Dean can’t pinpoint the day when a haunted hotel stopped meriting more than an eyebrow raise.
But when Sam bounds into the kitchen, inserting the laptop between Dean and a skin mag, wildly gesticulating at some fugly purple blog, his reaction is an uninspired, “Eh.”
?” Sam echoes and jabs a finger at the first headline.
Ten years ago, they would’ve raced to the Impala, but Dean merely exhales. He rearranges his hands so the magazine is positioned on top of the keyboard and resumes ogling.
“Dean,” Sam says, predictably making a grab for the magazine. Dean thwarts the attack by tucking it behind his back. “
,” Sam repeats. “Will you just listen?”
“I’m trying to read,” he says with feigned innocence.
Sam sighs his disapproval and gives this barely there head shake, but he slides the laptop away. Dean spreads the magazine open to the centerfold and whistles, holding it up sideways.
“You know, it’s true what they say, Sammy,” Dean croons. “The articles in this rag are top-notch.”
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