*
He’s so intent on the view—elbow propped against the window frame and hair blowing a bit in the wind—that he doesn’t realize they’re not where they should be until the car’s suddenly jolting down a deeply rutted gravel road, Dean swearing under his breath and cooing a little to the car at every bad bounce.
It’s a short road, though—just as Sam’s about to ask where the heck they are, they’re rolling to a stop in shaggy grass, boxed in by the lake on two sides and a steep hill on the other. Stairs lead up to an old wood-clapboard house, with a garage door set into the side of the hill below. “This kind of looks like private property,” Sam points out, but it’s a pro forma protest—he’s already halfway into the backseat, fishing out a couple of beers and the bag from the smokehouse.
“No signs,” Dean counters, stretching as he gets out of the car. He wanders over to the garage door and peers inside while Sam unpacks lunch across the Impala’s hood. “No car,” he reports a minute later. “Lots of cobwebs, though.” Which doesn’t necessarily mean anything other than the house’s occupants don’t usually park there, but it’s enough to allow Sam to focus on his food instead of keeping an eye out for someone coming to run them off. Food, and the gentle lap of the lake against the shore.
“It is a nice view,” he allows; Dean’s too occupied with his pulled pork to do more than make a vague affirmative noise. Sam’s own sandwich is greasier than he’d prefer, but the flavor’s rich and sits comfortably on his tongue; the collard greens have to be drained through a fork before they’re palatable. The real prizes, though, is an enormous, overflowing container of apple crisp, still slightly warm, which they pass back and forth in near-silence, disturbed only by the rustle of leaves and the distant hum of a highway.
“‘S peaceful,” Dean says eventually, around the antepenultimate forkful of crisp. It’s almost cold now, so Sam waves for him to finish it.
“Yeah,” he agrees. The stillness around the bunker has a different feel to it—more cautious, even restrained, which is appropriate to a place almost as muggle-proof as Hogwarts. This place, in contrast, breathes with all the little noises that come from things simply living—quiet, but still full of motion.
The moment is broken by Dean shoving the meal’s debris noisily back into the paper bag and strolling two houses up the road to drop it into someone’s waiting trash can. When he strolls back, Sam expects him to get back into the car and head straight back to Fall River, but instead Dean leans up against the car, next to Sam, and bumps him with an elbow.
“Any alerts yet?”
“No,” Sam says, though he reflexively checks his phone a moment later. “Why—?”
But Dean’s already climbing the stairs up towards the house. “Since we’re here, you want to look around?” he calls back to Sam without slowing.
“Since we’re where?” Sam demands, but despite his irritation he’s already following on Dean’s heels.
