Feb 2006 - SPN - Bodies In Motion 2
Soup won the poll when I posted Part One, so soup it was! And here is part two, again, with poll at foot. Come play! Is fun. From this end, anyway. Y'all are probably thinking "bitch, just WRITE it already." *grin*
Bodies In Motion, part 2
Supernatural
Sam/Dean, eventually
With huge thanks and love to monkeydom, who puts up with my nattering and offers marvelous support.
***
Sam doesn't remember getting to the motel, but he has a vague impression of Dean saying something in a tight hard voice to the desk clerk, and then Dean swearing as he half-carries Sam through a door, and then nothing.
He wakes up nineteen hours later with a mouth that feels like the inside of an old gym sock, eyes gummed shut and blind, and the cooling clammy sweat of too much sleep between his shoulderblades. He can't remember where is is for a short panicked moment, and then he hears the rustle of movement, the low murmur of Dean's voice talking on the phone, and he relaxes, letting himself come back on-line slowly. Dean's here, and that means that things must be at least marginally under control.
"I've got soup." The voice is still quiet, edged just lightly with impatience, and a light clicks on somewhere, making Sam want to burrow under the bedcovers and hide his eyes, like a mole. "Get up, Sam, you're way past time to take your meds."
Sam wants to tell Dean that he thinks it's more of a spiritual malaise than anything treatable by antibiotics, that the human psyche isn't built to handle constant travel at 75 miles an hour, that really he just needs to sit still for a few days and he'll be fine. But he isn't really feeling up to having that particular fight with Dean right now, so he sits up and blindly gropes for the glass of water he knows Dean has, for the pills that follow after, and somehow after all that he's sitting up and blinking in the dim light, feeling like an owl.
Dean's looking better, he notes in passing. He must have slept some too.
"Come on, Rip Van," he's moving around the room, shoving something in a bag, shrugging into his jacket. "Up and at 'em. Shower, too, you stink."
"Nice, thanks, that's great." Sam doesn't move. "Are we leaving?"
Dean cocks an eyebrow at him. "I am leaving, yes. You are staying here, eating that goddamn soup--" he points at a white paper takeout bag on the grungy low dresser-- "and watching bad tv until you quit looking like that. I'll be back in a couple hours, and I got my cellphone on."
The relief is almost dizzying. They're staying. Dean is going out to--do whatever it is he does, but Sam is staying. He crumples back onto the pillow and waves absently, and is asleep again almost before he hears Dean turn the lock on his way out.
***
Two more hours and he comes awake slowly, feeling like if he sleeps any more he will be dead and that'll be it, curtains for Sam. The thought is enough to get him moving, twisting under the sheet, stretching and feeling his muscles catch and slide and wake up, one by one. There's a light on somewhere, just bright enough for him to see the ceiling when he opens his eyes. It takes him a long moment to realize what the ache down low in his belly is, and when he does, he lets out a huff of laughter that's almost a sob. It's been so long since he's woken up with morning wood, he'd almost started to wonder if it was broken. His hand is halfway down his body, eager to say hello to his cock, when he hears a rustle and sigh, and snaps his hand back.
"Motherfucking motherfuck," it's a low mutter, and Sam peers cautiously over the side of the bed. Dean is sitting on the floor, light from the open bathroom door behind him and illuminating the phone book on the floor by his crosslegged knees. He's scribbling in a notebook, and chewing on the end of the pen, and he looks about ten years old. Sam feels a wave of helpless fondness break over him, almost bringing tears to his eyes. Maybe he's still pretty tired, he realizes. Maybe he should sleep some more. Because being at the edge of tears over his obnoxious brother sitting on the floor is just too weird for him to think about.
"What-" he has to clear his throat, sounding rusty from disuse. "What are you doing down there?"
Dean barely spares him a glance. "You may have noticed that this lovely establishment doesn't have a table. Or chairs. Or anything but a bed. So the floor works." He gnaws hard on the end of the pen, then flicks distracted eyes up to meet Sam's. "Do you know if there's a hierarchy of hallowed ground? I mean, do the Catholics do it better, or the Lutherans, or somebody? Or are they all pretty much the same."
