Fuck Cyndi Lauper
Title: Fuck Cyndi Lauper
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing/Characters: No pairing, Dean and Sam. Mostly Dean, though.
Rating: PG-ish. More PG-13. Somewhere in between.
Wordcount: 616
Warnings: Language.
Disclaimer: Supernatural is owned by Eric Kripke, the CW, and anyone else with enough money to sue me.
Dedication: To
splits_thesky because she made me write this and therefore it is for her.
Note: No, really. Fuck Cyndi Lauper. Who spells their name like that?
Some things Dean just doesn’t get. Like who decided that The Scarlet Letter was a classic. Or why people care so much if Jesus was married. Or how come we drive in parkways and park in driveways.
Or Sam.
Which is funny, because he knows Sam pretty damn well. In a way where he can feel what Sam’s thinking before he actually does anything. But not in a way where he can map out every statement and connect the dots and say AHA! because he’s figured it all out. And it drives him crazy to know what and not why. Then he feels like it’s wrong to wonder why - that shit’s for scientists and women. Still, he’s left with a vague conciousness of Sam’s mind, like something he remembers the motions for but hasn’t done in a while. Sam is like riding a bicycle.
Ew, he thinks, shuddering behind the steering wheel. It’s dark, and Sam’s asleep. He seriously debates blasting the radio, though he knows full well that it’s on NPR (courtesy of Sam) and the only thing they’re playing at two in the morning is that electronica-emo-J-pop-new-age-psychadelic bullshit. Or Irish music. He’d rather not risk it.
He’s falling asleep anyway, and time in his own mind keeps him awake. He thinks too much. Unlike Sam, who likes to “express his feelings” and “talk about things.” Twat.
Time in his own mind lets him fester, lets his feeling boil together until the only thing he can trust is his gut. So he likes to pretend he doesn’t think at all, that his gut is his primary source of information, like a biological Wikipedia. Truth is, Dean never stops thinking. Which is why he stays the hell away from psychics. They read him like a book. They feed off his thoughts like a thousand happy leeches, slurping merrily away at his brain.
Sam snorts and turns over. A puddle of drool has formed at the corner of his mouth, yellow and thick. Dean stares at it for a while, disgusted, waiting for Sam to suck in back in or let it drip onto his jacket. He does neither and it stays in limbo. Just there, static, annoying. Dean pries his eyes away and forces them on the road.
They’re in Nebraska now, he’s sure. The stalks of corn rise well above him. They lack distinction, forming a black wall. He can only see a strip of stars extending past his eyes, past the back of his head, reaching for the ocean. He grips the wheel tighter.
Sam grumbles and shivers and the drool falls with a plop! on the seat. Dean winces. Sam irritates him more than he can comprehend, in the way that only an elder brother can experience. Sam’s patronizing, condescending, pedantic. He has a way of making Dean feel like the younger one, stupid somehow. Sam has more confidence than is healthy. He’s irreverent, too. Not to mention he doesn’t even give a proper Thank you, Dean, for saving my sorry ass time after time. Dean don’t get no respect.
And despite all this, Dean’s willing to save Sam’s sorry ass time after time.
Fuck Cyndi Lauper, but she was right.
Dean starts to get itchy. They’ve almost reached their destination. He pulls a hand off the steering, pushes the radio, and retracts it quickly. The music that comes out sounds like hell.
Destroy, she said
My love again,
The end will come quickly.
Don’t try again
To make amends
You’ll just end up sinking.
Techno. He forgot about that one.
Sam murmurs something about Jennifer Anniston and his eyes snap open. “Wha...? Whadappened?” he asks, groggy and dazed.
“Nothing,” Dean says. “Wake up.”
FIN.
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing/Characters: No pairing, Dean and Sam. Mostly Dean, though.
Rating: PG-ish. More PG-13. Somewhere in between.
Wordcount: 616
Warnings: Language.
Disclaimer: Supernatural is owned by Eric Kripke, the CW, and anyone else with enough money to sue me.
Dedication: To
splits_thesky because she made me write this and therefore it is for her.
Note: No, really. Fuck Cyndi Lauper. Who spells their name like that?
Some things Dean just doesn’t get. Like who decided that The Scarlet Letter was a classic. Or why people care so much if Jesus was married. Or how come we drive in parkways and park in driveways.
Or Sam.
Which is funny, because he knows Sam pretty damn well. In a way where he can feel what Sam’s thinking before he actually does anything. But not in a way where he can map out every statement and connect the dots and say AHA! because he’s figured it all out. And it drives him crazy to know what and not why. Then he feels like it’s wrong to wonder why - that shit’s for scientists and women. Still, he’s left with a vague conciousness of Sam’s mind, like something he remembers the motions for but hasn’t done in a while. Sam is like riding a bicycle.
Ew, he thinks, shuddering behind the steering wheel. It’s dark, and Sam’s asleep. He seriously debates blasting the radio, though he knows full well that it’s on NPR (courtesy of Sam) and the only thing they’re playing at two in the morning is that electronica-emo-J-pop-new-age-psychadelic bullshit. Or Irish music. He’d rather not risk it.
He’s falling asleep anyway, and time in his own mind keeps him awake. He thinks too much. Unlike Sam, who likes to “express his feelings” and “talk about things.” Twat.
Time in his own mind lets him fester, lets his feeling boil together until the only thing he can trust is his gut. So he likes to pretend he doesn’t think at all, that his gut is his primary source of information, like a biological Wikipedia. Truth is, Dean never stops thinking. Which is why he stays the hell away from psychics. They read him like a book. They feed off his thoughts like a thousand happy leeches, slurping merrily away at his brain.
Sam snorts and turns over. A puddle of drool has formed at the corner of his mouth, yellow and thick. Dean stares at it for a while, disgusted, waiting for Sam to suck in back in or let it drip onto his jacket. He does neither and it stays in limbo. Just there, static, annoying. Dean pries his eyes away and forces them on the road.
They’re in Nebraska now, he’s sure. The stalks of corn rise well above him. They lack distinction, forming a black wall. He can only see a strip of stars extending past his eyes, past the back of his head, reaching for the ocean. He grips the wheel tighter.
Sam grumbles and shivers and the drool falls with a plop! on the seat. Dean winces. Sam irritates him more than he can comprehend, in the way that only an elder brother can experience. Sam’s patronizing, condescending, pedantic. He has a way of making Dean feel like the younger one, stupid somehow. Sam has more confidence than is healthy. He’s irreverent, too. Not to mention he doesn’t even give a proper Thank you, Dean, for saving my sorry ass time after time. Dean don’t get no respect.
And despite all this, Dean’s willing to save Sam’s sorry ass time after time.
Fuck Cyndi Lauper, but she was right.
Dean starts to get itchy. They’ve almost reached their destination. He pulls a hand off the steering, pushes the radio, and retracts it quickly. The music that comes out sounds like hell.
Destroy, she said
My love again,
The end will come quickly.
Don’t try again
To make amends
You’ll just end up sinking.
Techno. He forgot about that one.
Sam murmurs something about Jennifer Anniston and his eyes snap open. “Wha...? Whadappened?” he asks, groggy and dazed.
“Nothing,” Dean says. “Wake up.”
FIN.