(no subject)
HEY LOOK I WROTE SOMETHING ON MY LUNCH BREAK.
Grey, gen (or preslash!), G, 450 words.
Driving in the car in the rain.
Grey
They're seventy miles outside of Cincinnati, southbound, and Sam's starting to fall asleep at the wheel, the dull back and forth of the windshield wipers pushing him closer by the mile. It's cold rain, the kind that hurts coming down if you're stupid enough to get out of the car, and it's times like this when Sam's acutely aware of how fucked up their lives are, because the soft grey light of eleven o'clock AM on a Tuesday morning isn't the sort of thing most people know about. They're used to office windows and umbrellas on the way to class and maybe picking up the dry cleaning, not the blurry swing of headlights through rain on the highway and a windshield-wide view.
Dean's tense, the sort of hostile quiet that's readable as the barometric pressure pushing in, headaches and subtle, aching bones and bruises; he shifts a couple inches in the passenger seat and Sam figures that's the handprint across his ribs from that poltergeist in Des Moines. He leans back again and it's probably the bullet Sam put in his shoulder - Sam's feeling it just beneath the band of the watch Dean gave him for Christmas, in all the bones he used to know the names of, back before he knew what it felt like to break them.
"If you want to switch, we could stop," Dean says, abruptly, his hand spread out across his knee, wide and open.
Sam's the sort of drowsy that doesn't lend itself well to driving, but letting Dean take the next couple hundred miles would be an even worse idea; if one of them's going to be stiff from driving all day in this weather, Sam figures it's better that it's the person who's willing to take a handful of Tylenol and sleep it off.
"Nah," he says, watching the road, and eases a hand over across the back of the seat, casual, under the pretense of stretching.
If Sam moves just a little, he can dip his fingers just inside the collar of Dean's jacket, and it's easy to get away with; Dean only figures it out ten miles later, when Sam's thumb brushes against warm skin. He leans forward, rolling his shoulders - the only indication that he's even noticed - and Sam waits for him to shift back again before he curls his hand a little closer against the back of his neck.
"You're just too fuckin' big for the car, Sammy," Dean grumbles, like he's pissed that they're too old for the whole your side, my side bullshit, but Sam just moves a little closer to center, hiding a smile.
"Yeah," he says, "yeah, probably," and keeps his hand right where it belongs.
Grey, gen (or preslash!), G, 450 words.
Driving in the car in the rain.
Grey
They're seventy miles outside of Cincinnati, southbound, and Sam's starting to fall asleep at the wheel, the dull back and forth of the windshield wipers pushing him closer by the mile. It's cold rain, the kind that hurts coming down if you're stupid enough to get out of the car, and it's times like this when Sam's acutely aware of how fucked up their lives are, because the soft grey light of eleven o'clock AM on a Tuesday morning isn't the sort of thing most people know about. They're used to office windows and umbrellas on the way to class and maybe picking up the dry cleaning, not the blurry swing of headlights through rain on the highway and a windshield-wide view.
Dean's tense, the sort of hostile quiet that's readable as the barometric pressure pushing in, headaches and subtle, aching bones and bruises; he shifts a couple inches in the passenger seat and Sam figures that's the handprint across his ribs from that poltergeist in Des Moines. He leans back again and it's probably the bullet Sam put in his shoulder - Sam's feeling it just beneath the band of the watch Dean gave him for Christmas, in all the bones he used to know the names of, back before he knew what it felt like to break them.
"If you want to switch, we could stop," Dean says, abruptly, his hand spread out across his knee, wide and open.
Sam's the sort of drowsy that doesn't lend itself well to driving, but letting Dean take the next couple hundred miles would be an even worse idea; if one of them's going to be stiff from driving all day in this weather, Sam figures it's better that it's the person who's willing to take a handful of Tylenol and sleep it off.
"Nah," he says, watching the road, and eases a hand over across the back of the seat, casual, under the pretense of stretching.
If Sam moves just a little, he can dip his fingers just inside the collar of Dean's jacket, and it's easy to get away with; Dean only figures it out ten miles later, when Sam's thumb brushes against warm skin. He leans forward, rolling his shoulders - the only indication that he's even noticed - and Sam waits for him to shift back again before he curls his hand a little closer against the back of his neck.
"You're just too fuckin' big for the car, Sammy," Dean grumbles, like he's pissed that they're too old for the whole your side, my side bullshit, but Sam just moves a little closer to center, hiding a smile.
"Yeah," he says, "yeah, probably," and keeps his hand right where it belongs.