Random SPN/Carnivale snippet
Scribbled into Semagic at far too late an hour....
The crows wake Dean up, cawing and croaking on into his dreams. His first thing's a deep breath; sudden and sharp in through his nose like he ain't been breathing while he was sleeping. The birds seem quieter now he's aware.
He turns his head. Sammy's hunkered down again in his sleep, still belly-down as usual but the bunched-up old rags and pieces he uses as pillow shoved up above the crown of his head. He starts off alright, Dean sees him before he drops off himself, but Sammy always ends up with his chin tucked down, like he's protecting his throat. The hair at the back of his neck is all ruffled up and exposed; it's damp when Dean puts his hand there, the skin hot.
Sammy huffs like he's waking up, flops his head 'round to face Dean. His eyelashes twitch a little and Dean pulls his hand away. Sammy looks younger than fifteen when he's sleeping like this, even younger than usual. Dean wishes he'd just hurry up and grow the hell up already; only just now folks are stopping calling him 'kid'.
He sits up, pulls his boots on. Buttons his fly, tucks the shirt in. Outside their tent the morning's hazy, the air thick with light and he squints to the horizon. Black shards fall and rise over the gold-gone-grey sharpness of the field that butts alongside them; the crows cluster and dart, picking and something lying out of sight within the dead crop. They're still throwing up a racket and Dean scowls.
Breakfast is being served by the time he gets there, clang of the triangle run in time to his steps before it was even in sight. There's hardly anyone else about with the dawn only just disappating; some of the other rousties sitting around or drifting in, rubbing at their faces.
The coffee's thick and shocking in Dean's mouth, shaves off the last fuzz of sleep from his senses. He refills his cup and fills a second, carries one in each hand back to the tent, shouldering his way in through the flap.
Sam's sitting up and looking at him, face looking crushed by sleep, hair greasy and sticking up from his head. The loose shirt he wears to sleep is huge, makes his body look shapeless as he slumps. "Thanks," he says a little hoarsely, reaching for the second cup. Dean can hear the faint click when Sam's teeth tap against the lip of the tin mug. The sound's sharpness dulls a little when Sammy starts to idly chew on the metal, eyes sliding half-closed again as he dips half his face down into the cup, breathes in the steam from the coffee.
Dean shakes his head a little, drains his own mug. Starts to busy himself, packing up. It's an early start today 'cause they're moving on; there's only a little time left before he's needed outside of this space, before he becomes a cog in another machine.
"Help me?" Sam says, and Dean turns around again. Sam's pulling off his sleeping shirt, ribs thrown into brief sharp relief with his arms over his head. His nipples are pale, flat; like long scars before Sam drops his arm again, turns his back. His vertebrae pop out when he drops his head, spine curving. Dean kneels closer.
He unscrews the lid on the tin, scoops out a considered amount on his fingers, the rubs the ointment between his hands. Sam still flinches at his first touch, jerking forward a little and his shoulders tightening. The scar tissue under Dean's hands is soft rather than rough; textureless, almost slick with the ointment between his touch. It's not all scar, though; feels tougher, like there's bone pushing up on either side of Sammy's spine, between his shoulder blades, enough to fit each in Dean's palms. Maybe muscle, too; maybe something that we'ren't ruined at some stage, could do more than just tremble in reflex to Dean's touch.
He smoothes the ointment evenly, spreads it wider to combat the chafe, and Sammy hands him the swathe of linen without turning around; holding one end hard against his left side and Dean lifts on his knees to put some more weight to his movement, binds it around tighter.
Sam pulls his shirt on when they're done, Dean's knees cracking as he rises again. Sam's shirt has stains on the underarms, around the neck, as if matching measure-for-measure the dirt and grease on Dean's clothes. Bound up, Sammy almost looks like he's got a hump, and that's just fine by Dean. Fine for both of them to have Sammy slump a little more, not pretend otherwise. He's too young to work like Dean does, anyway (and Dean knows, knows he's been thinking that exactly for most of Sammy's life and sooner rather than later it ain't gonna hold no stead anymore, but he crushes that down quick as he can).
Dean does just fine for them. He's saved enough to scrounge and scrap for a tent, small and low but something at least to give them some privacy and shelter. They don't need for nothing.
