so two hot guys walk into a bar...
It's been a vaguely emo couple of days. Ah well. lapifors is coming to stay next week, and if that doesn't brighten me up I might as well just give up and go home.
***
Poll pairings that should exist #1
***
Further adventures in the doomed WIP folder. Oh, I know you were all looking forward to it. No tentacles this time, I'm afraid. Rather, Jossed to hell and thrown back into the melting pot. It's being recycled into something else AS WE SPEAK.
thirty-two and a third.
The snow begins to fall as Sam pulls into the driveway. It’s an exhalation of white and grey that barely makes it to the ground before it fades away again, like dust catching in the air where the sun shines. The clouds have been stretched tight overhead for days, the breaking point one hundred miles gone as they just wait to tear themselves apart, and Sam can feel the traces of whatever mojo’s been holding it all together prickling across his skin. Bobby will deny it if asked, and maybe he’ll even mean it, but Lilith has banded them all uneasily together in a way that the cold, hard knowledge of the way the world really is never could. Someone has watched them all the way from Bobby’s, has been watching out for them for a change. It’s kept the roads quiet, the drive easy; it’s kept the storm at bay. This is just, Sam knows, the quiet before it.
He turns the heater up even as he eases off the gas, letting the wheels roll to a muted stop inches from the garage door, headlight illuminating the chips in the paint. For the next few weeks, it’s their chips of paint, their garage door, their cheapass little house looking a far cry from any Christmas cottage as the first weak strains of snowfall settle on its windowpanes. The snow is cautiously picking up its pace, the sky crumbling in on itself like a long goodbye, as the engine rumbles idly and Dean’s hands curl up tighter in Sam’s peripheral vision. He’s still sleeping, face turned towards Sam in shades of grey, and sooner or later Sam will have to wake him up or leave him in the car.
He watches Dean’s chest rise and fall with the drawn-out rhythm of exhaustion. Let it be later, he thinks.
“Excuse me.” Knuckles rap against the drivers’ side, jerking Sam out of his slow memorisation of his brother’s face. He whips his head around to be greeted by the sight of a woman scowling down at him, barely having to bend at all to look through the window. She’s grey-haired, middle-aged, her face pinched tight with cold and half-submerged in her thick, blue coat. “Excuse me. You boys Mister Singer’s nephews?”
“Yeah. Yeah, that’ll be us. Good old uncle Bobby.” He turns the engine off at last, tugging up a smile as he winds the window down. The wind is picking up; it whips into the car through the tiniest cracks and goes right down the back of Sam’s throat, cold as ice on the inhales. She- what had Bobby called her? M something, N something- sniffs in disapproval.
“You’ll be needing warmer clothes,” she says, tone making it clear it’s their own damn fault they haven’t come prepared, kids these days, well I never. “Your brother okay?”
“He’s.” Sam glances back at Dean, still sleeping, still breathing. “He’s recovering.”
Ms. M-N-whatever sniffs again, her face drawing even tighter. Snowflakes catch in the edges of her hair, melt down into the fine creases of her skin. “Mister Singer never mentioned any illnesses. It’s not contagious, I trust.”
“God, I hope not.” He laughs shortly, and she looks even more disapproving; great, already they’re developing a repartee. “I mean,” he adds, “no. It’s not.”
So it’s not exactly a fantastic start to the relationship, but Bobby had promised they’d be safe here, and for a matter of weeks rather than days; he’d assured Sam there would be no trouble one million times before they left. From the look on Ms. M’s face, he’d made her promise too, leaving her chewing irritably on her tongue as she casts Dean another suspicious look.
“You’d best come on inside then,” she concedes, as Dean shows no sign of waking up any time soon. “Is he coming or staying?”
Sam pauses. Getting used to having Dean again means getting used to leaving Dean again, but there’s a softness to Dean’s breathing, a resonance in the air that feels like whoever, whatever, kept the snow at bay is still keeping them safe for now.
Ms. M tuts, clears her throat.
“He’ll stay,” Sam decides.
The house is compact, kept bare, and it takes all of ten minutes for Sam to learn the locations of all light switches and spare linen, how to navigate the basic kitchen and work the boiler. He makes note of all possible exits- routes of escape- as Ms. M leads him through the two cramped bedrooms upstairs, and he kicks up the corner of the rug in the living-cum-dining area to find the chalk lines of a devil’s trap already laid down, Bobby’s hand recognisable in a matter of inches.
