"I'm pretty sure the only food in the fridge is that leftover Thai that we both decided was too spicy to finish."
Which was probably true, but Dean had at least one cracked rib and a headache like an ice pick and really just wanted to go home and lie down for about a day and a half. He didn't admit any of this out loud, but Sam must have read it in his look because he pulled out a piece of paper and waved it at Dean like some sort of magic ticket.
"Look, I made a list while you were pumping gas, and if you're willing to stop at Ladow's on the way through town, we can probably make the run in five minutes--ten, tops."
And, yeah, Ladow's was pretty tiny. "You won't bitch like usual about the shitty produce selection?"
"Dude, I don't bitch--" but Dean could tell it was fake annoyance, the kind they both used to while away the long miles. And anyway, if the Tylenol hadn't kicked in by the time they got there, Dean would just make Sam go in on his own while Dean rummaged around in the trunk for something a little ... stronger ...to deal with his head.
The pain was still there, when they pulled up in front of the store forty-five minutes later, but the meds had put up enough of a barrier than Dean could ignore it if he tried. He didn't ask for his half of the list, though, just followed at Sam's shoulder into the cool dimness of the store, grabbing a basket once they were inside so he wouldn't look completely useless.
One of the overhead florescents was buzzing like a trapped fly, and a strong smell of melon in the produce aisle hinted that the store was due for some restocking, but Dean couldn't help but relax a little. This was familiar territory, after four years of living in Lebanon--not some infinitely-expanding Whole Foods where you could grow old just trying to pick out your breakfast cereal.
Corn flakes; whole milk from the dairy two towns over; two six-packs of El Sol; pickles and burger supplies; a carton of jumbo eggs; butter; the least-wilted pre-packaged salad; bread and peanut butter; and a couple of overly-shiny Red Delicious apples. (Almost twelve years of school lunches had been enough to make Dean swear them off, but Sam still tried, from time to time.)
They would've made it out in ten minutes easily, but the display of home-baked goods by the register was larger than usual, and Dean couldn't help lingering over the spread of pies and doughnuts and chocolate-chip cookies. He finally settled on a strawberry & rhubarb pie, because those things were seasonal, but as he started unloading the basket onto the counter, Sam added a box of plain glazed doughnuts.
"No attempts at remaking the Elvis," Sam said when Dean raised his eyebrows in silent question, "but I'm kind of in the mood for something sweet, and you always hog the pie." Which--well, okay, that wasn't completely unfair, though half the time Sam turned him down when he did offer to share, so Sam didn't exactly have room to complain.
"No promises," Dean warned, digging out three ragged twenties for Doucie, who was theoretically manning the register but kept stopping to text on her phone in between each item. "So you'd better make sure there aren't any doughnuts left in the box by the time we get back home, or I'm eating whatever I damn well please for dinner."
Sam grinned at him, for a moment the spitting image of the small boy he'd once been. "You'd better drive slow, then."
Dean couldn't help grinning back. "I think I can manage that, if you share a couple."
They shook on it there, with Doucie as an oblivious witness, and Sam did indeed let him have exactly two; Dean drove around the edge of town three times before finally pulling up in front of the bunker, just as Sam started licking the last of the glaze off his fingers.
Not a bad way to end a hunt.