sigh
siiiiigh
a year ago I was at Comic Con.
I haven't mentioned here how sad I am not to be there this year, because I was an idiot and figured I wouldn't want to go two years in a row. SO NOT TRUE.
Instead I am sitting in these endless sessions at a work conference thingy daydreaming about San Diego.
S'okay, I'm already making plans to go again next year.
Here, in honor of the fact I won't be at the SPN panel at con, have a ficlet that's been sitting all lonely in my google docs, waiting to turn into something more. Hopefully someday it will.
(takes place following Born Under a Bad Sign in season 2)
Dean's fuzzy with Jo's Vicodin and no sleep and the fact that his brain had been rattled in his skull a couple of hours ago and things have been dead silent for miles and miles, so he doesn't hear Sam the first time. Maybe not the second time either.
Sam doesn't touch him to get his attention, just repeats his name louder and sharper until Dean turns his head and it feels like he's on a slight delay when he speaks, his mouth struggling to catch up to his thoughts.
"What."
"Pull over," Sam says.
Dean sets his jaw and ignores him.
"Dean, you're drifting into oncoming traffic." Sam's voice is even and neutral. "Pull over."
There isn't any oncoming traffic, hasn't been since they left Bobby's, but Dean's vision is blurring on him and yeah, maybe driving after the week he's had wasn't the smartest idea, but it's not like Sam's slept, either. Or. Well. Sam's body probably hasn't slept. And that bitch had her hands on Dean's car last and that more than anything had made him demand the keys back from Sam.
"I took your car?" Sam had said back in Bobby's living room, bewildered, eyes wide as he pulled the key chain out of the pocket of his jeans like he'd no idea it was gonna be there.
"Meg took his car." Bobby was still eying them like he expected them to go at each other's throats.
"Whatever." Dean had held out his palm. "Gimme the keys."
There'd been a bruise already spreading over Sam's cheek where Dean had clocked him. Nothing compared to the side of Dean's face that Meg had taken a liking to, though, still numb from Bobby's old-fashioned rubbery ice pack. He didn't need a mirror to know it wasn't pretty, he could see it in the way Sam's gaze kept darting his way.
"Dean."
Dean blinks and snaps back to the here and now and yeah, okay, maybe he's drifting. He doesn't pull over right away, though. Straightens up in his seat, teeth clenching against the tug and throb in his shoulder and back, and shoves the fatigue and the painkiller haze away. White-knuckles the wheel until the next exit.
"Where are you going?" Sam asks.
Dean's head is full of possible answers but nothing comes out. He just guides the Impala through the dark streets of some nowhere town, not even a town, not even a township probably. Finds a country road and pulls far enough off onto the gravel shoulder that they won't get clipped by some local doing 90 in the middle of the night. It's all fallow fields and looming windbreaks out here and when he pulls the keys out of the ignition silence creeps in past the ticking of the engine.
"Get some sleep," he tells Sam.
Sam gapes at him. "Here?"
"We've done it before." He closes his eyes and the back of his head aches against the headrest. Must have hit that wall with the rest of him.
"Dean, lemme have the keys. It can't be that far to--"
"To what?"
Sam sputters. "Something. A motel. You know. With beds."
"I'm fine here," Dean says, and it takes some extremely uncomfortable contortions but he gets the keys into his hip pocket. His left hip pocket. The pocket farthest from Sam.
Sam's still staring at him. Dean doesn't need to open his eyes to know it. He just waits. For whatever else Sam's gonna say; for Sam to get out and start walking; for the other shoe to drop. He doesn't know what that other shoe is, just knows it's coming. Eventually. It always does.
"You could at least stretch out in the back," Sam says, voice smaller in the dark behind Dean's eyelids. "You look like -- you look--"
Sam doesn't need the keys to start the car. Hasn't since he was ten years old.
"I'm fine here," Dean repeats. He hears Sam's breath huff out, then the squeal of the passenger door opening. The car rocks when the door slams shut. Dean waits for the crunch of boots on gravel to fade, but the back door opens and there's the slide of cloth on vinyl and then that door shuts too.
It'd be hard to pull someone like Dean out of the driver's seat, even as beat to hell as he is. But not impossible.
Sam's breathing eventually evens out, goes long and shallow.
