high altitude: bad for inner ears? (who knew)
silverpenlight: I just thought about how lucky dean is that sam doesn't get carsick. that would suck so hard
silverpenlight: (it came about by thinking of how the 6'6 guy I know gets really fucking carsick and always claims it's because of his height)
silverpenlight: he is like "my inner ear is at a different level then yours!"
silverpenlight: I vote you write me carsick!Sam using that excuse on Dean
silverpenlight: for the lulz
wanttobeatree: lmao that's the worst excuse ever
wanttobeatree: OKAY THEN I WILL
“It’s not my fault,” Sam says when he can speak again. “It’s my inner ear.”
He scrubs a hand across his mouth, spits once more onto the grass, and chances a glance over his shoulder. Dean’s leaning against the Impala, arms crossed and eyes wide in a face that’s torn between amusement, fascination, and disgust.
Amusement’s winning.
“Dude,” he says. “What?”
“My inner ear,” Sam insists defensively, helplessly, and oh man is he never gonna hear the end of this one. “It’s at a higher altitude.”
“Dude. What?”
“You just said that,” Sam snaps, rocking back on his heels and glaring down at the dearly departed contents of his stomach. It feels like he chucked up a lung or two while he was at it. Kinda looks like it too. Gross.
Dean’s boots crunch across the gravel, are muted by the grass, and appear all too soon in the field of Sam’s vision. “It bears repeating, man. ‘Cause I’m not 100% sure of what just happened, but from over here it looked one helluva lot like my baby brother just got car sick-”
“It’s a pretty common condition,” Sam mutters.
“Don’t interrupt. One helluva lot like my baby brother just got car sick, and then blamed it on his fucking ear. A man’s gotta ask himself, Sammy: what’s that about?”
Oh yeah, amusement has entered the building.
“I can hear you smirking.”
“Must be your magical inner ears,” Dean retorts, crouching down, and then quite suddenly his face is in Sam’s face, gun-callused fingers catching hold of Sam’s chin and turning his head all about like he’s ten again. “Since when did you get car sick, man?”
“Since I was a kid,” Sam mutters, glaring down at what he can see of the ground from between his brother’s knees. He feels like he’s ten again, too. “I think dad used to tell you I was going to the bathroom, or something. I don’t know. I thought I’d gotten over it.”
“Apparently not.” Dean’s eyes are wide and bright, eyebrows raised. Amused, and fascinated, and- still a little grossed out, yeah- and something else Sam can’t quite put his finger on.
“Guess I’m tired.”
“I guess so,” Dean agrees amiably. He releases Sam’s chin, and just sits and looks at him for a second, before reaching out again and giving Sam’s shoulder a careful squeeze. It’s over as quick as it began, Dean climbing back on to his feet and turning away. “Ready to go, bro?”
“Whenever you are.” Sam unfolds himself slowly, legs still a little shaky and his mouth tastes gross. There’s still another couple hundred miles to go till they reach their latest pin-the-tail-on-the-vengeful-spirit destination, and the sky’s greying at the edges, clouding over.
“Storm’s coming,” Dean calls from the Impala. The door’s open, but he’s not gotten inside yet, leaning against the body with his arms folded on the roof and his brow furrowed in the same way it’s done for twenty years.
“Looks like,” Sam calls back, trudging up the bank to meet his brother.
Amusement, fascination, disgust. Concern.
Yeah. That was it.
silverpenlight: (it came about by thinking of how the 6'6 guy I know gets really fucking carsick and always claims it's because of his height)
silverpenlight: he is like "my inner ear is at a different level then yours!"
silverpenlight: I vote you write me carsick!Sam using that excuse on Dean
silverpenlight: for the lulz
wanttobeatree: lmao that's the worst excuse ever
wanttobeatree: OKAY THEN I WILL
“It’s not my fault,” Sam says when he can speak again. “It’s my inner ear.”
He scrubs a hand across his mouth, spits once more onto the grass, and chances a glance over his shoulder. Dean’s leaning against the Impala, arms crossed and eyes wide in a face that’s torn between amusement, fascination, and disgust.
Amusement’s winning.
“Dude,” he says. “What?”
“My inner ear,” Sam insists defensively, helplessly, and oh man is he never gonna hear the end of this one. “It’s at a higher altitude.”
“Dude. What?”
“You just said that,” Sam snaps, rocking back on his heels and glaring down at the dearly departed contents of his stomach. It feels like he chucked up a lung or two while he was at it. Kinda looks like it too. Gross.
Dean’s boots crunch across the gravel, are muted by the grass, and appear all too soon in the field of Sam’s vision. “It bears repeating, man. ‘Cause I’m not 100% sure of what just happened, but from over here it looked one helluva lot like my baby brother just got car sick-”
“It’s a pretty common condition,” Sam mutters.
“Don’t interrupt. One helluva lot like my baby brother just got car sick, and then blamed it on his fucking ear. A man’s gotta ask himself, Sammy: what’s that about?”
Oh yeah, amusement has entered the building.
“I can hear you smirking.”
“Must be your magical inner ears,” Dean retorts, crouching down, and then quite suddenly his face is in Sam’s face, gun-callused fingers catching hold of Sam’s chin and turning his head all about like he’s ten again. “Since when did you get car sick, man?”
“Since I was a kid,” Sam mutters, glaring down at what he can see of the ground from between his brother’s knees. He feels like he’s ten again, too. “I think dad used to tell you I was going to the bathroom, or something. I don’t know. I thought I’d gotten over it.”
“Apparently not.” Dean’s eyes are wide and bright, eyebrows raised. Amused, and fascinated, and- still a little grossed out, yeah- and something else Sam can’t quite put his finger on.
“Guess I’m tired.”
“I guess so,” Dean agrees amiably. He releases Sam’s chin, and just sits and looks at him for a second, before reaching out again and giving Sam’s shoulder a careful squeeze. It’s over as quick as it began, Dean climbing back on to his feet and turning away. “Ready to go, bro?”
“Whenever you are.” Sam unfolds himself slowly, legs still a little shaky and his mouth tastes gross. There’s still another couple hundred miles to go till they reach their latest pin-the-tail-on-the-vengeful-spirit destination, and the sky’s greying at the edges, clouding over.
“Storm’s coming,” Dean calls from the Impala. The door’s open, but he’s not gotten inside yet, leaning against the body with his arms folded on the roof and his brow furrowed in the same way it’s done for twenty years.
“Looks like,” Sam calls back, trudging up the bank to meet his brother.
Amusement, fascination, disgust. Concern.
Yeah. That was it.