𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐒. || 𝘥. 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳

𝟎𝟏𝟎 ⌖ orange is the new black

on the road...
nov. 14, 2005 // morning

𝐅𝐈𝐓𝐙 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐀 𝐖𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃, and had not spoken with Dean since last night. Sam woke them up with breakfast in bed, which was just a nice way of saying he chucked breakfast sandwiches at their faces after they'd overslept by an hour. Fitz's jaw had popped every time she tried to take a proper bite, and she'd swiftly retreated to the bathroom to readjust it. Dean followed soon after when his lip split open and started to bleed again.

But that was earlier. Now, they were all patched up and ready to go where the road took them. Or wherever John sent them. Whichever came first.

Fitz threw her duffel into the trunk of the car between Dean and Sam's, her jaw set in irritation. As she yanked the trunk door shut, her head and ribs smarted, alerting her that her painkillers were wearing off. She made a mental note to pick some up at the first pharmacy they passed; she was certain Dean would want some as well, though he wouldn't go so far as to ask.

She walked over to the backseat and pulled the door open, only to find Sam sprawled out across her designated spot, intently reading The Glass Castle. He glanced up at her and arched a brow like she was the one trespassing.

"You're-uh..." Fitz nudged his foot with her bandaged hand. "You're in my spot."

Sam went back to his book like she was the least interesting thing in the world. "Mhm."

"Where'd the sass come from?" She asked, narrowing her eyes as she stooped lower to get a look at him.

He didn't grace her with a response, but she stared at him until he turned a page, before shutting the door in defeat and sliding into the front. Dean emerged from the motel not a moment later, toting grocery bags full of toiletries from their room: shampoo, the extra soap bar, rolls of toilet paper. Sam had picked up some disposable toothbrushes, hair gel, and deodorant. Fitz had sullenly contributed her stash of floss, razors and face soap.

Dean didn't notice the seating changes until he got in the car, started the engine, and held a hand out to Fitz expectantly. She just looked at it in confusion, unsure of what he was asking for.

"The tapes," Sam piped in from the back, startling both of them. "Give him a tape."

"Oh," Fitz whispered. She leaned forward and opened the glovebox. A few cassettes fell to her feet, overflowing from the compartment, and she chose one of the fallen ones and handed it to Dean. For Those About to Rock.

"Why —" Dean shot an accusing glare at Sam, ignoring the tape. "What is she doing up here?"

Sam responded without even looking up from his novel. "You guys have some stuff to work out. So-uh, work it out." He reached down under the seat and pulled out his walkman, donning a cheap pair of headphones and dedicating himself wholly to ignoring Dean's astounded stutters.

Once it became abundantly clear that Sam wasn't going to change his mind, Dean swiped the cassette from her hand and jammed it into the player, reversing out of the lot as he did. She shifted all the way to the right side of the seat, pressing her face against the window, icing her bruised jaw on the glass.

"Don't fog it up," Dean barked as he checked his blindspot.

She straightened back up and cradled her face with her forearm, reposition so she wasn't touching the window.

Sam stole a glance at them from the backseat, talking loud over the sound of his own music blasting through his cheap headphones. "You guys need icebreakers?"