The lunch line at BT’s Smokehouse runs from door to counter, wrapping around the condiment island along the way; walking into the building is like being struck across the ears with a 2x4 of sound, bare walls and floor turning rock music, sports TV, and the chatter of waiting customers into a never-ending wave of *noise*. It’s a shock after the quiet of Wells Park and Dean’s subdued silence in the car, and within five minutes Sam begins to drown.
He doesn’t say anything—food remains one of Dean’s few surviving consolations, and he doesn’t want to spoil that—but Dean must sense Sam’s growing tension because after another five minutes (and five feet shuffled forward), he tugs Sam down so he can shout into Sam’s ear, “You want to go keep an eye on the car, make sure no one parks us in?”
“Get me something *naturally* green,” Sam bargains, like he’s the one doing Dean a favor, and escapes out into the parking lot—just in time to rescue the Impala from getting boxed in, so perhaps it wasn’t merely sensitivity on Dean’s part.
He’s never minded this kind of waiting: Impala serving as seat or shelter, with a bit of shade and a steady stream of cars going by, and the promise of food and welcome company at the end of it. So he strips off the sports jacket he’d been wearing for the part of ‘annoying ecology reporter’, bundling it behind his head and sprawling out across the Impala’s windshield like when he was young and the car the only home he’d ever known.
Of course, just as he’s got himself comfortable, his phone starts vibrating a subtle jig against his thigh, and the pockets on this pair of jeans are tight enough that it takes him nearly a minute of awkward fumbling and wriggling to get the thing out (leaving him hugely grateful that the lack of windows in the smokehouse means he’s safe from being seen by Dean). While driving over from Fall River he’d set up alerts on his phone for anything in the area that might point to more soul-sucking by Amera—but once he finally got the phone out and unlocked, the only message was a text from Dean: a picture of an enormous platter of corn dogs with the accompanying question, “Sure you want something green?”
“YES”, Sam sends back, and then adds (for peace of mind), “NO FOOD COLORING”, because the memory of that one incident when he was eleven still turns his stomach.