Snippet 4.
For novembersguest.
The snow starts about ten miles outside town. By the time Sam sees a lit motel sign - vacancy, thank you Jesus - it's already getting slick on the road, and the wind is hissing strong enough around the Impala to push even her Detroit steel bulk a little.
In the passenger seat Dean doesn't even twitch, mouth slightly open and face as relaxed and unlined as a baby's. The greedy cold fingers of wind grasping inside the open driver's-side door only make him shift and turn his face against his shoulder. Sam clutches his jacket around him and hurries into the office.
Turns out there's only one other guest in the entire 12-room motel tonight, most folks smart enough to stay off the roads, night like this, says the owner, who nevertheless hands over a plastic bag with packets of dry soup and hot-chocolate mix along with the key. "Microwave and fridge in the room," he explains with a small air of pride.
"Good," Sam says. "Ah - thanks."
"Do yourself a favor. Don't plan on going anywhere next couple days. This storm's gonna be a real booger."
It already is, as far as Sam's concerned, and he curses under his breath while he pulls the car back to the end of the row. Dean's stirring, ghostly pale in the snow-lit murk, and Sam smiles. "Home sweet random motel, dude."
Dean nods and fumbles for the door handle.
The room's fine, nicer than some. Dean goes straight to the head, and Sam can't help listening, paused with his jacket off one arm while the toilet flushes and the faucet turns on. He goes to turn up the heat.
"Where are we?" Dean asks hoarsely when he comes out, scrubbing at his face with a washcloth. "It's snowing, right? I didn't dream that?"
"More like blizzarding." Sam turns and smiles, ignores the lampblack smears under Dean's too-big eyes. "This, unless I really read the map wrong, is Viola, Wisconsin. Otherwise known as end of the road, for the moment." He lifts his chin. "How you feeling?"
"Urghh." Dean drops the washcloth on the bed nearest the door and follows it, not even taking his boots off first. "Wake me up at New Year's."
It's March 18th. "Deal," Sam says softly.
~~~~~~~
He catches up on metafilter and the Onion until his eyes won't focus anymore, and falls asleep with the laptop tucked against his chest like a teddy bear, Dean's slow, even breathing barely audible above the snow pattering against the one window.
No idea what time it is when he wakes up. Only that Dean is sitting up, scrabbling at the bedclothes.
"Hey," Sam says groggily, slinging his feet over the side of the bed and reaching across the tiny gap between the beds. "You okay? Need something?"
There's no reply, only Dean finally extricating himself. There is a deep line gouged between his eyebrows, his eyes narrowed in the surprisingly bright room. Sam swallows back impotence while Dean staggers into the bathroom.
He thinks about the soup packets. Lucky choice; sometimes Dean manages soup.
With a fresh washcloth in hand he pads into the bathroom. Dean is a murky shape crouched in front of the toilet, spitting weakly and sighing.
"Here." Sam wets the cloth and hunkers down next to him, wipes Dean's sweaty face gently. "I'll get you some water and a pill."
Dean spits one more time, eyes closed, and whispers, "Two."
"Okay."
~~~~~~~~~~~
Sleep, once spurned, is a jealous little bitch and bids Sam adieu after that. Just as well; Dean pukes up the pills an hour later, crying a little with vomit in his lap. Sam cleans up what he can, levers Dean over to the other bed and climbs in with him, staring sightlessly over Dean's matted hair while he covers Dean's ear with his hand.
The snow titters and scrapes at the window, the wind a ceaseless bitter moan. After a while Sam gives Dean a shot from their dwindling supply of morphine, and watches him finally rest.
At dawn he takes out his cell phone.
"Hey, Bobby," he says softly. "Sorry to call so early."
"Naw, I was up," Bobby lies. "Y'all on your way? Heard the weather's pretty crappy east of here."
"Yeah. We're in the middle of that, so we're running a little behind schedule, might be a couple days late."
"Hell, that ain't a problem. I'll just call and reschedule the dancing girls."
Sam smiles. "You do that."
A long, not uncomfortable pause. "How's he doing," Bobby asks gruffly.
"He's all right. Sleeping, I gave him a shot. His head was hurting."
Bobby's silence is agonizing.
"It's what he wants," Sam whispers. He doesn't know who he needs to make understand that. Bobby, or himself.
"Christ." Bobby clears his throat twice. "I got stuff. Supplies. He take anything?"
