TITLE: In Absentia
E-MAIL: eli @ popullus.net
ARCHIVE: Ask, please.
RATING: PG
POSTED: Aug. 31, 2006
SUMMARY: Five things that Sam looked for in the trunk (after Jessica died) but weren't there anymore.
AUTHOR NOTES: Written for Hossgal as part of yet another "five things" meme.
DISCLAIMER: Read

---

1.

He'd left the gun that he'd always used behind, and there wasn't a "Sam's knives" spot anymore. Not that it had been labeled or anything, but the far right corner, behind the curve of the spare tire, that was where his hand automatically went and now it was filled with coils of rope.

Sam stood there in the dark with the curved blade in his hand, staring down into the trunk. He wanted it out of his bag. He couldn't put it in that spot; there was space, the blade was flat, but sliced rope wasn't any good.

He didn't know how long he stood there before he slid it back behind the second ammunition box, outer-edge down, snug up against the left wheel well. It would stay put there.



2.

They used to keep this box of chalk jammed into the dip in the metal above the lock. Right there on the roof of the trunk. Easy access, wouldn't get lost in all the weapons and charms and miscellaneous stuff, but most importantly: no chalk dust in any moving parts.

Sam was digging for that box, irritated and kinda shocked that Dean would let it fall, when Dean leaned in next to him, both hands braced on the frame, and asked, "And you're looking for...?"

"Wherever the hell you dropped the chalk."

Dean pushed off, standing up without saying anything, and Sam looked up expecting a glare but only getting Dean's back. He frowned, straightening. Dean hadn't changed that much; he wouldn't get that pissed about--

The creak of the passenger door opening drew Sam around the side of the car in time to be greeted by Dean turning to him with an annoyed smirk tightening his mouth and a white grease pencil extended in his hand.

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Glove compartment?"

"Mm-hm."

"Good idea," Sam offered.

Dean rolled his eyes, tossed him the pencil, and headed back into their room.



3.

There was one gun that they'd never used much. It didn't take any special bullets, just standard rounds; it didn't have more than the basic blessings; it was a bitch to clean, especially the scrolling etched into the barrel. Mostly it was just a pretty little pistol...in a totally masculine kind of way, Dean had always said when Sam had watched him polish it. No girlie guns in the Winchester trunk. It was small and they'd always kept it way at the back, since they had hardly ever pulled it out, and frankly, Sam had forgotten about it until the first time Dean spread out all their weapons for cleaning.

It was almost midnight and they were halfway through when Sam looked at what was still on the bed between them, and stood. Dean glanced up with a questioning noise.

"You get everything?" Sam asked.

Metal flashed, clicked together, disappeared behind a cloth in the space of a moment before Dean snorted and shook his head.

"Okay, fine," Sam said. "I know you wouldn't forget anything, but..." He trailed off, waving a hand right over the spot on the bed where that little gun had always been.

"Ah," Dean said, then grimaced. "Yeah, you remember that antiques dealer Caleb always talked about?"

Sam shook his head in amazement, because, "That pistol? It was an antique?"

Dean shrugged as he leaned forward to place the clean handgun back where it belonged, then he picked up the next. "I knew it was old, but..." He caught his lip in his teeth, a grimace flashing at the dark smear on the cloth in his hand, but finally he continued, "Some kind of family thing. Guy wanted it enough to hand over five grand for it."

Sam looked steadily down at Dean's bent head, not needing to guess. After a full minute, Dean's eyes flicked up from the weapon, caught Sam's, and dropped away, so Sam said it anyway. "That's a lot of salt and bullets."

"And a new set of tires," Dean agreed.



4.

"Hey, that old notebook of--"

"Gone."

"Lost?"

"Fell apart."

"Oh."

"Copied 'em. Here. Start from the back."

"Great."



5.

Sam slammed the door, walked over to Dean's bed, and announced, "All right, I give up."

"Great," Dean muttered without opening his eyes. "What do I win?"

Sam curled his hands into tights fists. God. "Nothing. People don't get anything for sending other people out into a monsoon for things that aren't out there!"

Dean's lips twitched, and Sam almost strangled him then and there, just a little. "Bastard," he spat.

"Hey," Dean protested mildly, and he sat up...and really started to grin. "Jesus, Sammy, where were you looking? The bottom of Lake Michigan?"

"In the trunk," Sam said through his teeth.

Dean's eyes widened, and then he ducked his head and raised a fist to his mouth as he cleared his throat, and that was it. Sam shook out his arms, not bothering to pretend like he wasn't deliberately splattering Dean with as much water as possible.

"Hey!" Dean rolled quickly off the far side of the bed and held up both hands, palms out. "Ease up, Aqua Man, I didn't know you'd look there."

"That's where they always were!"

"Yeah, well, it never made any sense to me, keeping a deck of cards in the trunk. Not very handy when they're always getting buried under--"

"Where. Are. They?" Sam growled.

Dean cocked his head, his expression going blank and his arms crossing over his chest. They faced off for about thirty seconds before Dean raised his eyebrows and just like that, the answer hit Sam. "Under the front seat?"

"Yep," Dean said.

"In the dry car."

"You're quick."

Sam turned and started for the bathroom. "You're going to get them," he told Dean.

"So we're both wet?" Dean called after him. "Try making sense, and then we'll talk."

##

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