Dean doesn't sleep.
a year ago I was at Comic Con.
I haven't mentioned here how sad I am not to be there this year, because I was an idiot and figured I wouldn't want to go two years in a row. SO NOT TRUE.
Instead I am sitting in these endless sessions at a work conference thingy daydreaming about San Diego.
S'okay, I'm already making plans to go again next year.
Here, in honor of the fact I won't be at the SPN panel at con, have a ficlet that's been sitting all lonely in my google docs, waiting to turn into something more. Hopefully someday it will.
(takes place following Born Under a Bad Sign in season 2)
Dean's fuzzy with Jo's Vicodin and no sleep and the fact that his brain had been rattled in his skull a couple of hours ago and things have been dead silent for miles and miles, so he doesn't hear Sam the first time. Maybe not the second time either.
Sam doesn't touch him to get his attention, just repeats his name louder and sharper until Dean turns his head and it feels like he's on a slight delay when he speaks, his mouth struggling to catch up to his thoughts.
"What."
"Pull over," Sam says.
Dean sets his jaw and ignores him.
"Dean, you're drifting into oncoming traffic." Sam's voice is even and neutral. "Pull over."
There isn't any oncoming traffic, hasn't been since they left Bobby's, but Dean's vision is blurring on him and yeah, maybe driving after the week he's had wasn't the smartest idea, but it's not like Sam's slept, either. Or. Well. Sam's body probably hasn't slept. And that bitch had her hands on Dean's car last and that more than anything had made him demand the keys back from Sam.
"I took your car?" Sam had said back in Bobby's living room, bewildered, eyes wide as he pulled the key chain out of the pocket of his jeans like he'd no idea it was gonna be there.
"Meg took his car." Bobby was still eying them like he expected them to go at each other's throats.
"Whatever." Dean had held out his palm. "Gimme the keys."
There'd been a bruise already spreading over Sam's cheek where Dean had clocked him. Nothing compared to the side of Dean's face that Meg had taken a liking to, though, still numb from Bobby's old-fashioned rubbery ice pack. He didn't need a mirror to know it wasn't pretty, he could see it in the way Sam's gaze kept darting his way.
"Dean."
Dean blinks and snaps back to the here and now and yeah, okay, maybe he's drifting. He doesn't pull over right away, though. Straightens up in his seat, teeth clenching against the tug and throb in his shoulder and back, and shoves the fatigue and the painkiller haze away. White-knuckles the wheel until the next exit.
"Where are you going?" Sam asks.
Dean's head is full of possible answers but nothing comes out. He just guides the Impala through the dark streets of some nowhere town, not even a town, not even a township probably. Finds a country road and pulls far enough off onto the gravel shoulder that they won't get clipped by some local doing 90 in the middle of the night. It's all fallow fields and looming windbreaks out here and when he pulls the keys out of the ignition silence creeps in past the ticking of the engine.
"Get some sleep," he tells Sam.
Sam gapes at him. "Here?"
"We've done it before." He closes his eyes and the back of his head aches against the headrest. Must have hit that wall with the rest of him.
"Dean, lemme have the keys. It can't be that far to--"
"To what?"
Sam sputters. "Something. A motel. You know. With beds."
"I'm fine here," Dean says, and it takes some extremely uncomfortable contortions but he gets the keys into his hip pocket. His left hip pocket. The pocket farthest from Sam.
Sam's still staring at him. Dean doesn't need to open his eyes to know it. He just waits. For whatever else Sam's gonna say; for Sam to get out and start walking; for the other shoe to drop. He doesn't know what that other shoe is, just knows it's coming. Eventually. It always does.
"You could at least stretch out in the back," Sam says, voice smaller in the dark behind Dean's eyelids. "You look like -- you look--"
Sam doesn't need the keys to start the car. Hasn't since he was ten years old.
"I'm fine here," Dean repeats. He hears Sam's breath huff out, then the squeal of the passenger door opening. The car rocks when the door slams shut. Dean waits for the crunch of boots on gravel to fade, but the back door opens and there's the slide of cloth on vinyl and then that door shuts too.
It'd be hard to pull someone like Dean out of the driver's seat, even as beat to hell as he is. But not impossible.
Sam's breathing eventually evens out, goes long and shallow.
Dean doesn't sleep.