[Supernatural] - Quiet Times
It was funny how dives all across the country started to look the same. If they weren’t a chain, they would often have some sort of theme in an effort to make themselves “classy” or “distinct.” It rarely worked. Astro motels with groovy space-themed amenities, ocean-front motels that fancied themselves underwater grottoes, rustic western dives with plastic antlers mounted over the beds - Sam and Dean had seen all of it. But under the kitsch and the cheap, trashy decorations, they were mostly all the same. The beds were here, the desk there. The same cheap linens covered the same worn mattresses and the same dingy carpet with threadbare patches in the same corners never changed.
What was even funnier was that the Winchester brothers had learned to call this home.
Sam walked through the door first, carelessly throwing the keys onto the cluttered desk without even looking. Dean followed. A limp disrupted his swagger and he was drenched and covered in debris that neither of them wanted to know the contents of. The two of them were uncharacteristically silent as they returned. It was as though their weariness had deprived them of speech.
With a grunt, Sam sank into the edge of a bed, watching as Dean walked towards the bathroom. The older brother began to peel off his clothing and toss it unceremoniously to the mildewed tile, where it remained, looking like a piece of roadkill. Sam glanced over at his brother, saw that Dean had already begun to fill the tub with scalding hot water and pushed himself up with a second grunt. As Dean wordlessly climbed into the tub, he walked out the door.
Dean could still smell and taste the combination of salt and sulfur even when he was in the bath. Hell, nobody ever said this job was easy, but even Dad complained about the smell. The limp was just something you accepted as part of the life, part of the job, but the smell got to him every time. At least the limp would go away in a few days.
At least the possession had gone well. Not an easy one by any means, but when were they ever easy? In the end, the bitch was back in hell and he and Sammy were okay. Dean closed his eyes. Yeah, Sammy was okay.
The door opened and closed again and Sam walked into the bathroom, kicking aside the pile of ruined clothes as he did so. A sharp rap on Dean’s shoulder woke him up and he looked up at the amazing sight of his brother holding two ice-cold beers. Sam handed him one and twisted of the cap on the other, taking a long, meditative swig. Dean followed suit, tipping a third of the beer down his throat as he sank down deeper into the scalding water. Sam took a seat on the lid of the toilet, staring off into space as the beer remained carelessly wrapped in his hands.
Dean looked at him for a minute, then shut his eyes again. He held the bottle to his lips, then set it down on the floor, just below his dangling fingers. Several minutes passed and Dean wondered how cold he would be when he woke up if he fell asleep in the water.
Strong fingers suddenly began to knead at the rock-hard muscles in his shoulders. Dean didn’t need to see behind him to know that Sammy was there with that line between his eyes that meant he was worried. He’d probably even arranged for the beers to be there and cold when they got bad. Clever kid, Sammy.
As the tension in his shoulders began to melt away with the smell of sulfur, Dean reached behind him and felt his fingers brush against warm skin and messy hair. Sam moved his cheek into Dean’s reach, although his hands didn’t stop massaging. Words weren’t necessary.
~
What was even funnier was that the Winchester brothers had learned to call this home.
Sam walked through the door first, carelessly throwing the keys onto the cluttered desk without even looking. Dean followed. A limp disrupted his swagger and he was drenched and covered in debris that neither of them wanted to know the contents of. The two of them were uncharacteristically silent as they returned. It was as though their weariness had deprived them of speech.
With a grunt, Sam sank into the edge of a bed, watching as Dean walked towards the bathroom. The older brother began to peel off his clothing and toss it unceremoniously to the mildewed tile, where it remained, looking like a piece of roadkill. Sam glanced over at his brother, saw that Dean had already begun to fill the tub with scalding hot water and pushed himself up with a second grunt. As Dean wordlessly climbed into the tub, he walked out the door.
Dean could still smell and taste the combination of salt and sulfur even when he was in the bath. Hell, nobody ever said this job was easy, but even Dad complained about the smell. The limp was just something you accepted as part of the life, part of the job, but the smell got to him every time. At least the limp would go away in a few days.
At least the possession had gone well. Not an easy one by any means, but when were they ever easy? In the end, the bitch was back in hell and he and Sammy were okay. Dean closed his eyes. Yeah, Sammy was okay.
The door opened and closed again and Sam walked into the bathroom, kicking aside the pile of ruined clothes as he did so. A sharp rap on Dean’s shoulder woke him up and he looked up at the amazing sight of his brother holding two ice-cold beers. Sam handed him one and twisted of the cap on the other, taking a long, meditative swig. Dean followed suit, tipping a third of the beer down his throat as he sank down deeper into the scalding water. Sam took a seat on the lid of the toilet, staring off into space as the beer remained carelessly wrapped in his hands.
Dean looked at him for a minute, then shut his eyes again. He held the bottle to his lips, then set it down on the floor, just below his dangling fingers. Several minutes passed and Dean wondered how cold he would be when he woke up if he fell asleep in the water.
Strong fingers suddenly began to knead at the rock-hard muscles in his shoulders. Dean didn’t need to see behind him to know that Sammy was there with that line between his eyes that meant he was worried. He’d probably even arranged for the beers to be there and cold when they got bad. Clever kid, Sammy.
As the tension in his shoulders began to melt away with the smell of sulfur, Dean reached behind him and felt his fingers brush against warm skin and messy hair. Sam moved his cheek into Dean’s reach, although his hands didn’t stop massaging. Words weren’t necessary.
~