britomart_is (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
britomart_is) wrote2010-07-06 08:26 pm
britomart_is) wrote2010-07-06 08:26 pm
Entry tags:
Fic: Dictionary for a Dead Language; Epilogue
Epilogue.
There are two stocky, no-nonsense women drinking antique Coronas in the booth by the door when the kid walks in, making this officially their busiest night since opening.
"Dude," Dean says. "We're cool. We're like a happening spot. We're legitimate business owners."
Sam rolls his eyes and sips from a can of Tab they found in the back closet next to a bag of pork rinds with a pull-date from 1982. "Pillars of the community. Sure they'll give us the key to the city as soon as they're through with the paperwork." Dean punches Sam in the arm. Sam grins till his cheeks hurt.
The young man is standing in front of the bar, staring at Sam. Dean doesn't like it when people stare at Sam. Sam watches Dean's hand casually drifting to rest under the bar where the shotgun is. "I'd ask you for ID," Dean says mildly, "but I'm pretty sure you were a glimmer in the long-haul trucker's eye the last time anyone was issuing government ID. I can hook you up with a grape Fanta. It's a 1995, good vintage."
Sam wishes Dean wouldn't insult people's parentage, particularly since most people's parents are dead these days.
The kid visibly shakes his head as he snaps out of it. "Sorry. I came because I heard a rumor. Wow."
Dean stiffens. He doesn't like it when people hear whispers and come to try to shoot Sam in the back when he turns around to pour their drinks, either. Sam watches Dean's hand curling tighter around the shotgun and jostles him warningly with a knee. The kid's young, swimming in a coat three sizes too big for him, oughta be at some college party, or dragging all his laundry home over break to use his parents' washer. Sam leans over the bar, tries to look non-terrifying. "What can we help you with?"
"Actually, I've got something for you." When the kid reaches into his coat pocket, Sam's afraid Dean'll shoot him, but the kid produces a harmless scrap of paper. A photo. He hands it to Sam. "I thought you'd want this back."
By the time Sam breaks out of his trance, the kid's gone.
"What is it?" Dean asks suspiciously.
"I don't know," Sam says, handing the snapshot over. "I don't remember it."
Sam watches Dean take in the photo, bites his lip at the softening of Dean's facial expression. Dean looks up suddenly. "Where'd that guy get this?"
Sam shrugs. "Don't know. Glad he gave it back. I like it." Sam takes the picture back, lovingly straightening its dogeared edges. "We look happy."
Dean wraps his arms around Sam's waist from behind as Sam turns to face the back of the bar. "We're happy now."
Sam smiles broadly as he tucks the snapshot into the frame of the mirror that spans the wall behind dusty whiskey bottles. "There."
In the photograph, a garish monument looms with styrofoam solemnity in a grassy field. A man, young and momentarily untroubled, smiles bashfully. There's a sun in the sky, and a bird perched on the Welcome to Foamhenge sign. And there are two brothers, together.
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