roadtripping ficlet thing

[sinnabon]

Somewhere between the Neveda/Utah border, Paradise City by Guns n Roses is playing through the Impala’s speakers, Sam and Dean have their respective windows rolled down as the interstate wind rushes through the car, tossing everyone’s hair around.

Dean has a hand on the edge of Baby’s roof, tapping out the beat of the song, Sam has his eyes on his phone, reading an ebook, and Jack’s laid down in the back seat, bare feet tapping against the roof of the car, as his head bobs to one side and the other, hair flopped over the leather of the seats, singing out the chorus.

“Hey, Axl Rose, what’d I say about feet in the car?” Booms Dean’s voice over the roar of wind, “Socks. Now.”

“Sorry, Dean.”

Feet retracted, and there’s a moment where there’s no trace of the kid in the rearview mirror.

“Uh huh, you’re gonna be.”

While Jack sits up and digs around the back for his discarded socks, Sam lifts a brow and shoots a sidelong look to his brother. “Didn’t you used to do the same thing when Dad was driving?”

Dean snorts.

“Yeah, and Dad said he’d take a machete to my toes, so kid’s gettin’ off cheap.”

An eye roll from Sam, a smirk from Dean, and Jack’s socked feet lay flat against the seat, knees poking up over the edge of the backrest in front of him, the only evidence of the kid in the mirror.



They entered Wyoming about thirty minutes back, with a case waiting for them in another hour’s drive, and Sam’s scrolling through news sites on his laptop, Jack’s chin on the backrest next to his shoulder as he watches. Heart missing, so we’re thinking werewolf, and what kills werewolves, Jack? Silver.

The song changes and Dean takes the next pop quiz question.

“Hey, kid. You know this one, right?”

“Creedence Clearwater Revival.” Jack reports proudly, goofy smile wide on his lips, and Dean gives him a nod over his shoulder.

“Atta boy.”




Halfway through Colorado, riding the win on their last case, Jack’s arm shoots out from the backseat, pointing at something past the hood of the Impala and out in the fields they’re passing.

“What’s that?”

“A cow.” Dean answers, shooting an offended eye at the skinny hand in his personal space. “Hands in the back.”

“Not the cow. That.”

A more emphatic point, as clearly Dean didn’t get it the first time. He actually takes the second to look, now, seeing the construct in question.

“An oil pump. Hands, Jack.” Jack wins a smack to his wrist and finally gets the picture, pulling his arm back.

“Texas Tea…” He murmurs, as if mystified.

“Except we’re not in Texas.” A correction from Sam, “It’s Colorado Tea.”

Jack’s nodding, soaking up that new piece of information as he watches the oil pump go by through the passenger window, and then out the back one. After a second, he migrates back over to his perch with arms folded over the edge of the front seat.

“Does Colorado Tea taste better?”

Silence.

A look exchanged between the brothers.

Sam tries first, “Jack—”

But Dean interrupts.

“I swear, if I catch him trying to chug petroleum, I’m not even saying anything. Just gonna let natural selection do its thing.”

“No you won’t,” Sam grumbles, before turning back to look at Jack over his shoulder. “What Dean meant to say is it’s a metaphor. Don’t drink oil.”

"Oh. Okay. I get it."

He doesn't get it.




It's 3am when they're finally home, pulling into the garage of the bunker in Lebanon, Kansas, with Castiel waiting at the door that leads inside like a parent ready to make a comment about curfew. He doesn't. Instead, he nods his head in welcome when the brothers wearily pull themselves from the car, stretching out legs and backs. Dean jerks a thumb over his shoulder, pointing to the backseat of the car.

"Jack's gonna need an assist. He konked out somewhere between Colby and Norton."

Sam leans to the side as he works out his spine, peering through the back window to see the lump of teenager curled up against the far door, a small smile touching the man's lips.

Castiel sets to work easing the door open so he can slip an arm in and brace the boy to make sure he doesn't go tumbling out. It's gentle enough Jack barely even stirs, only grumbles a little and curls into Castiel's shoulder once he hoists him up into his arms.

"How was your hunt?” The angel asks him as he squints against the bright overhead lights of the garage before tucking his face down against Castiel’s shoulder again, hiding from it.

“Good. We got the bad guys.”

“Did you learn anything?” Through the door they go, Dean first, Cas and Jack after while Sam holds it open and watches to make sure Jack’s knees don’t hit the frame.

“Mhhm.”

A beat, while Jack’s sleepy mind tries to pull up the most valuable bit of information he gained on the trip. All that comes to him is: “Don’t drink tea in Colorado.”