Title: What Really Counts
Author: tallisen
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Summary: The Winchester boys celebrate Thanksgiving the only way they know how to.


The light of the quarter moon does well enough to illuminate the graveyard, despite the thin layer of clouds that continue to pass over it.

Standing several paces away from a black 1967 Chevy Impala is Dean and Sam Winchester - brothers in arms against the supernatural world. At their feet lays the remains of their latest job - a zombie by all accounts.

Dean, the oldest, nudges its decapitated head with his boot and shrugs. "It looks pretty dead to me."

Sam stares at the corpses and grimaces when Dean crushes its skull with his heel. "Stop playing with it."

"Why? It doesn't mind..." He kicks the corpse one last time then retreats to the trunk of their car for supplies. "I don't know why you're complaining... I'm not the one who went all 'Evil Dead' and chopped its head off."

Sam glances down at the machete still clutched in his hand and has to admit his brother has a point.

Dean returns to his side with lighter fluid in one hand and a brown bag in the other. He hands it to his brother, then starts to cover the zombie with the lighter fluid.

"What's this?" Sam takes a step back to allow his brother more room to work and peers into the bag. He laughs at what he finds. "Fried chicken wings? When did you have time to get these?"

His brother shakes the last bit of lighter fluid on the zombie and tosses the can. "I bought them when I restocked at the gas station. It is Thanksgiving."

Sam glances at his wrist watch. "Yeah, for another fifteen minutes."

Dean joins his brother and grabs a wing from the bag. "Then you better start eating." With his free hand he strikes a match on his jeans and tosses it on the corpse. It erupts into a brilliant spectacle of smoke and flames.

Sam also takes a wing, figuring that since he hasn't eaten all day he can't complain. Too much. "It's cold."

His brother gestures at the fire, "You can always warm it up."

"That's gross."

They lounge on the front of the Impala and eat their meal while the haunt of the night rides the smoke and ash to the night sky.

"Hey Sam?"

Sam turns towards his brother who has momentarily stopped picking at his chicken bones to look at him. "Happy fucked up Thanksgiving."

If that wasn't the understatement of the century... "Yeah..." The corners of his mouth curve into a grateful smile. "Happy Thanksgiving."