices are like a dare, like something to taunt, and there's a thrill in trying to get them to speak that makes Dean that much harder. His other hand sneaks back to tease along Sam's opening, and Dean licks a long heated stripe along Sam's erection from root to head that has Sam crying out like he's dying.
"Quiet now," someone says from below ground.
"We're trying to rest," another voice calls out from a grave to Dean's left, soft and loud all at once.
"That's what I tried to tell him," Dean mutters.
He mouths at the dip of Sam's hipbone, hungry and wild, savoring the salty taste of his skin, and Sam's knees nearly buckle as a groan rips from the depths of his chest.
"Shhhhh," Sarah Kowalski warns, her voice muffled by the grass.
She died in 1896.
Over the weekend, the streets shut down for some kind of festival, food stands lining the sidewalks of Courthouse Square. They find an open spot on the grass by Linden Street, the air thick with the mingling scents of cooking meat and marinara sauce and fried dough. A polka band plays on a makeshift stage at the nearby intersection, and every few minutes Dean makes a face at the noise like he's about to pull out his Glock and make them stop.
Dean's on his third container of pierogies. Sam can't stop staring at the spot on Dean's T-shirt where a drop of butter stained the cotton.
"You gonna eat something or what, dude?"
Sam shrugs. "Eventually."
"Yeah, I'll bet." Dean shakes his head. "You can't tell me you couldn't go for a cheesesteak right --"
And Sam makes this noise, all strangled and stuff like he's holding back laughter, and Dean lifts his gaze from the styrofoam container in his hand. He can see it now, though, what Sam's staring at. The nightclub across the way with the longboat attached to the facade, the crew of skeletons clutching oars as they look down on the crowd below.
Dean makes a face and mutters, "Well, that's attractive," before stuffing another pierogie into his mouth.
There's this lookout spot off Route 6 that Dean stops at every time he passes through the area. Nothing fancy, just a rest stop with a garbage can and nothing else to advertise. It's out of the way, too, but it doesn't seem to matter at the moment. Hit the right spot around here and the view's gorgeous, rolls and ripples in the land like mottled green silk wadded up and thrown to the ground. Give it a few weeks and it'll go red, orange and gold, the leaves on fire and not all at the same time. But until then, it's not bad.
"Hell of a makeout spot," Sam says.
Dean wasn't even thinking it, not about the isolation of it, not about how it is seeing ten miles of amazing in either direction.
Kid's got a point, though.
Sam tugs at Dean's zipper, nibbles along the curve of his ear and says, "Tell me if the view gets any better," before lowering his head.
And oh, does it ever. You know, when Dean can still keep his eyes open.
"We could stay until Halloween, just in case."
Sam looks up from the gas can, nearly regretting it when some of it almost gets on his sneakers. "Dean, we are not waiting around for two months for some half-assed seance that never works."
"I'm just saying."
Dean isn't even doing what he's supposed to be doing, spreading more gasoline on the other side of the building and double-checking to make sure no one's watching. The place gets a lot of visitors, they hear, curious teenagers with nothing better to do on a Friday night. The last thing they need for this is an audience.
"'Come to the Houdini Museum and learn about Houdini's exploits in Scranton.'" Dean lets loose with this derisive snort and crumples up the pamphlet, tossing it onto one of the places on the ground where gasoline's been splashed. "I didn't even know it was possible to have 'exploits' in Scranton."
"It's not," Sam mutters, then lifts a matchbook. "Care to do the honors?"
Dean smiles and takes it. "You know it," he says.
He turns to light one, facing the rows of rusted hospital beds. It takes him a second to notice the man lying on one of them, a straitjacket hanging loosely from his frame. The kids who come here like to play tricks, leave mannequins in the beds to scare the hell out of their friends. This isn't a mannequin.
Dean frowns, gives the bed a good kick. The ghost disappears like smoke on the breeze.
"I hate fucking asylums," he says.
Sam glares at the empty spot where the spirit had been. "Yeah, you and me both."
