Timbre 1/1
Over at mad_server's sneezy-time meme, de_nugis wanted: Set some time s1, when the boys are still getting reacquainted. Dean has a horrible cold and his eyes are sore and itchy. He can't watch TV, he can't read, he can't look at a computer screen. Sam offers to read aloud to him. Schmoopy role reversal with memories of wee!Dean reading to wee!Sam, and Sam makes an inspired choice for what Dean would like, so Dean gets a hint that Sam still knows him and respects him, even if he's been gone for a while. Extra bonus for Dean nodding off but wanting to hear one more chapter.
NOTE: All quotes are real, from Walter Lord's book that Sam is reading.
He let out a moan as he burrowed deeper out of the light.
"Dean, man, it's not that bad."
"Yeah, for you. You can still watch TV. You can still read on the computer. I can't even read a blasted newspaper!" Dean snarled, the effect only moderately blunted by his stuffed nose.
The cold from hell had lodged in his sinus passages and his eyes had taken the brunt of it. They were itchy and watered so much he could barely see -- and when he read, they burned.
His usual ways of distracting himself were useless. He was bored beyond belief.
And a bored Dean was a crabby Dean.
"Hey," Sam finally said. "If you'll take your meds, I'll read to you."
"Yeah, something kiddy, I bet," Dean snorted. But he did take his medication.
He heard Sam settle in beside his bed. He heard Sam open a book. He heard Sam clear his throat.
"High in the crow's nest of the New White Star Liner Titanic, Lookout Frederick Fleet peered into a dazzling night."
Dean gasped. A Night To Remember. Sam was reading him A Night To Remember!
"It was calm, clear, and bitterly cold."
Dean had been in love with that book since he had been ten years old and found it left behind in a motel room. He must have read it several times over the years. The story never grew old.
"There was no moon, but the cloudless sky blazed with stars."
And Sam's voice.... the kid was reading like he was made to read aloud. The timbre of his voice was lower than when he spoke. He didn't so much read the words as caress them -- painting brilliant pictures in his brother's mind.
"Keep going," he whispered to Sam as he felt sleep start to drag him under, letting the low timbre of his brother's voice carry him away.
"The Atlantic was like polished plate glass; people later said they had never seen it so smooth."
Dean sighed and he was on the ship, on that sea, on that night, with his brother's deep voice stroking the words into his brain.
He knew he would be all right.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Never before in his life had Dean hated getting well.
Before this, it had always been impatience and eagerness and overdoing.
But for the last five nights, Sam had read to him little bits of A Night To Remember. Just little bits, never very much. He'd never made it through a full chapter and Sam had gone back and begun again a few paragraphs back and ....
And Dean was well enough to travel now. His packing was full of a bit of anger, and he felt stupid for getting so angry over such a little thing that it was ridiculous even to get angry over.
Come on, what 27 year old man liked getting read out loud to?
It was stupid, to be upset over something so ridiculous.
But still....Dean was well now.
They were moving on.
And he knew that meant that The Reading Hour was over.
It was never mentioned all the way into the next state and the next motel room. It was never mentioned all during supper and during an evening of research to figure out why Dad had sent them the coordinates to this town.
But at one AM, Dean's eyes were half-masting. His body had apparently had enough of being awake. "I'm gonna hit it, dude. I'm wasted."
Sam looked up from his laptop. "Yeah, okay. I'll be there in dreamland with you in about half an hour."
"Half an hour, you'll try to rest? You promise?"
"Yeah, Dean. I promise."
"Okay. Hold you to that, Sammy." He brushed his teeth and took care of other necessary things before stripping down to his boxers and t-shirt and making sure his knife was underneath his pillow.
Then he lay down and tried to get comfortable without listening to Sam's rumbling voice read to him.
Stupid, feeling like a little kid again....
He heard the click of the laptop closing. He heard Sam moving around the room.
Dean's eyes flew open as the bed suddenly dipped. "Sammy? ...the hell?"
One of Sam's big hands pressed between his shoulderblades. "Shhh. S'okay. Just a little unfinished business."
"....what?"
Then came the impossible.
Sam's voice lowered into that rich, warm timbre Dean was so familiar with and Walter Lord's familiar words were coming off his tongue a moment later.
"Chapter 3: 'God Himself Could Not Sink This Ship'. The door to the cooks' quarters whacked open against the iron cot of Assistant Baker Charles Burgess. He woke up with a start and stared at Second Steward George Dodd standing in the doorway. Normally a rotund, jolly man, Dodd looked serious as he called, 'Get up, lads, we're sinking!'"
