FIC: Close Quarters
A short drabble-ish fic written for a Gateworld challenge.
Rating: G
Characters: Sam, Dean
Word count: 275
Summary: Sleeping in a car isn't as fun as it might sound, especially when you're over six feet tall.
Disclaimer: not mine, obviously.
Close Quarters
The door creaks softly as Sam gets out and climbs into the backseat, and pulls off his jacket to use as a pillow. The car is roughly as wide as Sam is tall, so he has to pull off his boots so he can almost stretch out, head pressed against one door and feet against the other. The stench of sweaty socks fills the car, and Dean fakes a gag.
“Gross, Sam,” he says, and winds down the window a bit.
Sam snorts, and doesn’t bother to say anything back. There’s silence again except for their breathing. Dean seems to have no trouble getting comfortable, even though he hasn’t even bothered to lie down properly. He’s leaning semi-upright against the passenger door, legs sprawled out across the seat and arms draped across his stomach, and his breathing is slow and even and Sam thinks he might be asleep already. Sam, on the other hand, tosses and turns and finally chooses a nearly comfortable position. They both wake up often during the night, shifting positions each time to ease cramped muscles. Sam wakes just after sunrise when the light hits his face and he knows he won’t be getting any more sleep. He crawls out of the Impala with stiff legs and hair falling in his eyes. He yawns, stretches, breathes in the crisp morning air, and combs his hair with his fingers. When Dean wakes, Sam’s leaning on the hood with his hands in his pockets. Dean’s legs don’t really cooperate when he pulls himself out of the Impala.
“Man, I hate sleeping in the car,” Sam says, when Dean joins him.
“Yeah. Me too.”
END
Rating: G
Characters: Sam, Dean
Word count: 275
Summary: Sleeping in a car isn't as fun as it might sound, especially when you're over six feet tall.
Disclaimer: not mine, obviously.
Close Quarters
The door creaks softly as Sam gets out and climbs into the backseat, and pulls off his jacket to use as a pillow. The car is roughly as wide as Sam is tall, so he has to pull off his boots so he can almost stretch out, head pressed against one door and feet against the other. The stench of sweaty socks fills the car, and Dean fakes a gag.
“Gross, Sam,” he says, and winds down the window a bit.
Sam snorts, and doesn’t bother to say anything back. There’s silence again except for their breathing. Dean seems to have no trouble getting comfortable, even though he hasn’t even bothered to lie down properly. He’s leaning semi-upright against the passenger door, legs sprawled out across the seat and arms draped across his stomach, and his breathing is slow and even and Sam thinks he might be asleep already. Sam, on the other hand, tosses and turns and finally chooses a nearly comfortable position. They both wake up often during the night, shifting positions each time to ease cramped muscles. Sam wakes just after sunrise when the light hits his face and he knows he won’t be getting any more sleep. He crawls out of the Impala with stiff legs and hair falling in his eyes. He yawns, stretches, breathes in the crisp morning air, and combs his hair with his fingers. When Dean wakes, Sam’s leaning on the hood with his hands in his pockets. Dean’s legs don’t really cooperate when he pulls himself out of the Impala.
“Man, I hate sleeping in the car,” Sam says, when Dean joins him.
“Yeah. Me too.”
END