SPN FIC - Alternative Transportation (Part Deux)
When you dream, dream big. Preferably involving buttery leather, granite countertops, and giant flat-panel TVs.
CHARACTERS: Sam and Dean
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1002 words
ALTERNATIVE TRANSPORTATION (Part Deux)
By Carol Davis
There are times when Sam knows exactly what it would be like to have a 13-year-old daughter.
This would be one of those times.
He was only in the bathroom for ten minutes, maybe fifteen. This particular motel room - at the Sunburst Travel Inn, on the east side of West Darby - can't boast of much, but it does have good, steady water pressure and what seems to be an unlimited supply of hot water, a combination that felt damn good after the banging-around Sam's gone through over the past few days.
So, fifteen minutes, max.
Enough time for his brother to once again morph from an ass-kicking 33-year-old man into…
This.
He's perched at the end of the bed, leaning in toward the TV, elbows braced on his knees, chin propped on his hands. Some people would call the expression on Dean's face "rapture." Others would call it OhmygodJustinissooooodreamy and my life would be perfect if I could only
"Dean."
Of course, Dean doesn't respond, there being no audio communication between here and whatever planet Dean and the other 13-year-old girls dwell on.
Friggin' Dr. Sexy reruns, Sam thinks, but it's not that. The logo on the corner of the screen identifies the channel as HGTV, a network that - to Sam's knowledge - doesn't air scripted programming, no matter how huge an audience base that programming might have. Scrubbing his damp hair with one of the room's collection of threadbare towels, Sam moves in for a better look.
"You ever see anything like that?" Dean murmurs.
It's…what is it?
The voice on the TV is saying, "…and at a list price of three hundred and forty-nine thousand dollars, the Phoenix Cavalier is still a bargain for today's luxury RV aficionado. The sofa and matching recliner are upholstered in butter-soft leather, while the kitchen…"
"It's a little over the top," Sam says.
Dean's expression slides into something you could describe as "woeful."
"Dude, for crying out loud," Sam says. "Three hundred and fifty grand? And when have you ever been the slightest bit interested in a damn hotel room on wheels?"
"'S nice," Dean mutters.
"It looks like it's missing a big disco ball and the soundtrack to Saturday Night Fever."
Granted, if Sam actually had a 13-year-old daughter, he probably wouldn't snark at the object of her rapture; he'd probably hand her a few bucks and send her off to the newsstand for the latest copy of Teen Scream magazine. He'd probably hold his tongue. He'd probably be amused at the sighing and the hand-wringing.
A few years back, he and Dean stood side by side, gazing into a tricked-out van owned by a psychic kid named Andy Gallagher. That thing had a disco ball. A massive collection of bedding. And the biggest bong Sam had ever seen. Outside, it sported a painting of a half-naked warrior princess.
Dean thought it was awesome.
People get older, Sam thinks. Their tastes change. Now his brother's in love with something that boasts buttery-leather furniture and granite countertops. And…
Jesus. It's got a round bed.
"So you'd drive that thing around the country," Sam says. "You got any idea what kind of mileage they get? Like six miles to the gallon."
Dean doesn't move, but the spell's broken.
He looks sad.
Like Justin's left town and he never got a kiss.
"Does it matter?" Dean says softly, and sighs. "Who gives a royal shit what kind of mileage it gets?"
He doesn't move his head. His sight line doesn't stray from the TV screen. But his point's made as clearly as if he'd swept a hand around, gesturing at the glory that surrounds them - the wonders of the Sunburst Travel Inn, the pride of West Darby, with its swaybacked beds and chipped dressers and its stained and gritty indoor-outdoor carpet.
"That place the angels zapped us into?" Dean says. "Where we're a TV show? Well, I'd kinda like to be in a damn TV show where we drive around in a three hundred and fifty thousand dollar RV. With freaking leather furniture. I'd like to drive into a situation, and solve it in an hour, then drive off into the sunset in my goddamn RV."
There's no real anger in his tone. Just resignation, because at this point, what good would it do to be angry?
Nodding, Sam tosses the now-soggy towel aside and sits down at the end of the other bed.
"It's still hideous," he says after a minute.
"Like that matters," Dean replies.
When he turns to look at Sam, his expression's wry. Maybe a little bit amused. He's almost smiling as he leans forward and extracts a couple of beers from the mini-fridge that serves as a stand for the TV. One eyebrow cocked, he offers one of the bottles to Sam.
"Got one for eight hundred grand," he says. "Five flat-panel TVs, a friggin' Jacuzzi tub, a dishwasher, and laundry. Washer and dryer. Satellite radio. Fix that baby up with some of those fancy sheets, stock up the kitchen…"
"And you'd drive that."
"Hell, no. You need me, I'll be in the back. Feet up, watchin' some Chuck Norris on the big screen TV."
It's good to see Dean smile. Even if it's got that rueful cast to it.
"We could hire a driver," Sam says.
"There you go."
"You remember that old TV show? The one about the brothers who were PI's? They were based down in San Diego. One of them had a boat."
"We could have a boat. We could kill evil sons of bitches at sea."
"There you go," Sam says.
The beer's nice and cold. That's two things the pride of West Darby has going for it: the mini-fridge keeps things nice and cold. When Sam looks over at his brother, Dean's licking a dribble of beer off his lower lip. He looks content, and these days, that's something.
"Could be a lot worse," Sam says.
