han_solo | (no subject)

(no subject)

Dean's not used to having a passenger who's not -- well, Sam. Not on long cross-country trips.

He's frowning a little, and when the silence gets awkward he turns the music up. Way easier than talking.

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Good question. Let Rachel ask it.

"Why?"

A faint smirk.

"For putting on corpses."

Of course. As one does.

Eyebrow lift.

"Of course. How silly of me to forget."

Whiskey Tango Foxtrot.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Dean laughs, finally.

"Hey, it's no crazier than anything else. If y'burn a corpse with salt, it'll destroy the spirit as well as the body. Good way for gettin' rid of ghosts, vengeful spirits, that sort of shit."

"It's a little crazier than anything else," Rachel replies, but she's smirking, bemused. "How's it work?"

She doesn't always need an answer but she pretty much always has to ask.

"Fuck if I know." Dean shrugs. "Something about binding shit together. You'd have to ask S-- someone else."

Rachel nods absently. That's a good enough answer for her.

"So are you going to go get the salt or stand there and wish it to you?"

Dean rolls his eyes and heads back towards the car.

Prickly bitch, i'n't she.

Absolutely.

Ignore that she's smiling as he walks away.

It's not how Dean thought he'd see the Grand Canyon, if he ever thought about it -- no Sam, just a companion who he really doesn't like. Half-raw and half-blackened rabbit-meat that he's too hungry to complain about, instead of hot dogs and fries. The Imp slowly losing her smell of gas, running on empty for hundreds of miles so far and showing no sign of clogging (and he knows iif he pulls the wheel back, she'll rise up and soar, which is -- interesting.)

But ... it's okay.

It's really okay.

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