![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Title: Practicalities
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
maharetr
Fandom/rating: SPN, G, Gen
Spoilers/warnings None
Word count: 505
When Dean opens his right eye he can see the side of the other double bed and Sam's socked foot swinging back and forth slightly. Somehow the soft thud of his heel hitting the bed is more irritating than the sound of Sam tapping at the keyboard, or the hum of the laptop's fan.
"Stop it," Dean mumbles.
"Hmm?" Sam looks up, eyebrow raised. He's got a bic pen clenched between his teeth, and that's irritating, too.
"Stop…" Dean fumbles for words that aren't "stop living" and is forced to go to all the effort of waving a hand to try and make his point. "Go to bed, already, okay?"
"It's not even 11 yet, and I slept all the way here."
Dean doesn't try and point out that it hadn't exactly been a restful sleep.
"Whatever, I call rank. Turn the lights off on your way to bed." He rolls into his other side, away from the swinging foot, and ignores the stare Sam is levelling at his back. Sam starts typing again and keeps it up long enough that Dean's about to haul himself out of his stupor and wake up enough to roll over and smack Sam about the head -- sometimes cramped motel rooms have their advantages -- when the computer chimes and the laptop fan stills. The silence is heavy, broken only by Sam shifting around the room: Dean lies still, pretending to go back to sleep as Sam unzips his duffle, closes his eyes against the sudden glare and noise as the lights and fan in the bathroom go on. When the bathroom door clicks closed, Dean rolls onto his back and stares up into the darkness.
Sam's still not sleeping, not eating much, not…anything. Dean's getting worried enough that's he's almost tempted to hack into Sam's computer and find out what the hell he's doing on the laptop all the time, but he doubts Sam is going to leave him alone with it for long enough, and his computer skills have never been as good as Sam's.
The water shuts off, a short shower this time, although if the pattern of the last few nights repeated, the morning's would be a long one, washing away the sweat of the night's bad dreams.
Sam comes out of the bathroom wearing a Stanford shirt and climbs into the other bed without a word. He's too pale, the bags under his eyes standing out too clearly, but he tosses restlessly for almost half an hour.
"What?" Sam asks when Dean sits up with a sigh, then "the hell?" when Dean slides in next to him.
"I'm cold," Dean says, and presses the soles of his feet against Sam's shins as he lies down, his back to Sam. Sam doesn't call him on his warm feet, and Dean doesn't say a word when, after a minute or so, Sam rests his forehead between Dean's shoulder blades and slings an arm around Dean's side. They both sleep better like this; it's only practical.
Author:
maharetrFandom/rating: SPN, G, Gen
Spoilers/warnings None
Word count: 505
When Dean opens his right eye he can see the side of the other double bed and Sam's socked foot swinging back and forth slightly. Somehow the soft thud of his heel hitting the bed is more irritating than the sound of Sam tapping at the keyboard, or the hum of the laptop's fan.
"Stop it," Dean mumbles.
"Hmm?" Sam looks up, eyebrow raised. He's got a bic pen clenched between his teeth, and that's irritating, too.
"Stop…" Dean fumbles for words that aren't "stop living" and is forced to go to all the effort of waving a hand to try and make his point. "Go to bed, already, okay?"
"It's not even 11 yet, and I slept all the way here."
Dean doesn't try and point out that it hadn't exactly been a restful sleep.
"Whatever, I call rank. Turn the lights off on your way to bed." He rolls into his other side, away from the swinging foot, and ignores the stare Sam is levelling at his back. Sam starts typing again and keeps it up long enough that Dean's about to haul himself out of his stupor and wake up enough to roll over and smack Sam about the head -- sometimes cramped motel rooms have their advantages -- when the computer chimes and the laptop fan stills. The silence is heavy, broken only by Sam shifting around the room: Dean lies still, pretending to go back to sleep as Sam unzips his duffle, closes his eyes against the sudden glare and noise as the lights and fan in the bathroom go on. When the bathroom door clicks closed, Dean rolls onto his back and stares up into the darkness.
Sam's still not sleeping, not eating much, not…anything. Dean's getting worried enough that's he's almost tempted to hack into Sam's computer and find out what the hell he's doing on the laptop all the time, but he doubts Sam is going to leave him alone with it for long enough, and his computer skills have never been as good as Sam's.
The water shuts off, a short shower this time, although if the pattern of the last few nights repeated, the morning's would be a long one, washing away the sweat of the night's bad dreams.
Sam comes out of the bathroom wearing a Stanford shirt and climbs into the other bed without a word. He's too pale, the bags under his eyes standing out too clearly, but he tosses restlessly for almost half an hour.
"What?" Sam asks when Dean sits up with a sigh, then "the hell?" when Dean slides in next to him.
"I'm cold," Dean says, and presses the soles of his feet against Sam's shins as he lies down, his back to Sam. Sam doesn't call him on his warm feet, and Dean doesn't say a word when, after a minute or so, Sam rests his forehead between Dean's shoulder blades and slings an arm around Dean's side. They both sleep better like this; it's only practical.
Tags:
From:
no subject
From:
no subject