(no subject)
I've been playing with this idea for awhile, and it clicked a little better tonight. Tiny, sleepy post-IMTOD Winsister, with blankets and motel rooms and the inevitable Winchester stubbornness. This went somewhere different than I thought it was going to, but hey, it happens. For sazzlette, just because. <3.
All Quiet, Sam/girl!Dean, PG, 900 words.
A week or two after they get out of the hospital, Dean almost falls asleep behind the wheel for the third day in a row and Sam institutes a policy. Until his eye heals - or, privately, until Dean stops beating the shit out of strangers in bars and grieves a little - they're sleeping in. She's not allowed to get up at seven to drive, he's not allowed to do research at 5 AM. Sam knows Dean's pissed about it, but it's pretty fucking obvious that she's not sleeping anyway.
The first night, Sam makes the mistake of letting Dean pick the room. She gets two queens and takes the second bed, then wakes up at seven anyway. Sam's pretty sure she deliberately knocks over the entire towel rack in the bathroom just to piss him off, but he doesn't bother arguing over it because nothing's worth arguing over with Dean when she's this caught up in her own head. When they stop for gas outside of Memphis just after dinner, he lifts her keys out of her jacket pocket and is already in the driver's seat by the time she comes back. Dean punches him in the shoulder hard enough to bruise, but he's barely back on the highway before she's asleep. She moves in against his side a hundred miles north, and doesn't even wake up when Sam carries her into the hotel room.
From there, it's two or three cold nights, which means Dean doesn't bitch about it as much as she normally would, and then she gets a cold. By the time she's over that - which takes a hell of a lot longer than Sam's okay with - she's already used to sleeping late, and the only time Sam tries to move her before nine, he gets kicked in the face. It's nothing new, but he doesn't try it again.
Right now, the only time Dean's easy to get close to is when she's barely awake, and even then she's usually more likely to push him off the bed than to get close, so when they get back into the motel room after a brutal possession and two or three hours on the road to put a little distance between them and the police, Sam's not exactly surprised when Dean gets a room with two doubles instead of a king and takes the second bed.
She's asleep before he's out of the shower, still blood covered and muddy with a bruise across her cheek, but Sam's too tired to wake her up, so he pulls the comforter from his bed over her and sleeps underneath the sheets. He comes to a little after six to the running shower, and he's almost asleep again when it clicks off. He's expecting Dean to get back in the other double or wake him up to get on the road, because she's pushing, like a couple thousand miles of open highway will bring him back, but Sam's sure as hell not getting up until he has to, so he shuts his eyes and listens to her rummage through a duffle bag.
He's too startled when she climbs into bed with him to keep pretending to be asleep, though, but he doesn't move to touch her, just backs up a little while she pulls the blanket off the other bed and spreads it out over his, uneven but warmer.
"Can I -" Dean says, softer than he's heard in a while. He doesn't know what she's asking, but he makes room anyway, pulling the blankets down.
"Yeah, okay," he says, and she slides in, right up against him, just one of his button down shirts between them, and presses a knee between his thighs, damp and a little too cold.
"Hey," Sam says, and doesn't bother with anything else, just wraps an arm around her and lifts a hand to rub his thumb over the edge of the bruise on her cheek. The sun's barely coming up, shadowed through the cheap curtains, and Dean shuts her eyes and leans into his touch, just barely, but it's there.
Sam runs his fingers beneath her ear, stroking a thumb along the curve of her jaw, and down, until he can wrap a palm around her shoulder, pulling her in close. She kisses him, maybe for the first time since the accident, stunningly warm and still enough to make his stomach turn over, even if it's supposed to be ordinary, something he's been used to for months.
"Hey, yourself," Dean says, up against the corner of his mouth, but when she pulls back she's smiling, and she tangles her fingers in his hair and pulls him down until they're face to face, close.
Sam nudges his nose against hers, then along the curve of her cheek, reclaiming, down over her jaw, and lets Dean bury her face against his neck, in close, her stomach against his, breasts pressed close against his chest, so close their shoulders are touching.
"Sorry," Dean says, finally, and Sam doesn't push it, just leans in and fixes the uneven collar of his shirt, leaving his fingers pressed against the curve of her shoulder.
