playing for keeps ('cause I might not make it back)
1. It kind of dawned on me today that I have not got any kind of gay zombie incest icon reference beyond my dead gay Sam, which is really more about Heathers than it is about the joys of maggots. I tried to make one. It wasn't awfully successful. So, you know, if anyone finds themselves. Lacking for an evening's entertainment. I've even got a potential base, 'though it isn't a particularly fantastic one:
Just putting that out there. In a totally casual manner. You know. If you've got nothing better to do.
...
*PUPPY EYES*
2. May or may not have sung along to Bon Jovi whilst I was cleaning those doors. May or may not have confused my mother a bit. She just doesn't understand that I'm a cowboy, nor that it's on a steel horse I ride. (Opinions remain divided as to whether or not I'm wanted dead or alive.)
3. Still watching Gilmore Girls, FYI. Still absolutely enthralled by Jared's adorable pixieface. HE DID A BITCHFACE. IT WAS WONDERFUL. They grow up so fast.
4. Our wonderful, wonderful computer chair had- OH NO- a freaking tear in the seat. It's been there for many months, but now, with the Mum's Cousin coming tomorrow, is the time for it to suddenly become a matter of great concern. On the one hand, SCORE, I now have said wonderful computer chair in my room. On the other, what the computer chair replacement lacks in tears it makes up for in being THE MOST UNCOMFORTABLE CHAIR TO HAVE EVER EXITED HOLY CRAP. Also, it has no armrests. I keep moving my elbows into armrest-position only to remember, alas no, they are no more. And every time my elbows wiggle in thin air, guys? I die a little inside, is what.
5. MANY MOONS AGO, I started writing a Dean's Last Day ficlet, and then I forgot about it and then I got Jossed about it, and so here it is in all it's teeny weeny unfinished glory.
The last day comes brightly, sky the orange of road-grit and sand, clear of clouds. It’s going to be sunny, and hot. Dean’s pretty sure he knew where they were when he went to sleep last night, but now he’s awake the name’s escaped him. Begins with an M, maybe. G? He knows it’s in the west at least, because they drove all day with the sun in their faces until it stopped shining.
“Hey,” he calls out, sitting up in a tangle of bed sheets- greenish, soft, kind of satiny- and twisting for a glimpse of Sam through the crack in the bathroom door. “Hey, Sam, where the hell are we, anyway?”
It was the sound of the shower running that tugged him out of sleep in the first place, and ten minutes later it’s still going strong. Dean’s pretty sure it’s empty, too. You spend a lifetime listening to other people shower, you get pretty fucking good at it, and Dean can tell the sound of water falling uninterrupted as easy as he can tell the rumble of his own damn car. The thought of Sam standing in the crappy bathroom, just letting the shower run, leaves a bad taste in his mouth.
“You better not be wasting all the hot water, fucker,” he yells, and Sam’s face nudges around the edge of the bathroom door. He doesn’t look like he’s slept- in a week- but his eyes are dry and focussed, hair already half-way dry and curling at the edges. Good. That’s good.
“The hell are we?” Dean asks again. Sam just sighs, but he doesn’t disappear back into the bathroom, crowding up against the door instead, with his forehead resting against the edge of it and one ridiculous shoulder spilling out into the room. He’s smiling, a little.
Dean rolls his eyes. “Fine, fine. Keep your little secrets. See if I get you any coffee.” He rolls out of bed, sheets clinging to his ankles like they don’t want him to leave either. It’s okay, getting dressed like this, all one-sided conversation while Sam just stands around and watches. Maybe a few years ago, when they were still learning how to fit their edges together again, it would have been awkward as hell, but today it just feels comfortable. He sniffs his jeans cautiously, eyes on his brother. “You think they wear clothes down there, man? Or maybe it’d be like, robes, whatever. Togas? Hey, toga party of the damned.”
Sam snorts into the woodwork.
