Drawings
For http://spn-rambleon.livejournal.com.
Title: Drawings
Recipient: [info]greeneyes_fan
Summary: Dean shows an unexpected talent.
Rating: PG (language)
Drawings
The sniffle was three days’ worth of irritation. Sam hadn’t been sleeping much since leaving Palo Alto three weeks ago and his fuse was shortening. Sam’s neck was starting to tighten from the quick turn and glare he had directed at the sniffle since Tuesday.
“Can’t you just blow your nose?” A hand through shaggy, dark hair and a sigh.
“Can’t you just blow your nose?” Repeated back in a high pitched tone. “Not unless you want me to do it on your tee shirt Sammy.” Green eyes blearily caught back up with the road. Another sniffle, wiped away on the back of a hand.
When it was gone it was replaced by Dean swiping incessantly at his nose, huffing at the itch. No sneezing, just a quiet groan when the edge of his flannel shirt failed to quell the tickle.
A less than glorious snort accompanied by some throat clearing took over as they pulled into some diner in Connecticut. Dean’s nose was slowly becoming less freckled and more pinky red by the minute; a fact that had Sam rolling his eyes and huffing at his brother’s ability to be both gross and manage to garner the loving pat of their waitress simultaneously.
***
By Saturday morning, there was no gruff greeting or question of coffee. Just a sticky note. A detailed sketch of a Starbuck’s cup, with fingers wrapped around it; one finger with a wedding band and a slightly crooked pinky. There’s a scrawled ‘no voice’ underneath it. It’s left on the table in the corner of the motel room. Sam swiped the pile of tissues and the notebooks they sat upon off the table, and settled into a creaky chair to wait for his coffee, rubbing his eyes.
After coffee and a shower, Sam teetered towards the bed to get dressed, Dean nowhere in sight. Something scratched at his face, pulling his tee shirt over his head. A sticky note attached to the front; the Impala with Dean digging through it. The sleek sides gleaming in a couple quick strokes on three by three in square of paper.
Sam didn’t toss the notes, just tucked them away; accumulating several more scenes of Dean starving to death, Dean needing to take a piss, and Dean needing to go to the 7-11. Funny paper conversations, making the darkness that has settled down on his shoulders recently start to abate.
***
The silence after a day was cut again by throat clearing, and Sam’s neck ache was back. But this time he wasn’t only whipping to glare at his brother’s majestic nasty, but also maybe at his hands gripping the steering wheel. Hands that looked scarred and ungainly; a small circular burn from a poor grip on a borrowed shot gun, a finger that won’t bend all of the way from one break too many, the shine off of his father’s wedding ring, a bump on his fourth finger from holding a pencil too hard. How did he not see that before?
“I didn’t know you could draw.”
“I don’t draw.” Grunt.
“You don’t but you can. Why don’t you do more? Once this demon thing is done, you should come back with me. You can take a class. There’s this girl with dreads that has this shop near campus. Amanda, Miranda, Marnie! Marnie, has art classes -“
“Sonovabitch Sammy! They were just sticky notes”. A deep breath and a look out at the flat plains that look nothing like the woods of Connecticut that they left behind. “We have to focus on that Rawhead thing. We should be there by dusk.” Conversation over. Dean had never been one for words. Sam rolled his eyes and settled in to try and steal some sleep.
***
There were stretches of quiet after that; weakness taking over voice. Dark circles, skin stretched tight as resolutions were searched for. Little sticky notes for ugly nurses , cold hands reaching for a hoodie, Sam buying coffee at the 7-11. Sam collected the images of the last days, and stared at his brother’s hands, memorized them with a pain behind his eyes, one hand on his brother’s heart.
***
Pulling into the muddy field Sam felt renewed. Comforted, he thumbed the paper squares hidden in his pocket, and helped his brother out of the car to join the masses looking for a miracle.
***
***
Sam tore open the box. Dean was going to say yes. Dean was going to say yes and leave nothing behind but a jacket and some cardboard.
His brother was safely guarded in the living room, by an angel and curmudgeon on wheels. Safe for now, but as Sam dug through his brother’s meager belongings; the unrest that was swirling in his stomach spoke of something much bigger on the way.
His fingers brushed something crisp. He pulled out cream, once white paper, dozens of small squares, and saw the familiar, organized chaos of his brother’s pencils strokes. His mother smiling up from the garden, his father’s brow puckered elbow deep in the Impala, Sam reading at 3, Sam reading at 8, Sam reading at 13, Sam nursing his coffee, Bobby nursing a beer, Sam sitting by his bedside; pages and pages of secret moments kept for years. Dean’s whole life right there.
