They choose the coldest coast they can find. They're edging into high summer, so it's 60s before wind chill, dry season. Only morning showers, and at night. Dean sleeps so late that when they go out to find breakfast (eggs 24 hours, says the window paint) the only memory of rain is the queer, webby, dusty splash of it on the Impala's black.
"What're you still doing up?" asks Sam, five hours ago. "Why aren't you asleep?"
Because he doesn't want to.
"Well, you don't have a choice anymore," Sam replies, and he's not sure whether he's spoken one word too long. But Dean's the one who wanted him to turn out the lights. "You have to now."
It's 6 then, almost summer sunrise, and Dean sleeps late. In the dim light, out from under their coffee curtains, Sam reads the Gideon Bible and waits. He tries to find old, good things in it.
He's forgotten all the best verses.
"How you feeling?" Sam asks, when Dean stirs. Sam's been reading off someone else's cue cards all weekend--a TV nurse. His head is full of someone else's salvation, though, and that he cannot share.
Dean feels cold.
"We're supposed to," says Sam. He promises. (He promises someone.) "It's supposed to feel like that."
They chose the coldest coast they could find.
Dedicated to Durham, WA and that pretty shot of the Impala's dusty trunk.