Bemused, Sam props his chin on his hands, crossed on the edge of the bed. "I have no idea," he admits. "I"ve never really noticed a difference, I guess, so they're probably all the same. Why?"
"I'm making a map," Dean flips the page up, showing off his scribbles. "We mostly don't stay in once place long enough, but since we're stuck here for-freaking-ever, I figure we better know where there's some hallowed ground. Just in case we gotta peel something nasty off y-one of us." Sam makes a face at the slip, but doesn't comment, so Dean goes on. "I got routes all mapped out."
"That's, um." Sam honestly has no idea what that is, but it's clearly a decent idea, so he nods. "Do you think it's going to find us, if we stay here two weeks?" It's blunt and direct, but he honestly wants to know what Dean is thinking.
"I have no idea, Sammy-my-boy, but we're putting salt around the bed anyway." With a decisive last chomp to the pen--Sam really had no idea his brother was so orally fixated, or maybe it's just one of those things he tries not to think about--he flips the notebook closed and gets to his feet. "Now you're finally awake, I'm going job hunting. Since you're all pale and fainting and shit. Guess I gotta be the man of the house again."
"Yeah, right." Sam feels an unwilling grin tugging at his mouth, and shakes his head. "Whatever, Dean."
"Whatever, Sam," Dean mocks back gently, opening the shades. Sam is shocked to see that it's broad daylight outside, and blinks in the light. "Your soup's cold, and I wasn't kidding about that shower. It's starting to smell funk-ass in here, go wash yourself or something."
"I'm pretty sure that's you," Sam fires back, but given the still-excited state of his cock and the smell of his own hair, a shower suddenly sounds like the best idea ever. "Oh, hey." His words stop Dean at the door. "Listen, don't hustle, okay? No scams, no conning little old ladies, don't do any of your usual crap that'll get us kicked out of town. Seriously, Dean. I *gotta* follow doctors orders, here."
Some undicepherable expression flickers across Dean's face, something Sam can't quite identify in his eyes, but it's instantly covered by a grin that almost looks real. "C'mon now, Sam. Would I do that to you?" Silky incincerity drips from every word, and he closes the door behind himself just as Sam wings a pillow at him in an unexpected burst of irritated energy.
"Fuck you," he mutters to empty air, and gets up on wobbly legs to make himself clean again.
***
Bodies In Motion, part 2
Supernatural
Sam/Dean, eventually
With huge thanks and love to monkeydom, who puts up with my nattering and offers marvelous support.
***
Sam doesn't remember getting to the motel, but he has a vague impression of Dean saying something in a tight hard voice to the desk clerk, and then Dean swearing as he half-carries Sam through a door, and then nothing.
He wakes up nineteen hours later with a mouth that feels like the inside of an old gym sock, eyes gummed shut and blind, and the cooling clammy sweat of too much sleep between his shoulderblades. He can't remember where is is for a short panicked moment, and then he hears the rustle of movement, the low murmur of Dean's voice talking on the phone, and he relaxes, letting himself come back on-line slowly. Dean's here, and that means that things must be at least marginally under control.
"I've got soup." The voice is still quiet, edged just lightly with impatience, and a light clicks on somewhere, making Sam want to burrow under the bedcovers and hide his eyes, like a mole. "Get up, Sam, you're way past time to take your meds."
Sam wants to tell Dean that he thinks it's more of a spiritual malaise than anything treatable by antibiotics, that the human psyche isn't built to handle constant travel at 75 miles an hour, that really he just needs to sit still for a few days and he'll be fine. But he isn't really feeling up to having that particular fight with Dean right now, so he sits up and blindly gropes for the glass of water he knows Dean has, for the pills that follow after, and somehow after all that he's sitting up and blinking in the dim light, feeling like an owl.
Dean's looking better, he notes in passing. He must have slept some too.
"Come on, Rip Van," he's moving around the room, shoving something in a bag, shrugging into his jacket. "Up and at 'em. Shower, too, you stink."
"Nice, thanks, that's great." Sam doesn't move. "Are we leaving?"
Dean cocks an eyebrow at him. "I am leaving, yes. You are staying here, eating that goddamn soup--" he points at a white paper takeout bag on the grungy low dresser-- "and watching bad tv until you quit looking like that. I'll be back in a couple hours, and I got my cellphone on."