“Thank you kindly, ma’am,” he says, as she opens and closes the curtains and assures him that damages will not be taken lightly, “but I wouldn’t want to keep you any longer, getting dark, weather’s bad. I think I can take it from here.”
“I don’t take kindly to funny business,” she warns, Sam shepherding her firmly back towards the door. “Mister Singer may be paying the rent for you, but damages-”
“I’ll treat the curtains better than I treat myself,” he promises, and he closes the door behind her. He can still hear her muttering from the other side, slumps back against the wall until her voice has safely faded away. The room is cold and dark and empty. Home, sweet home, or something like that. He turns the heating up to full, closes all the curtains and turns on all the lights; the place still looks about as welcoming as a hospital waiting room, but at least it’ll be a warm one. They’ll need groceries, and warmer clothes, and probably a job too, but that can all wait for now.
Dean’s already awake by the time Sam gets back outside, leaning up against the side of the car with his face turned skywards. His hands hang loosely at his sides like he’s forgotten what to do with them. There’s snow settling in his hair.
“Snow,” Sam says. The ground crunches underfoot as he crosses the short distance from porch to car.
Dean shoots him a frustrated look, snaps out, “I know. I know.”
“Okay.”
“This isn’t fuckin’- It’s not Sesame Street, man. You don’t need to.” He finishes mid-sentence, voice gone as quickly as it came. He’s still too pale to be healthy, blending in with the snowfall as if it’s camouflage. Sam touches a hand to his elbow, marvels at the feel of it, warm and solid beneath his fingers.
“Wanna come inside?”
“Not particularly.”
“Do we really have to go over this again? You need to rest.” And Dean just rolls his eyes, jaw clenched tight. The chill spreads back through Sam’s fingers, the loss of body heat, as he drops his hand away. He steps back. “Okay, fine, you freeze your butt off out here. I’ll be inside with the central heating and the power shower.”
Dean shrugs. “Live the dream, Sammy,” he grinds out, shoulders hunching down, body twisting away.
***
Poll pairings that should exist #1
***
Further adventures in the doomed WIP folder. Oh, I know you were all looking forward to it. No tentacles this time, I'm afraid. Rather, Jossed to hell and thrown back into the melting pot. It's being recycled into something else AS WE SPEAK.
thirty-two and a third.
The snow begins to fall as Sam pulls into the driveway. It’s an exhalation of white and grey that barely makes it to the ground before it fades away again, like dust catching in the air where the sun shines. The clouds have been stretched tight overhead for days, the breaking point one hundred miles gone as they just wait to tear themselves apart, and Sam can feel the traces of whatever mojo’s been holding it all together prickling across his skin. Bobby will deny it if asked, and maybe he’ll even mean it, but Lilith has banded them all uneasily together in a way that the cold, hard knowledge of the way the world really is never could. Someone has watched them all the way from Bobby’s, has been watching out for them for a change. It’s kept the roads quiet, the drive easy; it’s kept the storm at bay. This is just, Sam knows, the quiet before it.
He turns the heater up even as he eases off the gas, letting the wheels roll to a muted stop inches from the garage door, headlight illuminating the chips in the paint. For the next few weeks, it’s their chips of paint, their garage door, their cheapass little house looking a far cry from any Christmas cottage as the first weak strains of snowfall settle on its windowpanes. The snow is cautiously picking up its pace, the sky crumbling in on itself like a long goodbye, as the engine rumbles idly and Dean’s hands curl up tighter in Sam’s peripheral vision. He’s still sleeping, face turned towards Sam in shades of grey, and sooner or later Sam will have to wake him up or leave him in the car.
He watches Dean’s chest rise and fall with the drawn-out rhythm of exhaustion. Let it be later, he thinks.
“Excuse me.” Knuckles rap against the drivers’ side, jerking Sam out of his slow memorisation of his brother’s face. He whips his head around to be greeted by the sight of a woman scowling down at him, barely having to bend at all to look through the window. She’s grey-haired, middle-aged, her face pinched tight with cold and half-submerged in her thick, blue coat. “Excuse me. You boys Mister Singer’s nephews?”