"It's okay," he says, mouth right against her temple, "just get some sleep," and stays put until she drifts off, close and safe.
All Quiet, Sam/girl!Dean, PG, 900 words.
A week or two after they get out of the hospital, Dean almost falls asleep behind the wheel for the third day in a row and Sam institutes a policy. Until his eye heals - or, privately, until Dean stops beating the shit out of strangers in bars and grieves a little - they're sleeping in. She's not allowed to get up at seven to drive, he's not allowed to do research at 5 AM. Sam knows Dean's pissed about it, but it's pretty fucking obvious that she's not sleeping anyway.
The first night, Sam makes the mistake of letting Dean pick the room. She gets two queens and takes the second bed, then wakes up at seven anyway. Sam's pretty sure she deliberately knocks over the entire towel rack in the bathroom just to piss him off, but he doesn't bother arguing over it because nothing's worth arguing over with Dean when she's this caught up in her own head. When they stop for gas outside of Memphis just after dinner, he lifts her keys out of her jacket pocket and is already in the driver's seat by the time she comes back. Dean punches him in the shoulder hard enough to bruise, but he's barely back on the highway before she's asleep. She moves in against his side a hundred miles north, and doesn't even wake up when Sam carries her into the hotel room.
From there, it's two or three cold nights, which means Dean doesn't bitch about it as much as she normally would, and then she gets a cold. By the time she's over that - which takes a hell of a lot longer than Sam's okay with - she's already used to sleeping late, and the only time Sam tries to move her before nine, he gets kicked in the face. It's nothing new, but he doesn't try it again.
Right now, the only time Dean's easy to get close to is when she's barely awake, and even then she's usually more likely to push him off the bed than to get close, so when they get back into the motel room after a brutal possession and two or three hours on the road to put a little distance between them and the police, Sam's not exactly surprised when Dean gets a room with two doubles instead of a king and takes the second bed.
She's asleep before he's out of the shower, still blood covered and muddy with a bruise across her cheek, but Sam's too tired to wake her up, so he pulls the comforter from his bed over her and sleeps underneath the sheets. He comes to a little after six to the running shower, and he's almost asleep again when it clicks off. He's expecting Dean to get back in the other double or wake him up to get on the road, because she's pushing, like a couple thousand miles of open highway will bring him back, but Sam's sure as hell not getting up until he has to, so he shuts his eyes and listens to her rummage through a duffle bag.
He's too startled when she climbs into bed with him to keep pretending to be asleep, though, but he doesn't move to touch her, just backs up a little while she pulls the blanket off the other bed and spreads it out over his, uneven but warmer.
"Can I -" Dean says, softer than he's heard in a while. He doesn't know what she's asking, but he makes room anyway, pulling the blankets down.
"Yeah, okay," he says, and she slides in, right up against him, just one of his button down shirts between them, and presses a knee between his thighs, damp and a little too cold.
"Hey," Sam says, and doesn't bother with anything else, just wraps an arm around her and lifts a hand to rub his thumb over the edge of the bruise on her cheek. The sun's barely coming up, shadowed through the cheap curtains, and Dean shuts her eyes and leans into his touch, just barely, but it's there.
Sam runs his fingers beneath her ear, stroking a thumb along the curve of her jaw, and down, until he can wrap a palm around her shoulder, pulling her in close. She kisses him, maybe for the first time since the accident, stunningly warm and still enough to make his stomach turn over, even if it's supposed to be ordinary, something he's been used to for months.
"Hey, yourself," Dean says, up against the corner of his mouth, but when she pulls back she's smiling, and she tangles her fingers in his hair and pulls him down until they're face to face, close.
Sam nudges his nose against hers, then along the curve of her cheek, reclaiming, down over her jaw, and lets Dean bury her face against his neck, in close, her stomach against his, breasts pressed close against his chest, so close their shoulders are touching.
"Sorry," Dean says, finally, and Sam doesn't push it, just leans in and fixes the uneven collar of his shirt, leaving his fingers pressed against the curve of her shoulder.
"It's okay," he says, mouth right against her temple, "just get some sleep," and stays put until she drifts off, close and safe.