SPN: "Naptime"
Category: Supernatural
Title: Naptime
Word Count: 546
"This Christmas Day" 'verse, somewhere after "Imaginator."
Note: This is a little bit that pounced on me the other night when I was without Internet. It's not really a story, per se, just a little bit of fun.
There was a knock on his door. “Sam?”
Oh, great. Dean. Just what he needed.
“You coming out to eat?” Dean asked. The faint hum of the house chair’s motor came closer. “Sam? You alive in there?”
“No,” Sam said. He was lying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling because he was too damn tired to close his eyes. He couldn’t feel his feet. There was something hard on that damn scrunchy that was pressing into his scalp, and the thing itself was pulling painfully on his hair, but he just didn’t have the energy to reach up and pull it loose.
“Sam, you gotta eat something.”
“I am never leaving this room again,” Sam vowed. “I’ll get back to you on whether I get out of bed.”
“We have vegetable crap.”
“As appetizing as that sounds, no.” The words were starting to feel funny in his mouth. Like they weren’t really there, the same way as the thoughts trying to swim through the murk inside his head. “If I eat now, I’ll get sick.”
“You sure?”
“God, yes.”
“Okay.” There was a pause. “You need help getting those boots off?”
“I’ll get them.” Eventually. Eventually, he’d even be able to get up and make it to the bathroom. Although just lying here until he rotted also sounded appealing.
“And the, um-”
“Dean, will you please go eat your dinner?” Getting that many coherent words out was an accomplishment. Maybe he was getting some of his energy back. Maybe there was a possibility that he would have the energy to get out of bed before he starved to death.
“Okay. But-” There was that half-choked sound that Dean always made before bursting into laughter. “Your nails are very pretty, Samantha.”
Wait, he had a little energy left after all.
“GET OUT!” Sam roared.
Dean looked betrayed. “Fine. Starve.”
Sam fell back onto his bed, waiting for the door to close again, then lifted his hand. His nails were purple this time. Not just purple, bright purple, like a plastic Easter egg on steroids. And there were streaks of pink in his hair to go with it, and by this point, he’d probably rubbed his eyes enough that the makeup had smeared and he looked like a fucking raccoon.
He’d get it cleaned up. When he had the energy to get online and find out how.
Maybe it was the exhaustion, but he didn’t understand. He didn’t sleep that soundly. Sure, dealing with the girls this morning had been tiring-it had been the first time Dean had left him with Kara and Ananda on his own for more than a few minutes-and he’d really earned that damn nap, but he was not that deep a sleeper. Dad had trained them better. And besides, they’d been asleep too, and Dean had been back.
So how the hell had Ananda and Kara done all this without waking him up? How had they found somebody’s cosmetics, snuck them downstairs, and managed to apply them-not to mention what they’d done to his hair and nails-without waking him up?
One thing was certain: He was never, ever going to fall asleep on the couch in this house again.
Title: Naptime
Word Count: 546
"This Christmas Day" 'verse, somewhere after "Imaginator."
Note: This is a little bit that pounced on me the other night when I was without Internet. It's not really a story, per se, just a little bit of fun.
There was a knock on his door. “Sam?”
Oh, great. Dean. Just what he needed.
“You coming out to eat?” Dean asked. The faint hum of the house chair’s motor came closer. “Sam? You alive in there?”
“No,” Sam said. He was lying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling because he was too damn tired to close his eyes. He couldn’t feel his feet. There was something hard on that damn scrunchy that was pressing into his scalp, and the thing itself was pulling painfully on his hair, but he just didn’t have the energy to reach up and pull it loose.
“Sam, you gotta eat something.”
“I am never leaving this room again,” Sam vowed. “I’ll get back to you on whether I get out of bed.”
“We have vegetable crap.”
“As appetizing as that sounds, no.” The words were starting to feel funny in his mouth. Like they weren’t really there, the same way as the thoughts trying to swim through the murk inside his head. “If I eat now, I’ll get sick.”
“You sure?”
“God, yes.”
“Okay.” There was a pause. “You need help getting those boots off?”
“I’ll get them.” Eventually. Eventually, he’d even be able to get up and make it to the bathroom. Although just lying here until he rotted also sounded appealing.
“And the, um-”
“Dean, will you please go eat your dinner?” Getting that many coherent words out was an accomplishment. Maybe he was getting some of his energy back. Maybe there was a possibility that he would have the energy to get out of bed before he starved to death.
“Okay. But-” There was that half-choked sound that Dean always made before bursting into laughter. “Your nails are very pretty, Samantha.”
Wait, he had a little energy left after all.
“GET OUT!” Sam roared.
Dean looked betrayed. “Fine. Starve.”
Sam fell back onto his bed, waiting for the door to close again, then lifted his hand. His nails were purple this time. Not just purple, bright purple, like a plastic Easter egg on steroids. And there were streaks of pink in his hair to go with it, and by this point, he’d probably rubbed his eyes enough that the makeup had smeared and he looked like a fucking raccoon.
He’d get it cleaned up. When he had the energy to get online and find out how.
Maybe it was the exhaustion, but he didn’t understand. He didn’t sleep that soundly. Sure, dealing with the girls this morning had been tiring-it had been the first time Dean had left him with Kara and Ananda on his own for more than a few minutes-and he’d really earned that damn nap, but he was not that deep a sleeper. Dad had trained them better. And besides, they’d been asleep too, and Dean had been back.
So how the hell had Ananda and Kara done all this without waking him up? How had they found somebody’s cosmetics, snuck them downstairs, and managed to apply them-not to mention what they’d done to his hair and nails-without waking him up?
One thing was certain: He was never, ever going to fall asleep on the couch in this house again.