Due to the wonderfully kind and awesome responses from you guys, here is Part #1 of my fic, ‘Fish & Chips’. This fic occurs in a sort of alternate timeline, and I really wanted to leave it to the reader’s imagination as far as what year it’s set in. Some things they know, some they don’t; some friends they have, some they haven’t lost yet. Oof. That hurts to say. (But no spoilers. ;)) I’ll be posting it in increments, every other day or so. Enjoy! [tagging @readtosurvivemusictolive@jazziejexbird@dreamcas@im-mess-and-chaos@humanangelcas@thetricksterarchangel and @aerin-ha because y’all responded so fast! :)]
Dean paced the seedy motel room, absently flipping a Bowie knife between his palms. At the coffee table, Sam paused his typing and clenched his jaw. After a few deep breaths, he slammed the laptop closed.
“Nothing.“ He spat.
“Nope. And for the love of God, would you cut that out?”
Dean clung to the armrests, knuckles white, and tried to focus on taking deep breaths. He opened one eye, peeking out the small airplane window, then immediately closed it again. He flinched at the crackle that came before the pilot’s announcement.
“Ladies and gentlemen, in just a few minutes we will be taking off from Tulsa International, destination, New York, JFK. We’re fourth in line in the taxi, here, so I estimate about another five or ten minutes.
For those of you with connecting flights to Munich, Amsterdam, London, and Taiwan, please ask one of our hostesses for a Customs and Immigration form in order to declare any agricultural or animal products. Thank you for choosing AirSweden, and enjoy your flight.”
Sam chuckled and leaned over to Dean. “Glad we’re having Bobby ship us all that dead man’s blood. That’d be kinda hard to explain to customs and immigration, huh?” He paused when he saw Dean’s face. “Hey, man, you ok? Dean?”
“Yup,” Dean breathed, “peachy.”
“Ok, ‘cause you seem kinda… hyperventilate…-y.”
“Nope, I’m fine, Sam.”
“Okay, sure. Just, you know, maybe take some smaller breaths. We don’t want to run out of oxygen before we get to New York.”
Sam stared at him, bemused. “Seriously though, are you-”
“Really, Sam? How are you NOT panicking right now? We literally almost died on a plane and now we’re flying again and I knew that we should’ve driven because it would be just our friggin’ luck to-”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, first of all, drive to London? How was that gonna work, Dean? Also, we ‘almost’ die everyday. We even literally die some days. How is this any different?”
“Just… shut up, and let me die in peace.”
“Ok, man. I’ll tap you when they come by with alcohol.”
The jet engines kicked in, the momentum pushed them back in their chairs, and for the first time in a long, long time, Dean gripped Sam’s hand. Sam looked at him, saw the rise and fall of his chest, and squeezed his hand tightly.
He didn’t let go until Dean fell asleep over Indianapolis.
Several panic attacks (Dean’s), one misplaced laptop (Sam’s), and some disappointing airplane meals (everyone’s) later, they traipsed down the gangway in Heathrow Airport. They stood at the curb, and took in the lights and the bustle of the city for a moment. “Wow,” Sam said in a thick, sleep-deprived voice. Dean chuckled.
“I always wanted to come here, you know.”
“Really?” Sam laughed. “I never would have known, seeing as how you know the Manchester United anthem forwards and backwards.”
“The only type of music better than classic rock, Sammy-boy? The war ballad of players about to beat the holy hell out of each other.”
Sam shook his head, then held out an arm to hail a cab. They piled into the taxi, and Sam leaned forward though the open plastic divider. The driver was an older woman, her hair teased into a beehive that would have made Amy Winehouse jealous, her glossed lips smacking around a wad of chewing gum. Hanging from the air-conditioning vent was a framed picture of her and a man, presumably her husband, kissing in front of a CGI-generated beach background.
“Where to, love?”
“221b, Baker Street.”
“You pullin’ my leg, love?” She raised her thin eyebrows at the both of them in the rearview mirror.
She giggled, then pulled away from the curb, shaking her head. The boys made eye contact, and Dean shrugged sleepily. “Reputation?” He whispered. “I guess,” Sam whispered back. “We’ll just have to wait and see.”