“Sammy? Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty. Soup’s on,” Sam is drawn out of his rest by Dean’s voice, and he wakes to find Castiel missing, and Dean sitting in his former place at the side of the bed. The scent of greasy fast food permeates the room, mingling with soap, old leather, and sweat, and Sam finds a smile playing on his lips – the room smells like Dean now. And that smells like home. A thousand crappy motel rooms in a thousand crappy towns, and Dean can still make them all home. Home Crappy Home. He has to fight not to burst out laughing as Dean helps him to sit up against the headboard of his bed.
“You should’ve kept a pillow for yourself,” he says as Dean finishes propping him up, and Dean shakes his head.
“And miss out on a legitimate excuse to seduce that maid? No way in hell. Dude, she’s from Nicaragua, came to the states to try to get into modeling. Saving up for a boob job, then moving to Omaha. And I am SO in.” Dean’s enthusiasm falls a little too flat for his liking – it’s all so forced… He tries to ignore it as he watches his brother digging around in a paper sack with the familiar green and yellow logo. “I can’t believe they only have Runza in five damned states. Frings man, I’ve got two large orders of frings,” again, the smile is too far from genuine, although Sam does recall the actual gusto that his brother used to have when faced with the prospect of the fry/onion ring hybrid.
“I’ll pass,” even thinking of the greasy foodstuffs that Dean was sure to have purchased makes Sam’s stomach flip-flop, which in turn makes him balk at the prospect of eating. He tried to recall when the last time he ate was, and drew a blank – he has a vague sense of Dean and Castiel plying him with water, and sometimes with Gatorade or some other odd sports drink, but he didn’t recall any food. Eight days, then… Nine? No wonder he feels as weak as a kitten.
“I’m not ordering one of those girly salads when I don’t have you around to point at, so you don’t get one of those. I did get you some soup,” Dean reaches into the bag and pulls out a round, covered Styrofoam dish, and a plastic spoon, and then makes to hand them off to Sam. He tries to take them, and then realizes that his hands are shaking. “Dude…” Dean sets the food back on the table and presses one hand against Sam’s head. “Hold out your hands.”
“Dean, what?” Sam is confused by the order, and then realizes that Dean is checking his steadiness. Or lack thereof. He holds out his hands and notes that they’re shaking visibly in front of him; there’s nothing that he can do to stop it.
Dean’s smile has vanished, and he grabs hold of Sam’s hands for a moment before reaching back for the soup and spoon. “You make me do airplane noises, I swear to God you’re doing all of the digging on the next dozen ghost hunts, on your own.” Dean begins to feed him, slowly, one bite at a time, and Sam notices a third figure suddenly materializing in the room. He tries to focus on Castiel, and then on Dean, but it’s too difficult. And then he’s losing the world again…
FILLED: Nor Will I Imitate A Choo-Choo Train 8/10
“You should’ve kept a pillow for yourself,” he says as Dean finishes propping him up, and Dean shakes his head.
“And miss out on a legitimate excuse to seduce that maid? No way in hell. Dude, she’s from Nicaragua, came to the states to try to get into modeling. Saving up for a boob job, then moving to Omaha. And I am SO in.” Dean’s enthusiasm falls a little too flat for his liking – it’s all so forced… He tries to ignore it as he watches his brother digging around in a paper sack with the familiar green and yellow logo. “I can’t believe they only have Runza in five damned states. Frings man, I’ve got two large orders of frings,” again, the smile is too far from genuine, although Sam does recall the actual gusto that his brother used to have when faced with the prospect of the fry/onion ring hybrid.
“I’ll pass,” even thinking of the greasy foodstuffs that Dean was sure to have purchased makes Sam’s stomach flip-flop, which in turn makes him balk at the prospect of eating. He tried to recall when the last time he ate was, and drew a blank – he has a vague sense of Dean and Castiel plying him with water, and sometimes with Gatorade or some other odd sports drink, but he didn’t recall any food. Eight days, then… Nine? No wonder he feels as weak as a kitten.
“I’m not ordering one of those girly salads when I don’t have you around to point at, so you don’t get one of those. I did get you some soup,” Dean reaches into the bag and pulls out a round, covered Styrofoam dish, and a plastic spoon, and then makes to hand them off to Sam. He tries to take them, and then realizes that his hands are shaking. “Dude…” Dean sets the food back on the table and presses one hand against Sam’s head. “Hold out your hands.”
“Dean, what?” Sam is confused by the order, and then realizes that Dean is checking his steadiness. Or lack thereof. He holds out his hands and notes that they’re shaking visibly in front of him; there’s nothing that he can do to stop it.
Dean’s smile has vanished, and he grabs hold of Sam’s hands for a moment before reaching back for the soup and spoon. “You make me do airplane noises, I swear to God you’re doing all of the digging on the next dozen ghost hunts, on your own.” Dean begins to feed him, slowly, one bite at a time, and Sam notices a third figure suddenly materializing in the room. He tries to focus on Castiel, and then on Dean, but it’s too difficult. And then he’s losing the world again…