(no subject)

[gavemea_45]

[[After this, which despite the timestamp happened Saturday afternoon, and this, which happened shortly after.]]

If he were to say one thing about the beds here, Sam would say that they are much more comfortable than the beds he's used to, on the road.

Convenient, since that's where he spends most of his time when he's upstairs. Right now he's sitting on top of the covers, legs crossed, writing in his dad's journal in blue ink.

Because that's easier than trying to figure out what the hell just happened.

Comments

[hopeitsworthit]

Dean comes in, his Glock in his hand (it's still warm from his target practice), and doesn't look at Sam. He places the warm gun down on the table and takes off his jacket, saying only, "Takin' a shower," before he disappears behind the bathroom door.

[gavemea_45]

"My life is complete," Sam says to the door, and rolls his eyes.

After a few minutes, he starts writing again. Carefully.

[hopeitsworthit]

The shower is hot--almost too hot--on his skin and he stands there, his hands pressed against the tiles with his head down, letting the water run down his neck and his back, willing it to wash him away.

Forty minutes later, when he turns the now-cold water off, he's still there.

He steps out, wraps a towel around his waist, and walks out into the room.

He still doesn't look at Sammy.

[gavemea_45]

Sam doesn't look up at Dean either, eyes still fixed on the paper in front of him.

"Feel better?"

[hopeitsworthit]

"Yeah," he lies, grabbing a pair of boxers from the bag he's been living out of for as long as he can remember and walking back into the bathroom to put them on, suddenly self-conscious.

[gavemea_45]

Well, that's new.

"Showers'll do that, yeah."

[hopeitsworthit]

He comes out a moment later wearing his black boxers.

Dean tosses the towel onto the back of a chair and crawls into his bed, his back to Sammy.

"Night," he says tersely.

[gavemea_45]

Dean's never been one for flowery words; this is on the sparse end, even for him.

"You okay, dude?"

[hopeitsworthit]

"Yeah. Fine." He makes no move to turn over.

[gavemea_45]

"Now who's full of shit?"

[hopeitsworthit]

Now he rolls over. "What's that mean?"

[gavemea_45]

"It means you're full of shit."

Duh.

[hopeitsworthit]

"I'm not allowed to be fucking tired, is that it?"

[gavemea_45]

... he didn't.

Did he?

-- but really it shouldn't matter anyway, should it?

Sam looks over at Dean, finally, studying what he can see of him that's not covered by bedspread.

A few moments later, he shrugs. "Sure. You're tired. Okay."

[hopeitsworthit]

"Believe whatever you want, Sam." He rolls back over and angrily pulls the covers up to his neck.

[gavemea_45]

"I believe you, Dean." Sam shrugs again.

[hopeitsworthit]

He rolls back over. "No you don't."

[gavemea_45]

Sam laughs softly.

"Does it matter?"

[hopeitsworthit]

He pauses for a minute. "I guess not." He rolls back over.

[gavemea_45]

Sam laughs quietly again, turns his eyes back to Dad's journal.

"Sleep well, Dean."

[hopeitsworthit]

He doesn't move or a say anything for a long time, but then he rolls over and asks, "Is there anything you wanted to tell me, Sam?"

[gavemea_45]

"Hm? Oh -- Desire's immortal."

Well, it's certainly not lying by untruth ...

[hopeitsworthit]

"Not what I was referring to, but I figured that much out."

[gavemea_45]

"What'd you do, shoot him?"

[hopeitsworthit]

"Her. And yes."