Dean stared in shock for a second before the corners of his mouth slowly rose and love detonated in his chest.
Then he, too, was sinking. Borne to pleasant dreams by the unexpected warm action and familiar low voice reading to him.
And there was nothing stupid or ridiculous about it at all.
It was brotherly love.
NOTE: All quotes are real, from Walter Lord's book that Sam is reading.
He let out a moan as he burrowed deeper out of the light.
"Dean, man, it's not that bad."
"Yeah, for you. You can still watch TV. You can still read on the computer. I can't even read a blasted newspaper!" Dean snarled, the effect only moderately blunted by his stuffed nose.
The cold from hell had lodged in his sinus passages and his eyes had taken the brunt of it. They were itchy and watered so much he could barely see -- and when he read, they burned.
His usual ways of distracting himself were useless. He was bored beyond belief.
And a bored Dean was a crabby Dean.
"Hey," Sam finally said. "If you'll take your meds, I'll read to you."
"Yeah, something kiddy, I bet," Dean snorted. But he did take his medication.
He heard Sam settle in beside his bed. He heard Sam open a book. He heard Sam clear his throat.
"High in the crow's nest of the New White Star Liner Titanic, Lookout Frederick Fleet peered into a dazzling night."
Dean gasped. A Night To Remember. Sam was reading him A Night To Remember!
"It was calm, clear, and bitterly cold."
Dean had been in love with that book since he had been ten years old and found it left behind in a motel room. He must have read it several times over the years. The story never grew old.
"There was no moon, but the cloudless sky blazed with stars."
And Sam's voice.... the kid was reading like he was made to read aloud. The timbre of his voice was lower than when he spoke. He didn't so much read the words as caress them -- painting brilliant pictures in his brother's mind.
"Keep going," he whispered to Sam as he felt sleep start to drag him under, letting the low timbre of his brother's voice carry him away.
"The Atlantic was like polished plate glass; people later said they had never seen it so smooth."
Dean sighed and he was on the ship, on that sea, on that night, with his brother's deep voice stroking the words into his brain.
He knew he would be all right.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Never before in his life had Dean hated getting well.
Before this, it had always been impatience and eagerness and overdoing.
But for the last five nights, Sam had read to him little bits of A Night To Remember. Just little bits, never very much. He'd never made it through a full chapter and Sam had gone back and begun again a few paragraphs back and ....
And Dean was well enough to travel now. His packing was full of a bit of anger, and he felt stupid for getting so angry over such a little thing that it was ridiculous even to get angry over.
Come on, what 27 year old man liked getting read out loud to?
It was stupid, to be upset over something so ridiculous.
But still....Dean was well now.
They were moving on.
And he knew that meant that The Reading Hour was over.
It was never mentioned all the way into the next state and the next motel room. It was never mentioned all during supper and during an evening of research to figure out why Dad had sent them the coordinates to this town.
But at one AM, Dean's eyes were half-masting. His body had apparently had enough of being awake. "I'm gonna hit it, dude. I'm wasted."
Sam looked up from his laptop. "Yeah, okay. I'll be there in dreamland with you in about half an hour."
"Half an hour, you'll try to rest? You promise?"
"Yeah, Dean. I promise."
"Okay. Hold you to that, Sammy." He brushed his teeth and took care of other necessary things before stripping down to his boxers and t-shirt and making sure his knife was underneath his pillow.
Then he lay down and tried to get comfortable without listening to Sam's rumbling voice read to him.
Stupid, feeling like a little kid again....
He heard the click of the laptop closing. He heard Sam moving around the room.
Dean's eyes flew open as the bed suddenly dipped. "Sammy? ...the hell?"
One of Sam's big hands pressed between his shoulderblades. "Shhh. S'okay. Just a little unfinished business."
"....what?"
Then came the impossible.
Sam's voice lowered into that rich, warm timbre Dean was so familiar with and Walter Lord's familiar words were coming off his tongue a moment later.
"Chapter 3: 'God Himself Could Not Sink This Ship'. The door to the cooks' quarters whacked open against the iron cot of Assistant Baker Charles Burgess. He woke up with a start and stared at Second Steward George Dodd standing in the doorway. Normally a rotund, jolly man, Dodd looked serious as he called, 'Get up, lads, we're sinking!'"
Dean stared in shock for a second before the corners of his mouth slowly rose and love detonated in his chest.
Then he, too, was sinking. Borne to pleasant dreams by the unexpected warm action and familiar low voice reading to him.
And there was nothing stupid or ridiculous about it at all.
It was brotherly love.