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Recovering the Satellites
Supernatural
Sam-Dean (gen); R
1,323 words
A/N: Somehow, this bit of shameless self-indulgence is mcee's fault. With thanks to her for beta, and to cathybites and unholyglee for their excellent input along the way.
"Get the phone book."
Sam looks up from separating his Sour Patch Kids by color, his eyes glassy. "Huh?"
"Phone book, Einstein."
"Why?"
Dean can't fight the grin pulling at his mouth. "Snack attack, motherfucker."
It takes Sam ten minutes to order the pizza, after one false start that dissolved into a fit of giggles, getting the name of the motel wrong twice, and then having to call back--at Dean's insistence--to add a Mountain Dew to their order. After hanging up the fourth time, Sam sits chewing his thumbnail. "Do you think he knew?"
Dean sighs; Sam's paranoia was funny when they were still at the party, but now it's starting to wear. "Dude, you're harshing my buzz."
Sam's grin is slow and wide. "Excuse me, but. 'Harshing your buzz?'"
"Sammy. Shut your face or I'm gonna put my foot in it."
"Touchy! Jesus."
"Hey, I was the one who scored this shit for us, just let me enjoy it."
He passes the smoldering joint across the space between the beds, Sam's fingers bumping into his as he fumbles to get them around the damp end. Dean squirms into a more comfortable position, the bed creaking under him, and for a second he thinks he's going to sink right through the mattress, through the floor, down to the center of the earth. The thought makes him dizzy, and he rides out the spin, curls his hands into the bed sheets until he feels grounded again.
"How long for the pizza?" he asks, squinting at the clock. He has no idea how long it's been since Sam called in the order.
"Twenty minutes." Sam takes a long pull from the joint and sets it in the glass ashtray on the nightstand, tendrils of smoke curling out from the corners of his mouth. He exhales at the ceiling and turns to Dean, chewing his lip. "Dean. Do I look stoned?"
"You look paranoid."
"Come on, I'm serious. Do I? Yes or no. Just tell me and I'll stop asking, I promise. I swear."
"Sam, I swear to God, I'm never doing this with you again," Dean says, but he's laughing, he can't help it. "You're my kid brother, and there ain't nothing I wouldn't do for you, but you're driving me batshit right now." He pauses, Sam eyeing him expectantly. "And yes," he grins, "you look stoned."
He watches Sam try to screw his face up into some semblance of sobriety and almost laughs again. But then Sam shrugs and closes his eyes, scratching idly at his belly, and Dean remembers. The first time they did this, out in the woods behind the trailer they rented in Florida when Dean was seventeen; fireflies blinking yellow and the joint glowing orange, Sam's teeth flashing white when he had that grin plastered across his face. Dad was asleep inside and they stretched out on a ratty blanket and counted stars and airplanes in the sky. Now they've got blinking yellow neon and the joint's out; he can't see Sam's smile in the dark anymore, and it's cracks on the ceiling they're counting.
"Dean?" Sam's voice is incredibly small, and for a long, strange moment Dean isn't sure if he's in the past or the present, but the blare of a truck horn from the highway snaps him into the here and now. "Dean?" He hears the twinge of panic, that tiny hitch in Sam's voice. He feels the matching one in his own breathing and smiles, a little sadly, into the dark.
"Hmm?"
"You were too quiet for too long."
"You worry too much." It's supposed to come out jokingly, to appease Sam, but it's too true, and Sam's laugh is a single, soft huff of breath.
"Can you blame me?"
"Hey." And it's Dean's own weird nostalgia as much as anything that puts an edge in his voice. He clears his throat and tries again, gentler. "Hey. Let's not, okay? Not tonight."
"Did I ever tell you... did I tell you that Jess made me cookies? The night she died?"
"Sammy... don't. C'mon."
"Chocolate chip. Her mom's recipe, or... no, her grandma's. They were still warm when I got home." He hmms and it's okay, it's a happy sound, contented for the moment with the memory.
But then he sighs, a little too long and loud, and Dean knows the moment's gone. Dean wishes, more than anything, that he could give it back, stretch it out into forever for his little brother. To give him dreams again, instead of nightmares.
"Sorry," Sam grumbles, and rolls onto his side. The light from the television flickers blue across his face as his mouth tugs up at the corner. "I'm starving."
"What else is new?" Dean's own stomach rumbles and he leans over the side of the bed to push his hand through the Doritos bags and Pringles tubes on the floor in search of a stray chip, but comes up empty. He grabs another beer from the six-pack instead, twists off the cap and flicks it across the room. It bounces off the dresser and spins off, rattling, underneath the radiator, and Dean settles back against the headboard. "What kind of pizza did we get?"
