There's almost no internet at the cabin, but Sam gets up early one morning and spends a good half-hour standing in the one spot that gets a bar of someone’s unsecured WiFi, just so he can download *Dracula*, and they curl up on the futon together, eating cold Thai and mocking the top-notch security at Seward’s asylum, which allows Renfield to just wander around wherever he pleases. “Wish it’d been that easy when *we* were in the nuthouse,” Dean says, tucking noodles away in his cheek like one of the chipmunks hanging out in the cabin’s stone foundation. “Some of those nurses—” He grimaces at Sam, mouth finally stopped up.
“Yeah,” Sam agrees, telling himself that his stomach is churning from too much curry and not at the memory of old clawing rage. Mostly he’s able to forget his past anger, can bury those memories in the ash of dim regret. “Hey, swap cartons? I want some of the black bean sauce before you finish it.”
Dean wrinkles his nose at the thought of sharing but makes the exchange without actual complaint. “Next time let’s try the Ran Pan Poo or whatever. This stuff’s spicier than I expected.”
“The Rad Nah? Sure,” Sam agrees, soothed by the sweetness of the Pad See Eaw and the press of Dean’s shoulder against his, the steady slap of the water on the shore below. “Hey, Fay Wray against Mina—who wins?”
“Looks or guts?” Dean asks, eyes glued to the screen, shoveling in the curried noodles at a distinctly slower pace. “Fay Wray screams more, but Mina’s a complete pushover.”
“In the book Mina’s the brains of the operation,” Sam says, and from there it turns into an argument over whether adaptations supercede their source material and Dean reminiscing about Jamie-the-bar-wench from that weird shapeshifter case they’d done years earlier.
The movie plays along to its uncertain ending, unnoticed and forgotten.