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Bobby banished Sam to the back of the car with Dean.
“Aww, come on, Bobby...” Sam complained even as he wrangled his older, extremely high, brother into the back of the suburban. “I don’t want to babysit. Besides, he’s being... weird.”
“Exactly,” Bobby pointed out. “Just because he knows he’s high doesn’t make him any less high.” Sam scowled and Bobby scowled right back. “Listen, Harold, I need you to make sure Kumar back there doesn’t accidentally shoot himself or throw himself out of a moving vehicle.”
“Yeah, that would hurt, right?” Dean speculated as he flopped over the rear seats. “Though I don’t think I’d actually feel it right now. Can’t feel much of anything, to be honest.”
There was a loud smack. Bobby shut his eyes, massaging the bridge of his nose.
“... Nope, nothing. Just kinda tingly.”
“So, uh...” Sam began awkwardly.
“Did your fool brother just hit himself across the face?” Bobby asked tightly.
“Yes. Yes, he did.”
“I’m fine, by the way!” Dean added helpfully.
“I’ll just...” Sam got into the back and slid the door shut.
Without another word, Bobby climbed into the front seat. I chose this, he reminded himself. This was the family he chose: a pair of bone-headed idjits without a lick of common sense or self-preservation between them. He loved them to death, but sometimes it was all he could do not to grab them by the shoulders and just shake the stupid out of them. How they’d stayed alive this long...
Then again, neither of them had, had they? The miracle of Lazarus, twice over. More than twice over. Bobby didn’t like thinking about it. The implications were... disquieting. Sometimes he wondered if those boys were really the same ones he’d half-brought up, or if something dreadful had replaced them along the way.
Dean let out a belch that would make Wakko Warner blush. “I’m throwing him out if he pukes,” Sam announced, every inch a petulant twelve-year-old.
No, those were his boys, for better or for worse. This was going to be a long drive.
Dean did his best to make himself a nuisance, which Bobby did his best to ignore, with mixed results. First, he loudly lamented the loss of his turducken sandwich, insisting that his must have come from a bad batch and they should just go to a different location for another (Sam testily explaining that the gray goo was a feature, not a bug, did nothing to diminish Dean’s mourning). Then, he occupied himself breathing on the windows and drawing shapes in the condensation. Harmless, except when Sam said dubiously, “Dude, is that a penis?” sending Dean into obnoxious giggles for five straight minutes. It only stopped when he, much to Bobby’s alarm, pointed out, “Huh. Someone gave me a gun. That doesn’t seem very safe.”
“Take his damn weapon before he accidentally shoots us,” Bobby ordered, eyes flicking up to the rear view mirror.
“On it,” said Sam. “Dean, give me your pistol.”
“Aww. You sure?”
“Yes, I’m—No, no, no, hands off the shotgun!”
“It’s pretty cool how many weapons you have back here, Bobby,” Dean said cheerfully. In the mirror, Bobby watched, wincing, as Sam scrambled across the vehicle. He couldn’t make out much more than Sam’s back, but judging by all the movement, there was quite the scuffle. Bobby silently sent up the prayer he never thought he’d have to send—that he’d make it to Biggerson’s in one piece.
“We’ve got a grenade launcher, you know,” Dean stage whispered. “But it’s back in my baby. I could blow up the whole goddamn world with that thing. But Sam won’t let me.”
“Thank the lord for small favors,” Bobby muttered. “Sam, am I going to have to pull this car over?”
“I’m on it,” Sam huffed irritably. “Dean, sit still.”
“Yeah, okay. ...Why?”
“I’m buckling you in. Stop moving.”
“Pshaw. Seat belts are for losers.”
The lack of a telling click spoke volumes about Sam’s success. Bobby wondered if he would actually have to pull over when Dean made a... a sound.
A specific sound. Maybe even a sound he knew. Bobby quickly looked away from the mirror.
“Sam,” Dean said seriously, “You’ve got big hands.”
“Uh, thanks?”
“Seriously. Like uh... a bear.”
“Bears don’t have hands.”
“Oh, yeah.” A pause. “Sam, can you put your hands on me?”
Bobby jerked. The whole van jerked. There came a thump followed by Sam loudly swearing. “Pothole,” Bobby claimed stiffly. He kept his eyes fixed on the road. Nether Winchester paid him any mind.
“Dude, wipeout,” Dean said. “Maybe I should give the seat belt thing a try.”
“You could if you’d just give me the seat belt.”
“Oh, right.” Another pause. Bobby was learning to fear this silence. Within a moment, his unease was proven to be completely founded. “Got your hands on me.”
“Dean, shut up,” Sam hissed.
Yes, Dean, Bobby thought. Shut up! He couldn’t say as much, though. If he did, he’d have to admit he was listening.
“Touchy,” Dean drawled. “Jeez, your hands are warm.”
“Whatever.”
“Am I warm?”
More silence. Dammit. Where the hell was that exit?
“...Yeah.”
“Can I keep my hand on your face?”
A click. Finally! Bobby dared another glance in the mirror. Sam was back in his seat, looking out the window and away from his brother. Dean, on the other hand, stared lazily and openly, one hand traveling up and down the polyester strap of the seat belt.
He’s just high, Bobby told himself. He doesn’t mean it. It’d be easier to believe if he hadn’t seen that look on Dean’s face more than once over the years. Sam had an identical one that he was frantically trying to wipe away at this very moment. He didn’t think they’d ever done anything... untoward (god, he prayed they’d never done anything untoward) but there was no denying the steel wire of tension stringing those boys together. More even than the constant resurrections, this terrified him. Because those looks? Those secret looks they’d been shooting each other since puberty hit Sam with a baseball bat? That was what spun that wheel of alive-dead-alive for those two that had the whole world spinning with them. And Bobby, for some damn reason, had chosen to stay on that merry-go-round, even as it threatened to throw him off with every turn.
“You’re gorgeous,” Dean said.
“You can’t just—”
“I don’t care—”
Bobby leaned over and snapped on the radio. If the conversation continued, Bobby didn’t want to hear it. Better yet, there was nothing to hear.
He cast one final look into the rear view. This time, Sam was looking back, and the face reflected was one of bewilderment and shame. Sam looked away first. Dean still had that same expression on his face. He may have made a noise.
High as a kite, Bobby thought. And Sam—well, a contact high, he supposed. It was a reasonable explanation as any. No other explanation could be considered.
The radio only turned off when he reached the Biggerson’s. Sam mumbled something about checking the perimeter before jumping out of the vehicle—but not before carefully unbuckling his brother, who was leaning against the window, eyes closed. He smiled when Sam’s hand brushed his body.
Yup. Contact high for sure.