“Yeah. Yeah, that’ll be us. Good old uncle Bobby.” He turns the engine off at last, tugging up a smile as he winds the window down. The wind is picking up; it whips into the car through the tiniest cracks and goes right down the back of Sam’s throat, cold as ice on the inhales. She- what had Bobby called her? M something, N something- sniffs in disapproval.
“You’ll be needing warmer clothes,” she says, tone making it clear it’s their own damn fault they haven’t come prepared, kids these days, well I never. “Your brother okay?”
“He’s.” Sam glances back at Dean, still sleeping, still breathing. “He’s recovering.”
Ms. M-N-whatever sniffs again, her face drawing even tighter. Snowflakes catch in the edges of her hair, melt down into the fine creases of her skin. “Mister Singer never mentioned any illnesses. It’s not contagious, I trust.”
“God, I hope not.” He laughs shortly, and she looks even more disapproving; great, already they’re developing a repartee. “I mean,” he adds, “no. It’s not.”
So it’s not exactly a fantastic start to the relationship, but Bobby had promised they’d be safe here, and for a matter of weeks rather than days; he’d assured Sam there would be no trouble one million times before they left. From the look on Ms. M’s face, he’d made her promise too, leaving her chewing irritably on her tongue as she casts Dean another suspicious look.
“You’d best come on inside then,” she concedes, as Dean shows no sign of waking up any time soon. “Is he coming or staying?”
Sam pauses. Getting used to having Dean again means getting used to leaving Dean again, but there’s a softness to Dean’s breathing, a resonance in the air that feels like whoever, whatever, kept the snow at bay is still keeping them safe for now.
Ms. M tuts, clears her throat.
“He’ll stay,” Sam decides.
The house is compact, kept bare, and it takes all of ten minutes for Sam to learn the locations of all light switches and spare linen, how to navigate the basic kitchen and work the boiler. He makes note of all possible exits- routes of escape- as Ms. M leads him through the two cramped bedrooms upstairs, and he kicks up the corner of the rug in the living-cum-dining area to find the chalk lines of a devil’s trap already laid down, Bobby’s hand recognisable in a matter of inches.
“Thank you kindly, ma’am,” he says, as she opens and closes the curtains and assures him that damages will not be taken lightly, “but I wouldn’t want to keep you any longer, getting dark, weather’s bad. I think I can take it from here.”
“I don’t take kindly to funny business,” she warns, Sam shepherding her firmly back towards the door. “Mister Singer may be paying the rent for you, but damages-”
“I’ll treat the curtains better than I treat myself,” he promises, and he closes the door behind her. He can still hear her muttering from the other side, slumps back against the wall until her voice has safely faded away. The room is cold and dark and empty. Home, sweet home, or something like that. He turns the heating up to full, closes all the curtains and turns on all the lights; the place still looks about as welcoming as a hospital waiting room, but at least it’ll be a warm one. They’ll need groceries, and warmer clothes, and probably a job too, but that can all wait for now.
Dean’s already awake by the time Sam gets back outside, leaning up against the side of the car with his face turned skywards. His hands hang loosely at his sides like he’s forgotten what to do with them. There’s snow settling in his hair.
“Snow,” Sam says. The ground crunches underfoot as he crosses the short distance from porch to car.
Dean shoots him a frustrated look, snaps out, “I know. I know.”
“Okay.”
“This isn’t fuckin’- It’s not Sesame Street, man. You don’t need to.” He finishes mid-sentence, voice gone as quickly as it came. He’s still too pale to be healthy, blending in with the snowfall as if it’s camouflage. Sam touches a hand to his elbow, marvels at the feel of it, warm and solid beneath his fingers.
“Wanna come inside?”
“Not particularly.”
“Do we really have to go over this again? You need to rest.” And Dean just rolls his eyes, jaw clenched tight. The chill spreads back through Sam’s fingers, the loss of body heat, as he drops his hand away. He steps back. “Okay, fine, you freeze your butt off out here. I’ll be inside with the central heating and the power shower.”
Dean shrugs. “Live the dream, Sammy,” he grinds out, shoulders hunching down, body twisting away.