"No. Just for the pain. Palliative, I guess that's what they call it."
"Well. You boys get on over here, soon as you can."
Sam pretends he doesn't hear the rest of it -- while you can -- and nods at nothing. "We will," he says gently, and hangs up.
~~~~~~~~
The wind has slowed by noon, still gusting, like the occasional shivers of a sleeping dog, but the snow continues, larger flakes, fatter. The Impala is an anonymous shape in the empty parking lot, featureless.
Sam heats water in the microwave, and mixes a bowl of soup for Dean at noon. It stays down. Morphine is a good drug for Dean; doesn't make him weird and hallucinatory like it does Sam. Just mellow, slow and sweet.
"Fuckin'," Dean says, squinting out the window. "Where'd you drive us, Siberia?"
Sam grins. "Local equivalent."
"No shit." Dean scrubs his hands through his hair, the hectic snow-light touching on the clean
white scar curving over his left ear. He looks at Sam. "Man, you look like you got hit by a bus. Might as well sleep. We ain't goin' nowhere."
Sam nods.
He dozes sitting up in bed, laptop warm on his thighs. Wakes up hungry, and raids the stash of non-perishable crap Dean keeps in the supply duffel.
Dean watches him from his seat by the window, a surprisingly comfortable armchair now mostly hidden behind the two blankets Dean dragged over for warmth.
"You call Bobby?"
"Yeah."
"Good. Man likes to keep a schedule, you noticed that?"
"He's making an exception for us."
Dean nods slowly, turning to gaze out the window at the snow. "Yeah," he murmurs, "he has a tendency to do that."
~~~
Dean falls asleep around four, swaddled in blankets, and Sam sits on the edge of the bed, his elbows on his knees, and watches him. The snow-light is impersonally cruel, setting every feature in harsh relief. The fine, too-visible bones in Dean's thin face, the smudges of weariness and pain beneath his closed, blue-veined eyelids. His lips are chapped and rough.
I love you, Sam thinks, and swallows sour grief.
Sometime around dusk, Dean wakes up, mouth drawn down in a familiar grimace of headache, and Sam gives him another shot of morphine. It's still snowing, gentler but steady.
Dean drinks his hot chocolate, and Sam wipes a drip off his chin and smiles.
END
The snow starts about ten miles outside town. By the time Sam sees a lit motel sign - vacancy, thank you Jesus - it's already getting slick on the road, and the wind is hissing strong enough around the Impala to push even her Detroit steel bulk a little.
In the passenger seat Dean doesn't even twitch, mouth slightly open and face as relaxed and unlined as a baby's. The greedy cold fingers of wind grasping inside the open driver's-side door only make him shift and turn his face against his shoulder. Sam clutches his jacket around him and hurries into the office.
Turns out there's only one other guest in the entire 12-room motel tonight, most folks smart enough to stay off the roads, night like this, says the owner, who nevertheless hands over a plastic bag with packets of dry soup and hot-chocolate mix along with the key. "Microwave and fridge in the room," he explains with a small air of pride.
"Good," Sam says. "Ah - thanks."
"Do yourself a favor. Don't plan on going anywhere next couple days. This storm's gonna be a real booger."
It already is, as far as Sam's concerned, and he curses under his breath while he pulls the car back to the end of the row. Dean's stirring, ghostly pale in the snow-lit murk, and Sam smiles. "Home sweet random motel, dude."
Dean nods and fumbles for the door handle.
The room's fine, nicer than some. Dean goes straight to the head, and Sam can't help listening, paused with his jacket off one arm while the toilet flushes and the faucet turns on. He goes to turn up the heat.
"Where are we?" Dean asks hoarsely when he comes out, scrubbing at his face with a washcloth. "It's snowing, right? I didn't dream that?"
"More like blizzarding." Sam turns and smiles, ignores the lampblack smears under Dean's too-big eyes. "This, unless I really read the map wrong, is Viola, Wisconsin. Otherwise known as end of the road, for the moment." He lifts his chin. "How you feeling?"
"Urghh." Dean drops the washcloth on the bed nearest the door and follows it, not even taking his boots off first. "Wake me up at New Year's."
It's March 18th. "Deal," Sam says softly.
~~~~~~~
He catches up on metafilter and the Onion until his eyes won't focus anymore, and falls asleep with the laptop tucked against his chest like a teddy bear, Dean's slow, even breathing barely audible above the snow pattering against the one window.
