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Too Good to Be True

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It's a clear spring day in the Midwest, and they've got a monster to hunt in Nebraska. The road stretches off into the distance under the Impala's wheels, and the steering wheel is comfortably familiar underneath Dean's hands. A glance to his side confirms Sam's still absorbed in something on his phone, so he reaches out and cranks up the volume another notch on the tape deck, beginning to hum along.

Sam mutters something under his breath in clear annoyance, but Dean pays him no mind. Besides, by the time the next song comes on and he progresses to full on singing, Sam joins in.

...

They have to regroup and rethink how to approach this hunt. Thankfully neither of them were hurt too badly in the failed attempt to kill the creature they're after, though they both got thrown around a little. They'd known this was going to be a tough one because it hadn't fit any of the regular patterns they knew, but now they've got a few more details on what the creature looks like. Ones they didn't have to get from frightened witnesses with bad memories. It takes them a few more hours of research before it's finally time for plan B, and boy, do they have a plan B.

Dean tries not to feel too gleeful as he pulls the grenade launcher out of the trunk, shooting Sam a hopeful look. Sam sighs, having already given in to the idea back in the motel room. “Just be careful, okay? I mean it, Dean.”

“Quit your bitching, Sam. You're gonna ruin this for me.”

“God, Dean, don't be such a jerk. And I mean it, you'd better not blow yourself up or set the forest on fire or something!”

Despite Sam's paranoid rantings, nothing compares to firing that baby off and seeing the creature explode into a massive ball of flames. Even Sam insisting on taking the grenade launcher back immediately can't spoil Dean's good mood. It's not like he was really going to fire off another one to make sure, that was just a joke! Mostly.

...

Dean almost can't believe his luck when he realizes they're only ninety minutes away from that little nowhere town with the no name diner that made the best blackberry pie he'd ever eaten in his life. It's not even all that far out of their way to stop there on their way back to the bunker.

He and Sam are sitting in a booth, their food having been delivered. He has the fork halfway raised towards his mouth, filled with pie that smells as good as he remembers and just a touch of melting vanilla ice cream, when, “Dean.”

Dean looks up at Sam, sitting across from him with some kind of leafy monstrosity on his own plate, confused, because his brother is just looking at him and chewing, not saying a word. Dean looks around, but there's no one else here he knows, nor anyone paying the two of them any particular attention.

“Dean.”

Wait, hadn't this diner gone out of business six years ago? It's why he'd never been back. This suddenly doesn't make any sense and Dean is confused. What had they even been hunting, anyway?

“Dean!”

...

Dean startles awake to see Sam standing over him, looking irritated. “Get the lead out, man, we need to be at the coroner's office in an hour.”

He runs a hand over his face, taking in the shabby faded orange wallpaper, the scratchiness of the motel comforter and the hardness of the mattress underneath him. He grabs the other pillow from the bed and pulls it over his face, groaning. It's been a while since he had a dream that benign, which may be why he didn't realize he was dreaming earlier.

“What were you dreaming about anyway? The happy noises were kind of disturbing.”

“We were on a hunt and you let me use the grenade launcher.”

“Dude. No. Just no.”

It had been such a good dream, Dean thinks, as he flings the pillow at Sam before getting up.