“Yeah,” Dean agrees, tugging his jeans on. “Good point. Probably no toga parties. And if you’re just gonna stand there and watch, turn the goddamn shower off. Do you really want me to say goodbye to this beautiful body in cold water?” Shirts, next. It’s a pretty fucking ridiculous thing to get sentimental over, but he pulls his favourite one on, all the same. There’s a moment’s hesitation- what if Sam wants to keep it? Will it get torn, or bloodied, or burnt? Will it just go down there with him?- before he stamps down on it. Dean is not that guy.
Socks are easier. Not even Sam could get sentimental about socks.
“Seriously,” he says, unrolling the freshest smelling pair. “Go put your makeup on or something. Strong and silent isn’t my type.”
The bathroom door creaks, swinging on its hinges, as Sam disappears back inside. It’s a couple of beats before the water shuts off at last. Dean sits down on the end of his bed to pull his socks on, because he is not that guy, not the kind of asshole who stands stupidly in the middle of the room while he’s listening for the last time to his baby brother brushing his teeth.
Well, second to last, maybe. Sam is pretty fucking anal over his oral hygiene; Dean isn’t sure if that kind of dedication can be disrupted, even by. You know. The hellfire tango. Whatever. Think of your own goddamn euphemism.
“Man, I wish we coulda found a place with Magic Fingers. Can’t believe I spent my last fuckin’ night without it,” he calls, twisting his ring around his finger. The sound of Sam spitting and rinsing settles thickly in his ribcage. I taught you how to do that, he thinks.
There’s a pause. Sam’s probably squeezing his zits in the smudged bathroom mirror. Sam’s probably splashing water on his face with a white-knuckled grip on the edge of the sink.
“You’re deranged,” comes Sam’s voice, muffled through the door but still normal-sounding. The usual deadpan tone with the sly edge of amusement he’s never learned to hide. For every town they’ve passed through, there’s a girl who’s fallen in love with that, Dean’s pretty sure. “Like, clinically.”
Dean grins down at his fingers. “I’ll miss the sweet talk.”
Another pause. Crap. He digs the heels of his hands into his eyes and stands at the sound of the door swinging open. Sam coughs, clears his throat awkwardly, and says, “Shower’s free.” His voice is so tentative, it comes out like a question.
Just putting that out there. In a totally casual manner. You know. If you've got nothing better to do.
...
*PUPPY EYES*
2. May or may not have sung along to Bon Jovi whilst I was cleaning those doors. May or may not have confused my mother a bit. She just doesn't understand that I'm a cowboy, nor that it's on a steel horse I ride. (Opinions remain divided as to whether or not I'm wanted dead or alive.)
3. Still watching Gilmore Girls, FYI. Still absolutely enthralled by Jared's adorable pixieface. HE DID A BITCHFACE. IT WAS WONDERFUL. They grow up so fast.
4. Our wonderful, wonderful computer chair had- OH NO- a freaking tear in the seat. It's been there for many months, but now, with the Mum's Cousin coming tomorrow, is the time for it to suddenly become a matter of great concern. On the one hand, SCORE, I now have said wonderful computer chair in my room. On the other, what the computer chair replacement lacks in tears it makes up for in being THE MOST UNCOMFORTABLE CHAIR TO HAVE EVER EXITED HOLY CRAP. Also, it has no armrests. I keep moving my elbows into armrest-position only to remember, alas no, they are no more. And every time my elbows wiggle in thin air, guys? I die a little inside, is what.
5. MANY MOONS AGO, I started writing a Dean's Last Day ficlet, and then I forgot about it and then I got Jossed about it, and so here it is in all it's teeny weeny unfinished glory.
The last day comes brightly, sky the orange of road-grit and sand, clear of clouds. It’s going to be sunny, and hot. Dean’s pretty sure he knew where they were when he went to sleep last night, but now he’s awake the name’s escaped him. Begins with an M, maybe. G? He knows it’s in the west at least, because they drove all day with the sun in their faces until it stopped shining.