"Pepperoni and... onion? No, peppers."
Dean sits up straighter, waving menacingly at Sam with his beer bottle. "You better not have. You know I hate peppers."
"No, it was olives. Pepperoni and olives."
"Not my first choice, but I'll take it. Hey, are there any M&M's left?"
Sam digs around in his own junk food pile and comes up with a half-crumpled bag. "Only plain."
Dean makes a face. "You ate all the peanut, didn't you?" Sam grins and Dean chucks a pillow at his head. "Those were half-mine, asshole."
When the pizza arrives they're two rounds into a childhood debate over whether Thundercats or Transformers would win in a fight, but at the knock on the door Sam scrambles over Dean's bed, grabbing two twenties off the kitchen table. Dean almost can't stop himself giggling when Sam tries to figure out how much to tip, then gives up, embarrassed.
He kicks the door shut behind him. "As I was saying... wait. Oh, right. Lion-O would kick Optimus Prime's ass."
"Lion-O's a pussy," Dean says, and sputters out a laugh. "He is a pussy."
"You're a pussy. Shove over."
They sit cross-legged with their backs against the headboard, the pizza box open at their feet, sharing the last beer and flipping channels until they stumble on The Howling and Dean refuses to change the channel.
"Dean, come on, you've seen this movie like a hundred times." Sam grabs for the remote, and Dean cuffs him on the back of the head.
"It's a classic, Sam. Shuddap and watch."
"I've seen this movie like a hundred times," Sam mutters, crossing his arms and flopping back against the headboard with a thunk. "Because you made me."
"Wah wah wah. Where's my Mountain Dew?"
When the movie's over they lay back and light the joint again, passing it between them until it burns their fingertips and Sam drops the scrap of rolling paper into his beer bottle. Dean clicks off the TV, and they settle into the quiet dark.
They talk a little, in half sentences and shorthand, but never about anything either of them is really thinking about (Dad, Mom, where they are and where they're going). Mostly they're quiet, and it's Sam who falls asleep first, always has been. Dean turns to curl along Sam's back, pressed against him like when they were kids, his knees tucked behind Sam's.
Sam mumbles drowsily, something that Dean can't make out, and Dean holds his breath, hoping Sam can sleep just a little tonight. He settles again and Dean closes his eyes, listening to Sam's breathing and the highway traffic, the sounds of home and the road, one blurring into the other.
Supernatural
Sam-Dean (gen); R
1,323 words
A/N: Somehow, this bit of shameless self-indulgence is mcee's fault. With thanks to her for beta, and to cathybites and unholyglee for their excellent input along the way.
"Get the phone book."
Sam looks up from separating his Sour Patch Kids by color, his eyes glassy. "Huh?"
"Phone book, Einstein."
"Why?"
Dean can't fight the grin pulling at his mouth. "Snack attack, motherfucker."
It takes Sam ten minutes to order the pizza, after one false start that dissolved into a fit of giggles, getting the name of the motel wrong twice, and then having to call back--at Dean's insistence--to add a Mountain Dew to their order. After hanging up the fourth time, Sam sits chewing his thumbnail. "Do you think he knew?"
Dean sighs; Sam's paranoia was funny when they were still at the party, but now it's starting to wear. "Dude, you're harshing my buzz."
Sam's grin is slow and wide. "Excuse me, but. 'Harshing your buzz?'"
"Sammy. Shut your face or I'm gonna put my foot in it."
"Touchy! Jesus."
"Hey, I was the one who scored this shit for us, just let me enjoy it."
He passes the smoldering joint across the space between the beds, Sam's fingers bumping into his as he fumbles to get them around the damp end. Dean squirms into a more comfortable position, the bed creaking under him, and for a second he thinks he's going to sink right through the mattress, through the floor, down to the center of the earth. The thought makes him dizzy, and he rides out the spin, curls his hands into the bed sheets until he feels grounded again.
"How long for the pizza?" he asks, squinting at the clock. He has no idea how long it's been since Sam called in the order.
"Twenty minutes." Sam takes a long pull from the joint and sets it in the glass ashtray on the nightstand, tendrils of smoke curling out from the corners of his mouth. He exhales at the ceiling and turns to Dean, chewing his lip. "Dean. Do I look stoned?"
"You look paranoid."
"Come on, I'm serious. Do I? Yes or no. Just tell me and I'll stop asking, I promise. I swear."
"Sam, I swear to God, I'm never doing this with you again," Dean says, but he's laughing, he can't help it. "You're my kid brother, and there ain't nothing I wouldn't do for you, but you're driving me batshit right now." He pauses, Sam eyeing him expectantly. "And yes," he grins, "you look stoned."