"Could be," Dean agrees as he switches off the TV.
* * * * *
CHARACTERS: Sam and Dean
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1002 words
ALTERNATIVE TRANSPORTATION (Part Deux)
By Carol Davis
There are times when Sam knows exactly what it would be like to have a 13-year-old daughter.
This would be one of those times.
He was only in the bathroom for ten minutes, maybe fifteen. This particular motel room - at the Sunburst Travel Inn, on the east side of West Darby - can't boast of much, but it does have good, steady water pressure and what seems to be an unlimited supply of hot water, a combination that felt damn good after the banging-around Sam's gone through over the past few days.
So, fifteen minutes, max.
Enough time for his brother to once again morph from an ass-kicking 33-year-old man into…
This.
He's perched at the end of the bed, leaning in toward the TV, elbows braced on his knees, chin propped on his hands. Some people would call the expression on Dean's face "rapture." Others would call it OhmygodJustinissooooodreamy and my life would be perfect if I could only
"Dean."
Of course, Dean doesn't respond, there being no audio communication between here and whatever planet Dean and the other 13-year-old girls dwell on.
Friggin' Dr. Sexy reruns, Sam thinks, but it's not that. The logo on the corner of the screen identifies the channel as HGTV, a network that - to Sam's knowledge - doesn't air scripted programming, no matter how huge an audience base that programming might have. Scrubbing his damp hair with one of the room's collection of threadbare towels, Sam moves in for a better look.
"You ever see anything like that?" Dean murmurs.
It's…what is it?
The voice on the TV is saying, "…and at a list price of three hundred and forty-nine thousand dollars, the Phoenix Cavalier is still a bargain for today's luxury RV aficionado. The sofa and matching recliner are upholstered in butter-soft leather, while the kitchen…"
"It's a little over the top," Sam says.
Dean's expression slides into something you could describe as "woeful."
"Dude, for crying out loud," Sam says. "Three hundred and fifty grand? And when have you ever been the slightest bit interested in a damn hotel room on wheels?"
"'S nice," Dean mutters.
"It looks like it's missing a big disco ball and the soundtrack to Saturday Night Fever."
Granted, if Sam actually had a 13-year-old daughter, he probably wouldn't snark at the object of her rapture; he'd probably hand her a few bucks and send her off to the newsstand for the latest copy of Teen Scream magazine. He'd probably hold his tongue. He'd probably be amused at the sighing and the hand-wringing.
A few years back, he and Dean stood side by side, gazing into a tricked-out van owned by a psychic kid named Andy Gallagher. That thing had a disco ball. A massive collection of bedding. And the biggest bong Sam had ever seen. Outside, it sported a painting of a half-naked warrior princess.
Dean thought it was awesome.
People get older, Sam thinks. Their tastes change. Now his brother's in love with something that boasts buttery-leather furniture and granite countertops. And…
Jesus. It's got a round bed.
"So you'd drive that thing around the country," Sam says. "You got any idea what kind of mileage they get? Like six miles to the gallon."
Dean doesn't move, but the spell's broken.
He looks sad.
Like Justin's left town and he never got a kiss.
"Does it matter?" Dean says softly, and sighs. "Who gives a royal shit what kind of mileage it gets?"
He doesn't move his head. His sight line doesn't stray from the TV screen. But his point's made as clearly as if he'd swept a hand around, gesturing at the glory that surrounds them - the wonders of the Sunburst Travel Inn, the pride of West Darby, with its swaybacked beds and chipped dressers and its stained and gritty indoor-outdoor carpet.
"That place the angels zapped us into?" Dean says. "Where we're a TV show? Well, I'd kinda like to be in a damn TV show where we drive around in a three hundred and fifty thousand dollar RV. With freaking leather furniture. I'd like to drive into a situation, and solve it in an hour, then drive off into the sunset in my goddamn RV."
There's no real anger in his tone. Just resignation, because at this point, what good would it do to be angry?
Nodding, Sam tosses the now-soggy towel aside and sits down at the end of the other bed.
"It's still hideous," he says after a minute.
"Like that matters," Dean replies.
When he turns to look at Sam, his expression's wry. Maybe a little bit amused. He's almost smiling as he leans forward and extracts a couple of beers from the mini-fridge that serves as a stand for the TV. One eyebrow cocked, he offers one of the bottles to Sam.
"Got one for eight hundred grand," he says. "Five flat-panel TVs, a friggin' Jacuzzi tub, a dishwasher, and laundry. Washer and dryer. Satellite radio. Fix that baby up with some of those fancy sheets, stock up the kitchen…"
"And you'd drive that."
"Hell, no. You need me, I'll be in the back. Feet up, watchin' some Chuck Norris on the big screen TV."
It's good to see Dean smile. Even if it's got that rueful cast to it.
"We could hire a driver," Sam says.
"There you go."
"You remember that old TV show? The one about the brothers who were PI's? They were based down in San Diego. One of them had a boat."
"We could have a boat. We could kill evil sons of bitches at sea."
"There you go," Sam says.
The beer's nice and cold. That's two things the pride of West Darby has going for it: the mini-fridge keeps things nice and cold. When Sam looks over at his brother, Dean's licking a dribble of beer off his lower lip. He looks content, and these days, that's something.
"Could be a lot worse," Sam says.
"Could be," Dean agrees as he switches off the TV.
* * * * *