The relief is almost dizzying. They're staying. Dean is going out to--do whatever it is he does, but Sam is staying. He crumples back onto the pillow and waves absently, and is asleep again almost before he hears Dean turn the lock on his way out.
***
Two more hours and he comes awake slowly, feeling like if he sleeps any more he will be dead and that'll be it, curtains for Sam. The thought is enough to get him moving, twisting under the sheet, stretching and feeling his muscles catch and slide and wake up, one by one. There's a light on somewhere, just bright enough for him to see the ceiling when he opens his eyes. It takes him a long moment to realize what the ache down low in his belly is, and when he does, he lets out a huff of laughter that's almost a sob. It's been so long since he's woken up with morning wood, he'd almost started to wonder if it was broken. His hand is halfway down his body, eager to say hello to his cock, when he hears a rustle and sigh, and snaps his hand back.
"Motherfucking motherfuck," it's a low mutter, and Sam peers cautiously over the side of the bed. Dean is sitting on the floor, light from the open bathroom door behind him and illuminating the phone book on the floor by his crosslegged knees. He's scribbling in a notebook, and chewing on the end of the pen, and he looks about ten years old. Sam feels a wave of helpless fondness break over him, almost bringing tears to his eyes. Maybe he's still pretty tired, he realizes. Maybe he should sleep some more. Because being at the edge of tears over his obnoxious brother sitting on the floor is just too weird for him to think about.
"What-" he has to clear his throat, sounding rusty from disuse. "What are you doing down there?"
Dean barely spares him a glance. "You may have noticed that this lovely establishment doesn't have a table. Or chairs. Or anything but a bed. So the floor works." He gnaws hard on the end of the pen, then flicks distracted eyes up to meet Sam's. "Do you know if there's a hierarchy of hallowed ground? I mean, do the Catholics do it better, or the Lutherans, or somebody? Or are they all pretty much the same."
Bemused, Sam props his chin on his hands, crossed on the edge of the bed. "I have no idea," he admits. "I"ve never really noticed a difference, I guess, so they're probably all the same. Why?"
"I'm making a map," Dean flips the page up, showing off his scribbles. "We mostly don't stay in once place long enough, but since we're stuck here for-freaking-ever, I figure we better know where there's some hallowed ground. Just in case we gotta peel something nasty off y-one of us." Sam makes a face at the slip, but doesn't comment, so Dean goes on. "I got routes all mapped out."
"That's, um." Sam honestly has no idea what that is, but it's clearly a decent idea, so he nods. "Do you think it's going to find us, if we stay here two weeks?" It's blunt and direct, but he honestly wants to know what Dean is thinking.
"I have no idea, Sammy-my-boy, but we're putting salt around the bed anyway." With a decisive last chomp to the pen--Sam really had no idea his brother was so orally fixated, or maybe it's just one of those things he tries not to think about--he flips the notebook closed and gets to his feet. "Now you're finally awake, I'm going job hunting. Since you're all pale and fainting and shit. Guess I gotta be the man of the house again."
"Yeah, right." Sam feels an unwilling grin tugging at his mouth, and shakes his head. "Whatever, Dean."
"Whatever, Sam," Dean mocks back gently, opening the shades. Sam is shocked to see that it's broad daylight outside, and blinks in the light. "Your soup's cold, and I wasn't kidding about that shower. It's starting to smell funk-ass in here, go wash yourself or something."
"I'm pretty sure that's you," Sam fires back, but given the still-excited state of his cock and the smell of his own hair, a shower suddenly sounds like the best idea ever. "Oh, hey." His words stop Dean at the door. "Listen, don't hustle, okay? No scams, no conning little old ladies, don't do any of your usual crap that'll get us kicked out of town. Seriously, Dean. I *gotta* follow doctors orders, here."
Some undicepherable expression flickers across Dean's face, something Sam can't quite identify in his eyes, but it's instantly covered by a grin that almost looks real. "C'mon now, Sam. Would I do that to you?" Silky incincerity drips from every word, and he closes the door behind himself just as Sam wings a pillow at him in an unexpected burst of irritated energy.
"Fuck you," he mutters to empty air, and gets up on wobbly legs to make himself clean again.
***