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gorgeousnerd) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
firmament2010-12-29 12:08 am
gorgeousnerd) wrote in firmament2010-12-29 12:08 am
Entry tags:
"Sunny beaches", Supernatural, PG, gen.
Title: Sunny beaches
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG for language.
Length: 910 words.
Characters/Pairings: Dean and Sam.
Spoilers: Season six through 6x11.
Summary: If Dean can just find some good weather, maybe everything'll be okay.
Notes: Also on LJ and AO3.
Sunny beaches
The Impala inched forward. Dean's teeth chattered as the tire's chains dug into the snow, and he turned up the heater with a grumble.
"We gotta be hitting the end of this soon," he said aloud. "Not too much further."
Sam didn't answer. He barely looked over before he went back to staring at his fogged-up window. He hadn't said much at all since hours before they left Bobby's, and it wasn't easier to deal with on the road. Dean can't even see the fucking road.
He just. He couldn't stay. He couldn't watch Sam in that goddamned panic room one more time, crying and pleading and begging as Death stuffed his soul back in. He couldn't sit and know Bobby was giving him that half-weepy look he was so good at giving while Dean tried to figure out what was safe to say to Sam. He couldn't watch the snow out the window and know that Castiel didn't give a rat's ass about teleporting him out of a socially awkward situation and to the fucking Bahamas.
So he'd stuffed Sam in the car and started south.
It had to be better down there. Texas, Florida, Louisiana...somewhere. They could go swimming in the Gulf of Mexico, or the southern part of the Atlantic. Somewhere warm. It'd be like when they were kids, and Dad'd stop the car so they could splash for a couple hours and tire themselves out.
Dean peeked at Sam. He still hadn't slept. But unlike when he didn't have the soul, it showed; he blinked hard, sported big rings under his eyes, and slumped against the door.
All he'd said, when Dean asked, was that the last thing he remembered was falling in the hole. So not only did he not remember Hell, but he didn't remember the year that followed. Probably for the best.
But the almost apocalypse was enough to give anyone sleeping problems. Dean knew that much. When he wasn't dreaming about Sam preparing to stab Bobby, or Sam smirking as a fang smeared blood all over Dean's face, he remembered bleeding all those demons dry so Sam could suck it down.
Yeah. Sleep was overrated.
"We gotta be hitting the southern edge of the storm. Then it's sunny skies all the way."
Only a bob of Sam's head told Dean that he was awake and listening.
Dean pictured blue and warm sunshine and curled his fingers around the steering wheel.
-
He was right about the snow. It disappeared within the next hour, followed by rain and slush, but hell, at least he could see the road, if not well. And he had to get out to take the chains off, but even though his fingers were red and numb when he got back in the car, and the interior windows were fogged, things were starting to look up.
Except.
The further south they went, the worse the rain got. By the time they reached something that should've been beach, it was pissing rain so hard the visibility was worse than it had been in South Dakota. Dean's eyes stung, and he couldn't keep it up anymore.
Since it was the holidays, the only room in town that was empty was in one of those romance motels, the cheesy ones with themes and shit. They got an underwater room, according to the half-naked mermaid babe on the key, but when Dean opened the door and smelled a damp mustiness, he thought they'd taken it a little far. The carpet squished underfoot, and he looked up as he turned on the light; the ceiling was stained from leaks in several spots.
He sat on a bed and clicked on the TV.
"--warm front all through the south, with rain from coast to coast." A man in a suit in a tie was gesturing to a big blob on a map. "Gonna be a wet New Year, folks!"
Dean clicked off the TV and tossed the remote back on the table. The blue walls around him sparkled and dripped, and he couldn't. He just couldn't.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
But Dean froze the second the word was out of his mouth and looked at Sam, standing just inside the closed door.
He'd asked how he was feeling. And not in that tight, over-the-top way he would've said it a week ago.
It sounded like Sam.
"Remember when we were kids?" Dean asked, dropping his gaze. He was entering dangerous territory, but he had to say it. "We were in California or something, and we wanted to go swimming so bad we snuck out of our room when Dad was taking a nap."
There was a silence for a minute. Dean couldn't take it. He looked up and saw a hint of a smile on Sam's face.
"We got sunburned," Sam said, his voice cracking the slightest bit. "Dad was pissed. But it was great."
Dean rubbed his eyes. God, it felt like he hadn't slept in years. "Yeah, it was."
Sam yawned and dropped his bag next to his bed. It squished as it hit the floor. "Maybe it'll clear up tomorrow. Night, Dean."
He shucked his jeans and climbed under his sheets. Before Dean could even blink, Sam was snoring quietly.