*waves at ggreenapple*
The crows wake Dean up, cawing and croaking on into his dreams. His first thing's a deep breath; sudden and sharp in through his nose like he ain't been breathing while he was sleeping. The birds seem quieter now he's aware.
He turns his head. Sammy's hunkered down again in his sleep, still belly-down as usual but the bunched-up old rags and pieces he uses as pillow shoved up above the crown of his head. He starts off alright, Dean sees him before he drops off himself, but Sammy always ends up with his chin tucked down, like he's protecting his throat. The hair at the back of his neck is all ruffled up and exposed; it's damp when Dean puts his hand there, the skin hot.
Sammy huffs like he's waking up, flops his head 'round to face Dean. His eyelashes twitch a little and Dean pulls his hand away. Sammy looks younger than fifteen when he's sleeping like this, even younger than usual. Dean wishes he'd just hurry up and grow the hell up already; only just now folks are stopping calling him 'kid'.
He sits up, pulls his boots on. Buttons his fly, tucks the shirt in. Outside their tent the morning's hazy, the air thick with light and he squints to the horizon. Black shards fall and rise over the gold-gone-grey sharpness of the field that butts alongside them; the crows cluster and dart, picking and something lying out of sight within the dead crop. They're still throwing up a racket and Dean scowls.
Breakfast is being served by the time he gets there, clang of the triangle run in time to his steps before it was even in sight. There's hardly anyone else about with the dawn only just disappating; some of the other rousties sitting around or drifting in, rubbing at their faces.
The coffee's thick and shocking in Dean's mouth, shaves off the last fuzz of sleep from his senses. He refills his cup and fills a second, carries one in each hand back to the tent, shouldering his way in through the flap.
Sam's sitting up and looking at him, face looking crushed by sleep, hair greasy and sticking up from his head. The loose shirt he wears to sleep is huge, makes his body look shapeless as he slumps. "Thanks," he says a little hoarsely, reaching for the second cup. Dean can hear the faint click when Sam's teeth tap against the lip of the tin mug. The sound's sharpness dulls a little when Sammy starts to idly chew on the metal, eyes sliding half-closed again as he dips half his face down into the cup, breathes in the steam from the coffee.
Dean shakes his head a little, drains his own mug. Starts to busy himself, packing up. It's an early start today 'cause they're moving on; there's only a little time left before he's needed outside of this space, before he becomes a cog in another machine.
"Help me?" Sam says, and Dean turns around again. Sam's pulling off his sleeping shirt, ribs thrown into brief sharp relief with his arms over his head. His nipples are pale, flat; like long scars before Sam drops his arm again, turns his back. His vertebrae pop out when he drops his head, spine curving. Dean kneels closer.
He unscrews the lid on the tin, scoops out a considered amount on his fingers, the rubs the ointment between his hands. Sam still flinches at his first touch, jerking forward a little and his shoulders tightening. The scar tissue under Dean's hands is soft rather than rough; textureless, almost slick with the ointment between his touch. It's not all scar, though; feels tougher, like there's bone pushing up on either side of Sammy's spine, between his shoulder blades, enough to fit each in Dean's palms. Maybe muscle, too; maybe something that we'ren't ruined at some stage, could do more than just tremble in reflex to Dean's touch.
He smoothes the ointment evenly, spreads it wider to combat the chafe, and Sammy hands him the swathe of linen without turning around; holding one end hard against his left side and Dean lifts on his knees to put some more weight to his movement, binds it around tighter.
Sam pulls his shirt on when they're done, Dean's knees cracking as he rises again. Sam's shirt has stains on the underarms, around the neck, as if matching measure-for-measure the dirt and grease on Dean's clothes. Bound up, Sammy almost looks like he's got a hump, and that's just fine by Dean. Fine for both of them to have Sammy slump a little more, not pretend otherwise. He's too young to work like Dean does, anyway (and Dean knows, knows he's been thinking that exactly for most of Sammy's life and sooner rather than later it ain't gonna hold no stead anymore, but he crushes that down quick as he can).
Dean does just fine for them. He's saved enough to scrounge and scrap for a tent, small and low but something at least to give them some privacy and shelter. They don't need for nothing.
*waves at ggreenapple*