Oh dear, and apologies. Perhaps luckily, the story is short enough that it can be posted in a livejournal comment!
--
Rain on the glass, pounding on the metal roof as if in anger; Sam twists into awareness with thunder echoing in his bones. Dean's still asleep beside him, breathing in and out, in and out. In and out. Bruises the color of old stones encircle his wrists like the remnants of Sam's dream.
The carpet scrapes cold and rough against Sam's feet as he slides out of bed, crosses the floor. Stands in front of the mirror as he brushes his teeth and watches Dean in the reflection. His eyes are only half open and the contours of the room are still fuzzy, the corners grey and blurred.
The car will be chill damp, he knows, and the windshield streaked with water. The roads will be slick and the map will crumple and tear in his hands. His coffee will be muddy and bitter and his eyes will be gritty. He'll be half asleep and Dean will drive for hours without speaking. They will be lost to drizzle and fog.
He leans over to spit and when he looks back up, Dean's eyes are open; he's watching Sam and his eyes are the color of damp moss, of spring.
We should get going, Sam says slowly as he retraces his steps. The bed sinking beneath his weight.
Dean's words are warm against his neck. Or we could stay. A few more hours, he says, wrapping his arm around Sam. You got anywhere to be?
No, Sam says. Nah. I can wait.
The blankets are scratchy, disheveled, and they tangle and catch around his legs. Dean's palm smooths his hair away from his neck. Go back to sleep, Sammy, Dean says, his words rumbling and slow, and Sam breathes in, out. Slowly.
Thunder echoes in Sam's bones and Dean's hands encircle his wrists; they fit together, lit with warmth, and the rain turns to hail, to ice.
--
Rain on the glass, pounding on the metal roof as if in anger; Sam twists into awareness with thunder echoing in his bones. Dean's still asleep beside him, breathing in and out, in and out. In and out. Bruises the color of old stones encircle his wrists like the remnants of Sam's dream.
The carpet scrapes cold and rough against Sam's feet as he slides out of bed, crosses the floor. Stands in front of the mirror as he brushes his teeth and watches Dean in the reflection. His eyes are only half open and the contours of the room are still fuzzy, the corners grey and blurred.
The car will be chill damp, he knows, and the windshield streaked with water. The roads will be slick and the map will crumple and tear in his hands. His coffee will be muddy and bitter and his eyes will be gritty. He'll be half asleep and Dean will drive for hours without speaking. They will be lost to drizzle and fog.
He leans over to spit and when he looks back up, Dean's eyes are open; he's watching Sam and his eyes are the color of damp moss, of spring.
We should get going, Sam says slowly as he retraces his steps. The bed sinking beneath his weight.
Dean's words are warm against his neck. Or we could stay. A few more hours, he says, wrapping his arm around Sam. You got anywhere to be?
No, Sam says. Nah. I can wait.
The blankets are scratchy, disheveled, and they tangle and catch around his legs. Dean's palm smooths his hair away from his neck. Go back to sleep, Sammy, Dean says, his words rumbling and slow, and Sam breathes in, out. Slowly.
Thunder echoes in Sam's bones and Dean's hands encircle his wrists; they fit together, lit with warmth, and the rain turns to hail, to ice.
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