“Hey,” he calls out, sitting up in a tangle of bed sheets- greenish, soft, kind of satiny- and twisting for a glimpse of Sam through the crack in the bathroom door. “Hey, Sam, where the hell are we, anyway?”
It was the sound of the shower running that tugged him out of sleep in the first place, and ten minutes later it’s still going strong. Dean’s pretty sure it’s empty, too. You spend a lifetime listening to other people shower, you get pretty fucking good at it, and Dean can tell the sound of water falling uninterrupted as easy as he can tell the rumble of his own damn car. The thought of Sam standing in the crappy bathroom, just letting the shower run, leaves a bad taste in his mouth.
“You better not be wasting all the hot water, fucker,” he yells, and Sam’s face nudges around the edge of the bathroom door. He doesn’t look like he’s slept- in a week- but his eyes are dry and focussed, hair already half-way dry and curling at the edges. Good. That’s good.
“The hell are we?” Dean asks again. Sam just sighs, but he doesn’t disappear back into the bathroom, crowding up against the door instead, with his forehead resting against the edge of it and one ridiculous shoulder spilling out into the room. He’s smiling, a little.
Dean rolls his eyes. “Fine, fine. Keep your little secrets. See if I get you any coffee.” He rolls out of bed, sheets clinging to his ankles like they don’t want him to leave either. It’s okay, getting dressed like this, all one-sided conversation while Sam just stands around and watches. Maybe a few years ago, when they were still learning how to fit their edges together again, it would have been awkward as hell, but today it just feels comfortable. He sniffs his jeans cautiously, eyes on his brother. “You think they wear clothes down there, man? Or maybe it’d be like, robes, whatever. Togas? Hey, toga party of the damned.”
Sam snorts into the woodwork.
“Yeah,” Dean agrees, tugging his jeans on. “Good point. Probably no toga parties. And if you’re just gonna stand there and watch, turn the goddamn shower off. Do you really want me to say goodbye to this beautiful body in cold water?” Shirts, next. It’s a pretty fucking ridiculous thing to get sentimental over, but he pulls his favourite one on, all the same. There’s a moment’s hesitation- what if Sam wants to keep it? Will it get torn, or bloodied, or burnt? Will it just go down there with him?- before he stamps down on it. Dean is not that guy.
Socks are easier. Not even Sam could get sentimental about socks.
“Seriously,” he says, unrolling the freshest smelling pair. “Go put your makeup on or something. Strong and silent isn’t my type.”
The bathroom door creaks, swinging on its hinges, as Sam disappears back inside. It’s a couple of beats before the water shuts off at last. Dean sits down on the end of his bed to pull his socks on, because he is not that guy, not the kind of asshole who stands stupidly in the middle of the room while he’s listening for the last time to his baby brother brushing his teeth.
Well, second to last, maybe. Sam is pretty fucking anal over his oral hygiene; Dean isn’t sure if that kind of dedication can be disrupted, even by. You know. The hellfire tango. Whatever. Think of your own goddamn euphemism.
“Man, I wish we coulda found a place with Magic Fingers. Can’t believe I spent my last fuckin’ night without it,” he calls, twisting his ring around his finger. The sound of Sam spitting and rinsing settles thickly in his ribcage. I taught you how to do that, he thinks.
There’s a pause. Sam’s probably squeezing his zits in the smudged bathroom mirror. Sam’s probably splashing water on his face with a white-knuckled grip on the edge of the sink.
“You’re deranged,” comes Sam’s voice, muffled through the door but still normal-sounding. The usual deadpan tone with the sly edge of amusement he’s never learned to hide. For every town they’ve passed through, there’s a girl who’s fallen in love with that, Dean’s pretty sure. “Like, clinically.”
Dean grins down at his fingers. “I’ll miss the sweet talk.”
Another pause. Crap. He digs the heels of his hands into his eyes and stands at the sound of the door swinging open. Sam coughs, clears his throat awkwardly, and says, “Shower’s free.” His voice is so tentative, it comes out like a question.