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Sending up a silent “thank god” out of habit, Sam flipped the turn signal and eased the Impala into the off lane, briefly satisfied that he managed to not hit the rumble strip. The last sign read 39 miles to the next rest stop and he had considered buckling down and going for it, but his last meal had been coffee and stale pastries from the motel’s continental breakfast.
From there, it had been a quick case; he and Dean had worked through lunch interviewing the locals. The bones were dug up, salted and burned before midnight and all Sam wanted was a hot shower back at the motel. But then they got a call from Bobby with a request for backup from a green hunter up in Caro who had bitten off more than he could handle.
So instead of shower and sleep, Sam took the first shift at the wheel and Dean had let him, which said more than most about just how tired he was. They both were. Sam glanced over at the passenger seat as the bright yellow lights of the service plaza deepened the shadows under Dean’s closed eyes.
The parking lot was half-empty this time of night as Sam pulled the Impala through next to a dark pickup and trailer and put her in park. Dean squinted one eye open as Sam opened the door and climbed out with a yawn.
“Want anything?” Sam asked.
Dean waved dismissively at him and closed his eyes again, a slight frown creasing between his eyebrows.
“All right. Next one’s 39 miles. Be right back.”
Dean lifted his chin with a grunt as he settled back again, crossing his arms over his bruised ribs.
That clearly said, fine, go away, so Sam nodded in reply, even though Dean had already drifted off again. Sam scrubbed a hand over his face as he straightened, stretched, and smoothed his hands back through his hair. He walked on stiff legs into the service plaza, pausing with a hand on the entrance door to scrub his shoes a couple times on the stiff-bristled mat. There was still cemetery dirt stuck in the treads from the grave he had dug up. Dean was going to give him hell for that tomorrow when he saw the dirt on the floor of the driver’s seat well.
After relieving himself, Sam spared a brief glance at the sign pointing towards the truckers' lounge and showers. They had only stopped back at the motel to load up their things before hitting the road again. Sam and Dean Winchester usually weren’t the first people on Bobby’s call list when a greenhorn needed help. Which would be why Dean was taking the wheel in 39 miles instead of crashed out in a motel after their third straight job that week. But that’s the life; hunters don’t punch a timeclock.
Inside the plaza, the Starbucks was dark, long closed, but the small convenience store was thankfully open 24 hours. The long-haired guy at the register didn’t glance up from his phone as Sam walked in and headed straight for the cooler cases in the back.
Sam swung open the glass door and grabbed the first two energy drinks he saw, then walked over to the sad little baked goods section because Dean hadn’t eaten anything since the motel either and maybe they had those little rectangular pies under the warmer. Sam was revolted at the thought of heat-lamped plastic and the amount of preservatives used to keep those pastries soft for a three month shelf, but Dean wouldn’t mind.
Of course, the shelf was empty. The heat lamp was still going strong, bright and orange.
Next, Sam glanced at the refrigerated shelves and briefly considered the packaged sandwiches on the top shelf before deciding he could wait until their next real meal, whenever that was. Just as he turned to head over to the cash register, a green bowl on a lower shelf caught his eye and he stopped.
Sam shifted the drink cans to one hand and bent to pick up the salad as his tired eyes slowly read and parsed the label: organic greens, diced tomatoes, cucumbers, sharp cheddar, sunflower seeds with a shoyu-ginger-carrot vinaigrette. His mind turned slowly as he tried to remember the last time they had been down highway 80 and whether he’d ever seen them sell salad, much less his exact favorite salad from the sushi restaurant back at Stanford where he had gone with—
Huh.
A triangular plastic container suddenly caught his eye and Sam turned back to the heat lamp shelves. Slowly, reluctantly, he put the salad back and walked over to the single piece of pie sitting directly under the warming lamp.
Usually the last slice of pie is the smallest, with crumbles of crust fallen to the bottom of the container or filling smeared all over. But this piece was huge, sliced almost too big for the container, and perfectly upright. The crust looked golden brown, flaky and rich. The apple slices of the filling had somehow remained perfectly within flat edges where the pie had been sliced and Sam could see the tiny sprinkles of cinnamon throughout. He almost could smell warm spices wafting as if it were freshly baked.
Huh. Sam could’ve sworn the shelf was empty, but he must be dead tired. He knew he was dead tired.
Grabbing the container, he was briefly surprised when the plastic felt sturdy and didn’t crumple a little like usual. Usually his thumb would dent the plastic into the whipped cream on top and Dean would grumble at him.
Sparing a last, longing glance at the salad that he unfortunately knew wouldn't be driving-friendly, he headed up to the register. The longhaired guy at the register didn’t look up as he swiped Sam’s card, but Sam wasn’t up for small talk anyway and the cashier seemed content to get back to his phone almost immediately.
Out in the cool parking lot, plastic bag in hand, Sam felt a little more awake. Stretching his legs had helped and just the memories of his favorite sushi restaurant had put him in a better mood, even as his stomach protested a little as he opened the door of the Impala.
Dean woke groggily again, which worried Sam a little. Dean yawned as Sam handed him the plastic bag and started up the ignition. Dean sat up straighter, stretching his neck side to side as he pulled out the energy drinks. He cracked Sam’s open for him and swiped a gulp before setting it in the cup holder. Sam smiled softly as Dean found and pulled out the plastic container.
“Pie!” Dean crowed happily, lifting up the container as he fumbled for the plastic fork in the bag.
“Yeah, you’re welcome.” Sam said as he slowly pulled out of the parking lot.
“Still warm!” Dean happily popped open the container, a forkful in his mouth before they even got to the on-ramp. “You’re too good to me, Samantha.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Sam rolled his eyes, already starting to feel tired again as he tried to focus on the road. He sucked down a gulp of his energy drink, putting it back down as he checked his mirrors, even though traffic was light this late. “Got lucky, last slice.”
Dean swallowed another massive bite with noticeable effort. “Damn, this is good pie. Since when did 80 start baking pies? You eat anything?”
“Nah,” Sam replied, “Turnpike’s stepping up its game though, they even had salad.”
“Aw, I could’ve fed you, Sammy. Just like old times.” Dean grinned over his pie as Sam resolutely kept both hands on the wheel and eyes front. Only 39 more miles of endless blacktop, green mile markers flashing by.
Back at the rest stop, the guy at the register finally put his phone down, standing up and rolling his shoulders with a sigh. He slowly walked around the counter to the refrigerated section and leaned down to pick up the salad that Sam had put back, shaking his head.
“Really, Sammy?” Gabriel said with a wry smirk, “After I went all the way to California and back? See if I do anything else nice for you.”