fic: Minus the Pea
For a prompt given to me by zmediaoutlet/deadlybride ~1.5 years ago: caterpillar, inadequate, marble. I have no idea when this is set, or why they didn't just camp out in the car like usual--hence why this is just a scene instead of a proper fic. :P
It definitely says something about the state of Sam's life that this isn't the first time he's camped out inside a mausoleum. It's probably not even the tenth time he's done so. Sam lives a sad and weird life, though he tries not to think about it too much anymore--he's learned that lesson, at least. Just do the next thing and try not to dwell on how he got to where he is, scrunched in a sleeping bag next to Dean on a cold marvel floor, hoping that they calculated the cemetery guard's route correctly and he's not about to get a flashlight shone in his face.
"Go to sleep, Sam." Dean has his sleeping bag pulled up over his face, so it sounds a bit more like "oo oo eeeee aa", but Sam's learned over the years how to interpret his brother through toothpaste, pizza, the effects of vodka, the really good stuff, and a literal mouthful of chewy caramels, so this takes barely any effort.
"My legs keep going numb," he says, shifting in another futile effect to find an angle where he can get them both straight. He thinks a little longingly of the previous mausoleum they'd squatted in--that one had an actual oriental rug, was a good two feet wider, and had been long enough for Sam to straighten his legs and arms. Practically a palace!
Dean groans, and curls partially upright in a great swishing of sleeping bag fabric. The parking lot lights are too far away to provide much illumination, so the overall effect is rather like being attacked by a giant disgruntled caterpillar. "You are such a wuss," he says.
Given that Dean's the one who refused to stay at the by-the-hour motel on the other side of town because 'the sheets smell weird, Sam', it's definitely a case of pot and kettle.
"I could get nerve damage and you wouldn't care," Sam says, like he's twelve all over again, and rolls away dramatically to face the wall. Or would, if the wall were more than three inches away from his nose to begin with. In the process he smacks his elbow into the floor. "Ow."
Dean rears up a little further, visibly incredulous. "Did you manage to injure yourself while rolling over? You are such a princess."
"I don't even need a pea," Sam agrees, though he wouldn't say no to a pile of mattresses. "Look, I know it's probably two in the morning or something equally ridiculous, but can we give up and go back to the car? I'd rather drive the rest of the night on burned gas station coffee than try to stick it out here any longer."
Dean sighs and scrubs at his eyes with the backs of his hands. "I don't know why you're making such a fuss, given how many times we've done this before, but fine. You do the driving, not a single ding on the car, and I'll take over when we reach the state border or eight o'clock, whichever happens later." Sam has to wait for Dean to struggle out of the sleeping bag--and then out of the mausoleum entirely--before he has enough room to crowbar himself out as well. Between the two of them they get everything squared away again in couple of minutes and are back to the car well before the guard has a chance to finish his perfunctory walk through the rest of the cemetery.
"No more mausoleums unless they have rugs," Sam says after they've left town and the car's purring along, happy to be the highway again.
"But then they smell!" Dean protests from where he's stretched out in the back seat, and they're right back around to where they started: of the two of them, Sam's definitely not the one who's a wuss.
"Oh, go to sleep, you big baby," Sam says, and from there it's a comfortable bicker and empty roads, and even the coffee isn't so bad after all. All in all, a pretty good night, despite the literally rocky start.
It definitely says something about the state of Sam's life that this isn't the first time he's camped out inside a mausoleum. It's probably not even the tenth time he's done so. Sam lives a sad and weird life, though he tries not to think about it too much anymore--he's learned that lesson, at least. Just do the next thing and try not to dwell on how he got to where he is, scrunched in a sleeping bag next to Dean on a cold marvel floor, hoping that they calculated the cemetery guard's route correctly and he's not about to get a flashlight shone in his face.
"Go to sleep, Sam." Dean has his sleeping bag pulled up over his face, so it sounds a bit more like "oo oo eeeee aa", but Sam's learned over the years how to interpret his brother through toothpaste, pizza, the effects of vodka, the really good stuff, and a literal mouthful of chewy caramels, so this takes barely any effort.
"My legs keep going numb," he says, shifting in another futile effect to find an angle where he can get them both straight. He thinks a little longingly of the previous mausoleum they'd squatted in--that one had an actual oriental rug, was a good two feet wider, and had been long enough for Sam to straighten his legs and arms. Practically a palace!
Dean groans, and curls partially upright in a great swishing of sleeping bag fabric. The parking lot lights are too far away to provide much illumination, so the overall effect is rather like being attacked by a giant disgruntled caterpillar. "You are such a wuss," he says.
Given that Dean's the one who refused to stay at the by-the-hour motel on the other side of town because 'the sheets smell weird, Sam', it's definitely a case of pot and kettle.
"I could get nerve damage and you wouldn't care," Sam says, like he's twelve all over again, and rolls away dramatically to face the wall. Or would, if the wall were more than three inches away from his nose to begin with. In the process he smacks his elbow into the floor. "Ow."
Dean rears up a little further, visibly incredulous. "Did you manage to injure yourself while rolling over? You are such a princess."
"I don't even need a pea," Sam agrees, though he wouldn't say no to a pile of mattresses. "Look, I know it's probably two in the morning or something equally ridiculous, but can we give up and go back to the car? I'd rather drive the rest of the night on burned gas station coffee than try to stick it out here any longer."
Dean sighs and scrubs at his eyes with the backs of his hands. "I don't know why you're making such a fuss, given how many times we've done this before, but fine. You do the driving, not a single ding on the car, and I'll take over when we reach the state border or eight o'clock, whichever happens later." Sam has to wait for Dean to struggle out of the sleeping bag--and then out of the mausoleum entirely--before he has enough room to crowbar himself out as well. Between the two of them they get everything squared away again in couple of minutes and are back to the car well before the guard has a chance to finish his perfunctory walk through the rest of the cemetery.
"No more mausoleums unless they have rugs," Sam says after they've left town and the car's purring along, happy to be the highway again.
"But then they smell!" Dean protests from where he's stretched out in the back seat, and they're right back around to where they started: of the two of them, Sam's definitely not the one who's a wuss.
"Oh, go to sleep, you big baby," Sam says, and from there it's a comfortable bicker and empty roads, and even the coffee isn't so bad after all. All in all, a pretty good night, despite the literally rocky start.