WIP

[twilightshours]

Sam wakes up on a musty, dusty couch of ratty polyester suede with holes and rips and dead moths falling off when he turns and sits upright. He's got a foul and sour taste on his tongue and the room is foggy and hot with light pouring in through broken windows; it reminds him of the time they had wound up in Tombstone, of all places, rounding up a few ghosts in a ghost town. Now, the room is patched up with holy sunbeams but there still manages to be dark corners and misplaced shadows. The floors are covered with dirt and mice droppings, the sky outside is the blue of early morning and touched with low-looming clouds. The condition of the house they're squatting in may be par for the course, but they don't often get a second story. There was only one bed with a mattress, so now Sam's sore, half from the lumpy couch and half from the previous night's hustling that went a little less successful than normal. He looks around the room and is about to make a loud comment to Dean about what the state of their living conditions might signify about their failure rates at pool but Dean isn't there.

The bed is made and Dean never makes his bed, but that doesn't mean anything, right?