"I'll be damned," he muttered, and he could feel the corners of his lips start to turn up the slightest bit.
It wasn't long before he was asleep.
He dreamed of sunny beaches.
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG for language.
Length: 910 words.
Characters/Pairings: Dean and Sam.
Spoilers: Season six through 6x11.
Summary: If Dean can just find some good weather, maybe everything'll be okay.
Notes: Also on LJ and AO3.
The Impala inched forward. Dean's teeth chattered as the tire's chains dug into the snow, and he turned up the heater with a grumble.
"We gotta be hitting the end of this soon," he said aloud. "Not too much further."
Sam didn't answer. He barely looked over before he went back to staring at his fogged-up window. He hadn't said much at all since hours before they left Bobby's, and it wasn't easier to deal with on the road. Dean can't even see the fucking road.
He just. He couldn't stay. He couldn't watch Sam in that goddamned panic room one more time, crying and pleading and begging as Death stuffed his soul back in. He couldn't sit and know Bobby was giving him that half-weepy look he was so good at giving while Dean tried to figure out what was safe to say to Sam. He couldn't watch the snow out the window and know that Castiel didn't give a rat's ass about teleporting him out of a socially awkward situation and to the fucking Bahamas.
So he'd stuffed Sam in the car and started south.
It had to be better down there. Texas, Florida, Louisiana...somewhere. They could go swimming in the Gulf of Mexico, or the southern part of the Atlantic. Somewhere warm. It'd be like when they were kids, and Dad'd stop the car so they could splash for a couple hours and tire themselves out.
Dean peeked at Sam. He still hadn't slept. But unlike when he didn't have the soul, it showed; he blinked hard, sported big rings under his eyes, and slumped against the door.
All he'd said, when Dean asked, was that the last thing he remembered was falling in the hole. So not only did he not remember Hell, but he didn't remember the year that followed. Probably for the best.
But the almost apocalypse was enough to give anyone sleeping problems. Dean knew that much. When he wasn't dreaming about Sam preparing to stab Bobby, or Sam smirking as a fang smeared blood all over Dean's face, he remembered bleeding all those demons dry so Sam could suck it down.
Yeah. Sleep was overrated.
"We gotta be hitting the southern edge of the storm. Then it's sunny skies all the way."
Only a bob of Sam's head told Dean that he was awake and listening.
Dean pictured blue and warm sunshine and curled his fingers around the steering wheel.
-
He was right about the snow. It disappeared within the next hour, followed by rain and slush, but hell, at least he could see the road, if not well. And he had to get out to take the chains off, but even though his fingers were red and numb when he got back in the car, and the interior windows were fogged, things were starting to look up.
Except.
The further south they went, the worse the rain got. By the time they reached something that should've been beach, it was pissing rain so hard the visibility was worse than it had been in South Dakota. Dean's eyes stung, and he couldn't keep it up anymore.
Since it was the holidays, the only room in town that was empty was in one of those romance motels, the cheesy ones with themes and shit. They got an underwater room, according to the half-naked mermaid babe on the key, but when Dean opened the door and smelled a damp mustiness, he thought they'd taken it a little far. The carpet squished underfoot, and he looked up as he turned on the light; the ceiling was stained from leaks in several spots.
He sat on a bed and clicked on the TV.
"--warm front all through the south, with rain from coast to coast." A man in a suit in a tie was gesturing to a big blob on a map. "Gonna be a wet New Year, folks!"
Dean clicked off the TV and tossed the remote back on the table. The blue walls around him sparkled and dripped, and he couldn't. He just couldn't.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
But Dean froze the second the word was out of his mouth and looked at Sam, standing just inside the closed door.
He'd asked how he was feeling. And not in that tight, over-the-top way he would've said it a week ago.
It sounded like Sam.
"Remember when we were kids?" Dean asked, dropping his gaze. He was entering dangerous territory, but he had to say it. "We were in California or something, and we wanted to go swimming so bad we snuck out of our room when Dad was taking a nap."
There was a silence for a minute. Dean couldn't take it. He looked up and saw a hint of a smile on Sam's face.
"We got sunburned," Sam said, his voice cracking the slightest bit. "Dad was pissed. But it was great."
Dean rubbed his eyes. God, it felt like he hadn't slept in years. "Yeah, it was."
Sam yawned and dropped his bag next to his bed. It squished as it hit the floor. "Maybe it'll clear up tomorrow. Night, Dean."
He shucked his jeans and climbed under his sheets. Before Dean could even blink, Sam was snoring quietly.
"I'll be damned," he muttered, and he could feel the corners of his lips start to turn up the slightest bit.
It wasn't long before he was asleep.
He dreamed of sunny beaches.