No idea what time it is when he wakes up. Only that Dean is sitting up, scrabbling at the bedclothes.
"Hey," Sam says groggily, slinging his feet over the side of the bed and reaching across the tiny gap between the beds. "You okay? Need something?"
There's no reply, only Dean finally extricating himself. There is a deep line gouged between his eyebrows, his eyes narrowed in the surprisingly bright room. Sam swallows back impotence while Dean staggers into the bathroom.
He thinks about the soup packets. Lucky choice; sometimes Dean manages soup.
With a fresh washcloth in hand he pads into the bathroom. Dean is a murky shape crouched in front of the toilet, spitting weakly and sighing.
"Here." Sam wets the cloth and hunkers down next to him, wipes Dean's sweaty face gently. "I'll get you some water and a pill."
Dean spits one more time, eyes closed, and whispers, "Two."
"Okay."
~~~~~~~~~~~
Sleep, once spurned, is a jealous little bitch and bids Sam adieu after that. Just as well; Dean pukes up the pills an hour later, crying a little with vomit in his lap. Sam cleans up what he can, levers Dean over to the other bed and climbs in with him, staring sightlessly over Dean's matted hair while he covers Dean's ear with his hand.
The snow titters and scrapes at the window, the wind a ceaseless bitter moan. After a while Sam gives Dean a shot from their dwindling supply of morphine, and watches him finally rest.
At dawn he takes out his cell phone.
"Hey, Bobby," he says softly. "Sorry to call so early."
"Naw, I was up," Bobby lies. "Y'all on your way? Heard the weather's pretty crappy east of here."
"Yeah. We're in the middle of that, so we're running a little behind schedule, might be a couple days late."
"Hell, that ain't a problem. I'll just call and reschedule the dancing girls."
Sam smiles. "You do that."
A long, not uncomfortable pause. "How's he doing," Bobby asks gruffly.
"He's all right. Sleeping, I gave him a shot. His head was hurting."
Bobby's silence is agonizing.
"It's what he wants," Sam whispers. He doesn't know who he needs to make understand that. Bobby, or himself.
"Christ." Bobby clears his throat twice. "I got stuff. Supplies. He take anything?"
"No. Just for the pain. Palliative, I guess that's what they call it."
"Well. You boys get on over here, soon as you can."
Sam pretends he doesn't hear the rest of it -- while you can -- and nods at nothing. "We will," he says gently, and hangs up.
~~~~~~~~
The wind has slowed by noon, still gusting, like the occasional shivers of a sleeping dog, but the snow continues, larger flakes, fatter. The Impala is an anonymous shape in the empty parking lot, featureless.
Sam heats water in the microwave, and mixes a bowl of soup for Dean at noon. It stays down. Morphine is a good drug for Dean; doesn't make him weird and hallucinatory like it does Sam. Just mellow, slow and sweet.
"Fuckin'," Dean says, squinting out the window. "Where'd you drive us, Siberia?"
Sam grins. "Local equivalent."
"No shit." Dean scrubs his hands through his hair, the hectic snow-light touching on the clean
white scar curving over his left ear. He looks at Sam. "Man, you look like you got hit by a bus. Might as well sleep. We ain't goin' nowhere."
Sam nods.
He dozes sitting up in bed, laptop warm on his thighs. Wakes up hungry, and raids the stash of non-perishable crap Dean keeps in the supply duffel.
Dean watches him from his seat by the window, a surprisingly comfortable armchair now mostly hidden behind the two blankets Dean dragged over for warmth.
"You call Bobby?"
"Yeah."
"Good. Man likes to keep a schedule, you noticed that?"
"He's making an exception for us."
Dean nods slowly, turning to gaze out the window at the snow. "Yeah," he murmurs, "he has a tendency to do that."
~~~
Dean falls asleep around four, swaddled in blankets, and Sam sits on the edge of the bed, his elbows on his knees, and watches him. The snow-light is impersonally cruel, setting every feature in harsh relief. The fine, too-visible bones in Dean's thin face, the smudges of weariness and pain beneath his closed, blue-veined eyelids. His lips are chapped and rough.
I love you, Sam thinks, and swallows sour grief.
Sometime around dusk, Dean wakes up, mouth drawn down in a familiar grimace of headache, and Sam gives him another shot of morphine. It's still snowing, gentler but steady.
Dean drinks his hot chocolate, and Sam wipes a drip off his chin and smiles.
END