Two fer the price of... well, nothing.
Title: Untitled (Ramble On)
Fandom: Supernatural
Wordcount: 210-ish
Rating: G; gen
Characters: Sam, (Dean, Impala)
Summary: The Winchesters, the Road, how they go ever on and on.
Notes: I stupidly like this. I was trying for both specifics and a general endless quality. It's been on my word doc for awhile. I like this better than the other one, this makes more sense. I think.
His throat was dry, filled with disuse and cracked pavement. The endless stretch of highway never faded, never diminished in front of them, telephone poles like rungs of a fallen ladder. It had been sunny for days, hours, years. He swallowed reflexively. They’d stop soon, under what shade they could find. Not for long, never for long, just long enough. He would have a beer then.
The air was fast and smooth through his hair. The windows were down, on his side in the front, on the opposite side in the back. A few papers rustled, trying to find flight, restless. His knee bounced idly, without pattern, phantom wards against an old ache. There was a bird in the distance, a siren in whirring lights, a neon sign, a breeze making waves in oceans of corn, the creak of a farmhouse crumbling forgotten, old bridges painted new. Zeppelin played in green numbers clicking over, Metallica in huffed whispers against his ankle, guitar solos and tinny vocals, Dean’s deep steady breaths, and there, always, the constant purr thrum-rumble of the engine.
The sun was warm and worn, leather sticky with heat and soft with care, warming his arm further still. Sam closed his eyes and the road passed beneath them.
Fandom: Supernatural
Wordcount: 210-ish
Rating: G; gen
Characters: Sam, (Dean, Impala)
Summary: The Winchesters, the Road, how they go ever on and on.
Notes: I stupidly like this. I was trying for both specifics and a general endless quality. It's been on my word doc for awhile. I like this better than the other one, this makes more sense. I think.
His throat was dry, filled with disuse and cracked pavement. The endless stretch of highway never faded, never diminished in front of them, telephone poles like rungs of a fallen ladder. It had been sunny for days, hours, years. He swallowed reflexively. They’d stop soon, under what shade they could find. Not for long, never for long, just long enough. He would have a beer then.
The air was fast and smooth through his hair. The windows were down, on his side in the front, on the opposite side in the back. A few papers rustled, trying to find flight, restless. His knee bounced idly, without pattern, phantom wards against an old ache. There was a bird in the distance, a siren in whirring lights, a neon sign, a breeze making waves in oceans of corn, the creak of a farmhouse crumbling forgotten, old bridges painted new. Zeppelin played in green numbers clicking over, Metallica in huffed whispers against his ankle, guitar solos and tinny vocals, Dean’s deep steady breaths, and there, always, the constant purr thrum-rumble of the engine.
The sun was warm and worn, leather sticky with heat and soft with care, warming his arm further still. Sam closed his eyes and the road passed beneath them.