He watches Sam try to screw his face up into some semblance of sobriety and almost laughs again. But then Sam shrugs and closes his eyes, scratching idly at his belly, and Dean remembers. The first time they did this, out in the woods behind the trailer they rented in Florida when Dean was seventeen; fireflies blinking yellow and the joint glowing orange, Sam's teeth flashing white when he had that grin plastered across his face. Dad was asleep inside and they stretched out on a ratty blanket and counted stars and airplanes in the sky. Now they've got blinking yellow neon and the joint's out; he can't see Sam's smile in the dark anymore, and it's cracks on the ceiling they're counting.
"Dean?" Sam's voice is incredibly small, and for a long, strange moment Dean isn't sure if he's in the past or the present, but the blare of a truck horn from the highway snaps him into the here and now. "Dean?" He hears the twinge of panic, that tiny hitch in Sam's voice. He feels the matching one in his own breathing and smiles, a little sadly, into the dark.
"Hmm?"
"You were too quiet for too long."
"You worry too much." It's supposed to come out jokingly, to appease Sam, but it's too true, and Sam's laugh is a single, soft huff of breath.
"Can you blame me?"
"Hey." And it's Dean's own weird nostalgia as much as anything that puts an edge in his voice. He clears his throat and tries again, gentler. "Hey. Let's not, okay? Not tonight."
"Did I ever tell you... did I tell you that Jess made me cookies? The night she died?"
"Sammy... don't. C'mon."
"Chocolate chip. Her mom's recipe, or... no, her grandma's. They were still warm when I got home." He hmms and it's okay, it's a happy sound, contented for the moment with the memory.
But then he sighs, a little too long and loud, and Dean knows the moment's gone. Dean wishes, more than anything, that he could give it back, stretch it out into forever for his little brother. To give him dreams again, instead of nightmares.
"Sorry," Sam grumbles, and rolls onto his side. The light from the television flickers blue across his face as his mouth tugs up at the corner. "I'm starving."
"What else is new?" Dean's own stomach rumbles and he leans over the side of the bed to push his hand through the Doritos bags and Pringles tubes on the floor in search of a stray chip, but comes up empty. He grabs another beer from the six-pack instead, twists off the cap and flicks it across the room. It bounces off the dresser and spins off, rattling, underneath the radiator, and Dean settles back against the headboard. "What kind of pizza did we get?"
"Pepperoni and... onion? No, peppers."
Dean sits up straighter, waving menacingly at Sam with his beer bottle. "You better not have. You know I hate peppers."
"No, it was olives. Pepperoni and olives."
"Not my first choice, but I'll take it. Hey, are there any M&M's left?"
Sam digs around in his own junk food pile and comes up with a half-crumpled bag. "Only plain."
Dean makes a face. "You ate all the peanut, didn't you?" Sam grins and Dean chucks a pillow at his head. "Those were half-mine, asshole."
When the pizza arrives they're two rounds into a childhood debate over whether Thundercats or Transformers would win in a fight, but at the knock on the door Sam scrambles over Dean's bed, grabbing two twenties off the kitchen table. Dean almost can't stop himself giggling when Sam tries to figure out how much to tip, then gives up, embarrassed.
He kicks the door shut behind him. "As I was saying... wait. Oh, right. Lion-O would kick Optimus Prime's ass."
"Lion-O's a pussy," Dean says, and sputters out a laugh. "He is a pussy."
"You're a pussy. Shove over."
They sit cross-legged with their backs against the headboard, the pizza box open at their feet, sharing the last beer and flipping channels until they stumble on The Howling and Dean refuses to change the channel.
"Dean, come on, you've seen this movie like a hundred times." Sam grabs for the remote, and Dean cuffs him on the back of the head.
"It's a classic, Sam. Shuddap and watch."
"I've seen this movie like a hundred times," Sam mutters, crossing his arms and flopping back against the headboard with a thunk. "Because you made me."
"Wah wah wah. Where's my Mountain Dew?"
When the movie's over they lay back and light the joint again, passing it between them until it burns their fingertips and Sam drops the scrap of rolling paper into his beer bottle. Dean clicks off the TV, and they settle into the quiet dark.
They talk a little, in half sentences and shorthand, but never about anything either of them is really thinking about (Dad, Mom, where they are and where they're going). Mostly they're quiet, and it's Sam who falls asleep first, always has been. Dean turns to curl along Sam's back, pressed against him like when they were kids, his knees tucked behind Sam's.
Sam mumbles drowsily, something that Dean can't make out, and Dean holds his breath, hoping Sam can sleep just a little tonight. He settles again and Dean closes his eyes, listening to Sam's breathing and the highway traffic, the sounds of home and the road, one blurring into the other.