FILL: Sam, gen, uniform, 2/2latentfunctionMay 22 2011, 05:42:15 UTC
Sam unpacked until the spread of weapons on his bed started to rival the display on the other mattress. He ran his finger over the metal and wood before him, and bit his lip while he choose a pair of blades to take. He knew he could get a gun somehow if he ever needed one again, but knives were easy to hide. He tucked the ones he wanted into pairs of socks and then looked at what was left over. He wanted to throw it all away, to sell everything and put the money with the stash he'd been squirreling over the last two years, but he looked at the other bed again, the number of things it'd take to give Dean and Dad a fighting chance, and knew he couldn't get rid of any of it. He didn't want the weapons but they were still good; he couldn't give them away while Dean might need them.
With its heaviest contents arrayed on the coverlet, his bag's sides slumped in against itself. Sam would have more room once he stopped carrying around the life he didn't want, but he didn't have anything to fill that space yet. He ran his hands through his hair and looked around the room, as if there was anything here for him to take. He had a couple of books in the back seat he could bring, and it was getting close enough to when he'd need to leave that he was planning on lifting a set of sheets when they checked out, but everything else was Dad's, and he didn't want to have it, or Dean's, and he didn't want to take it. Dad's jeans from yesterday hanging in the bathroom doorway so the wrinkles could steam out of them, one of Dean's thousands of black tee shirts hanging out of his bag, a single sock on the floor that could have been anyone's, one of Dean's uniform shirts on the pillow --
No way would Dean need his uniform once they hit the road again. It was a blue polo shirt and bigger than he liked to wear, a store-mandated large when he usually wore a medium. The gas station logo was embroidered on the right side and Dean's name -- Dean, his actual name -- was stitched over the left, right over his heart. Sam checked the door again before picking up the shirt, and he glanced over another time before lifting it to his face and sniffing.
It smelled like gas, like the over-processed filling station scent of heat-lamp food and industrial-strength cleansers, like Dean's hair gel, like the muted musk of his brother's old sweat. Sam lowered the shirt and studied it. The store gave Dean three when he was hired and he still had at least one other; he'd been wearing it when he left a few hours before. He'd never wear it again once they left, not ever. Even if Dean didn't think polo shirts were the height of douchiness, it had his name on it. It was asking for trouble.
Sam sucked at the inside of his lip and then turned the shirt inside out, hiding its identifiable marks. He shoved it down at the bottom of his own bag, next to the lump in the lining where he'd sewn his money, and put last year's history book on top of it before smushing everything else into its usual mess. He loaded his weapons away as well, feeling more content about carrying them now that he knew it was only temporary. He'd put them with Dean's stuff before he left, and it'd be almost like he traded them away.
Re: FILL: Sam, gen, uniform, 2/2neros_violinMay 22 2011, 17:34:15 UTC
Oh my goodness, bb. This is so bittersweet and perfect. So many brilliant little details about their lives and his past, with Dean at the center of it all (of course). I love it when you get into Sam's head because you write him so well! <3
With its heaviest contents arrayed on the coverlet, his bag's sides slumped in against itself. Sam would have more room once he stopped carrying around the life he didn't want, but he didn't have anything to fill that space yet. He ran his hands through his hair and looked around the room, as if there was anything here for him to take. He had a couple of books in the back seat he could bring, and it was getting close enough to when he'd need to leave that he was planning on lifting a set of sheets when they checked out, but everything else was Dad's, and he didn't want to have it, or Dean's, and he didn't want to take it. Dad's jeans from yesterday hanging in the bathroom doorway so the wrinkles could steam out of them, one of Dean's thousands of black tee shirts hanging out of his bag, a single sock on the floor that could have been anyone's, one of Dean's uniform shirts on the pillow --
No way would Dean need his uniform once they hit the road again. It was a blue polo shirt and bigger than he liked to wear, a store-mandated large when he usually wore a medium. The gas station logo was embroidered on the right side and Dean's name -- Dean, his actual name -- was stitched over the left, right over his heart. Sam checked the door again before picking up the shirt, and he glanced over another time before lifting it to his face and sniffing.
It smelled like gas, like the over-processed filling station scent of heat-lamp food and industrial-strength cleansers, like Dean's hair gel, like the muted musk of his brother's old sweat. Sam lowered the shirt and studied it. The store gave Dean three when he was hired and he still had at least one other; he'd been wearing it when he left a few hours before. He'd never wear it again once they left, not ever. Even if Dean didn't think polo shirts were the height of douchiness, it had his name on it. It was asking for trouble.
Sam sucked at the inside of his lip and then turned the shirt inside out, hiding its identifiable marks. He shoved it down at the bottom of his own bag, next to the lump in the lining where he'd sewn his money, and put last year's history book on top of it before smushing everything else into its usual mess. He loaded his weapons away as well, feeling more content about carrying them now that he knew it was only temporary. He'd put them with Dean's stuff before he left, and it'd be almost like he traded them away.
Reply
Reply
Reply
Leave a comment