Dean had never been one for words. But Sam knew this was goodbye.
Title: Drawings
Recipient: [info]greeneyes_fan
Summary: Dean shows an unexpected talent.
Rating: PG (language)
Drawings
The sniffle was three days’ worth of irritation. Sam hadn’t been sleeping much since leaving Palo Alto three weeks ago and his fuse was shortening. Sam’s neck was starting to tighten from the quick turn and glare he had directed at the sniffle since Tuesday.
“Can’t you just blow your nose?” A hand through shaggy, dark hair and a sigh.
“Can’t you just blow your nose?” Repeated back in a high pitched tone. “Not unless you want me to do it on your tee shirt Sammy.” Green eyes blearily caught back up with the road. Another sniffle, wiped away on the back of a hand.
When it was gone it was replaced by Dean swiping incessantly at his nose, huffing at the itch. No sneezing, just a quiet groan when the edge of his flannel shirt failed to quell the tickle.
A less than glorious snort accompanied by some throat clearing took over as they pulled into some diner in Connecticut. Dean’s nose was slowly becoming less freckled and more pinky red by the minute; a fact that had Sam rolling his eyes and huffing at his brother’s ability to be both gross and manage to garner the loving pat of their waitress simultaneously.
***
By Saturday morning, there was no gruff greeting or question of coffee. Just a sticky note. A detailed sketch of a Starbuck’s cup, with fingers wrapped around it; one finger with a wedding band and a slightly crooked pinky. There’s a scrawled ‘no voice’ underneath it. It’s left on the table in the corner of the motel room. Sam swiped the pile of tissues and the notebooks they sat upon off the table, and settled into a creaky chair to wait for his coffee, rubbing his eyes.
After coffee and a shower, Sam teetered towards the bed to get dressed, Dean nowhere in sight. Something scratched at his face, pulling his tee shirt over his head. A sticky note attached to the front; the Impala with Dean digging through it. The sleek sides gleaming in a couple quick strokes on three by three in square of paper.
Sam didn’t toss the notes, just tucked them away; accumulating several more scenes of Dean starving to death, Dean needing to take a piss, and Dean needing to go to the 7-11. Funny paper conversations, making the darkness that has settled down on his shoulders recently start to abate.
***
The silence after a day was cut again by throat clearing, and Sam’s neck ache was back. But this time he wasn’t only whipping to glare at his brother’s majestic nasty, but also maybe at his hands gripping the steering wheel. Hands that looked scarred and ungainly; a small circular burn from a poor grip on a borrowed shot gun, a finger that won’t bend all of the way from one break too many, the shine off of his father’s wedding ring, a bump on his fourth finger from holding a pencil too hard. How did he not see that before?
“I didn’t know you could draw.”
“I don’t draw.” Grunt.
“You don’t but you can. Why don’t you do more? Once this demon thing is done, you should come back with me. You can take a class. There’s this girl with dreads that has this shop near campus. Amanda, Miranda, Marnie! Marnie, has art classes -“
“Sonovabitch Sammy! They were just sticky notes”. A deep breath and a look out at the flat plains that look nothing like the woods of Connecticut that they left behind. “We have to focus on that Rawhead thing. We should be there by dusk.” Conversation over. Dean had never been one for words. Sam rolled his eyes and settled in to try and steal some sleep.
***
There were stretches of quiet after that; weakness taking over voice. Dark circles, skin stretched tight as resolutions were searched for. Little sticky notes for ugly nurses , cold hands reaching for a hoodie, Sam buying coffee at the 7-11. Sam collected the images of the last days, and stared at his brother’s hands, memorized them with a pain behind his eyes, one hand on his brother’s heart.
***
Pulling into the muddy field Sam felt renewed. Comforted, he thumbed the paper squares hidden in his pocket, and helped his brother out of the car to join the masses looking for a miracle.
***
***
Sam tore open the box. Dean was going to say yes. Dean was going to say yes and leave nothing behind but a jacket and some cardboard.
His brother was safely guarded in the living room, by an angel and curmudgeon on wheels. Safe for now, but as Sam dug through his brother’s meager belongings; the unrest that was swirling in his stomach spoke of something much bigger on the way.
His fingers brushed something crisp. He pulled out cream, once white paper, dozens of small squares, and saw the familiar, organized chaos of his brother’s pencils strokes. His mother smiling up from the garden, his father’s brow puckered elbow deep in the Impala, Sam reading at 3, Sam reading at 8, Sam reading at 13, Sam nursing his coffee, Bobby nursing a beer, Sam sitting by his bedside; pages and pages of secret moments kept for years. Dean’s whole life right there.
Dean had never been one for words. But Sam knew this was goodbye.