SPN FIC - Lost in Translation
In celebration of my 5th anniversary at LJ (5 years, 451 stories, 1,381,957 words and counting...) -- a bit of a follow-up to Red Sky at Morning -- which, in spite of all the vehement thumbs-down it gets around the fandom, is still one of my favorite episodes.
Thoughts bombard each other inside his skull, none of them complete, none of them sensible. He's breathing, can feel himself inhaling and exhaling, and moving his lips, his tongue, but somehow, none of that turns into words. The world's frozen, somehow. Then it's not.
CHARACTERS: Sam and Dean
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1874 words
LOST IN TRANSLATION
By Carol Davis
Sometimes, it's better not to ask.
So when Dean returns to the car with his purchases double (maybe triple) bagged, and stashes them quickly in the trunk, which is certainly going to be beyond Sam's reach while they're in motion, Sam says nothing. Doesn't do so much as raise an eyebrow. He slides into the passenger seat wearing a noncommittal smile, and once they're back on the road, he settles into a reasonably comfortable curl and drifts off to sleep.
He doesn't question Dean's choice of motel, three or four steps up the ladder from the crazy themed places Dad taught them to pick when they were kids. They can afford it, Sam figures; they've got Bela's money.
Ill-gotten, in a sense, but what the hell.
"Guy at the desk says they got good hot water in the shower," is Dean's only explanation.
"Fine," Sam says.
"That's okay with you?"
"Sure. I could use a hot shower. I still feel kind of … sticky."
What Sam means is icky, not sticky. It's been two days and almost a thousand miles since they bid goodbye to Gertrude Chase, but … well. The memory lingers. As does her saliva. He took a shower this morning, a good long one, but he feels like there's still a trail from Gert's tongue running all the way down his ear canal.
Jesus, he thinks. It's worse than monster goo.
"Horndog," Dean offers.
"Don't start," Sam warns.
He's got a set of car keys, but he lets Dean unlock the trunk and pop the lid as if Dean's the only one capable of doing it. Lets Dean toss him his duffel of clothes. There's a prank coming, he thinks. Some monumental, possibly multi-step prank. That's the only explanation for the way Dean's treating the bundle he carried out of Target. Hell, it's the only explanation for Dean's need to shop in Target in the first place, since there was a Walmart right across the road.
Bring it on, he thinks.
Maybe, once whatever Dean's begun to put together has started to unspool, there's a chance Sam can get him back.
That Sam can find it in him to play along.
As if nothing's wrong.
As if this is a day like any other day. As if this year is no different from any other.
He watches his brother wrap his arms around his double (possibly triple) bagged purchase. Watches Dean's brow furrow a little. It's a warning, of course: Don't even try touching this.
There's some comfort in knowing that Target doesn't sell sex toys, but that's not giving Dean credit for creativity.
"I'm gonna go for a walk," Sam says.
Dean's brow furrows some more. "Thought you were gonna take a shower."
"I will. Need to stretch my legs first."
Dean gives that a good long think. "So … what, then? Twenty minutes?"
"I don't know. We passed a nice park on the way in. I think it runs down by the river. Looked like there was a jogging path."
"A jogging path."
"Yep."
So: the prank needs some serious set-up time. And Sam's just handed it over to his brother, whose mood lifts noticeably. Dean's movements are almost jaunty as he juggles his duffels and the mysterious package, wrestles the door open and strides into the upscale room (upscale for them, at least) that he's rented for the night.
He beams at Sam as Sam switches out his boots for a pair of sneakers and his denim jacket for a comfortable hoodie.
"Half an hour?" he inquires as Sam moves toward the door.
"Hour, maybe," Sam replies. "It's a nice day."
But, as has happened so many times - too damn many times, though that's often enough that Sam simply greets the turn-around with a sigh, rather than letting it piss him off - the nice day gives way to an oncoming storm. A sudden, sharp wind, a bank of near-black clouds boiling in from the west. The one good thing about it is that it simply dogs Sam's heels until he reaches the edge of the motel parking lot, and he's just damp, not soaked, as he strides along the walkway toward their room.
Hand on the knob, he hears his brother's voice.
TV, he thinks, but it's not; it's Dean, complaining about something. No porn channel, maybe. Or maybe Bela's called. They left Bela behind (in theory, she left them behind, but whatever) two days ago, but she has a way of turning up. Again and again. The proverbial bad penny.
Don't need this now, Sam thinks, and thrusts the door open.
"Oh my GOD," he blurts.
The room's got two beds, like all the other rooms they've rented in the past couple of years. One of them - the one Sam tossed his duffel onto - is still as he left it, neatly made, save for the rumples he created when he sat down to change his shoes.
The other one's been stripped, its plain white sheets replaced with dark blue ones.
There's money scattered across the sheets.
A lot of money.
Bela's money.
And on top of it lies his brother. Buck naked and red in the face.
Dad taught them to react quickly to things. Lobbed things at them, tripped them, pounced on them without so much as a breath of warning. It was shit to go through at the time, but all that training's been valuable - which was, of course, Dad's point. Sam doesn't often freeze. Isn't often completely flabbergasted. A response like that can get you killed.
Sam's often figured that his final glimpse of this earthly plane won't end up being a rainbow, or puppies.
But if something struck him dead right now?
Thoughts bombard each other inside his skull, none of them complete, none of them sensible. He's breathing, can feel himself inhaling and exhaling, and moving his lips, his tongue, but somehow, none of that turns into words.
The world's frozen, somehow.
Then it's not.
"SHIT," Dean announces, loudly and vehemently.
And still, there are no words.
"Close the damn door!" Dean bellows.
That's a multi-step process, since Sam's standing in the doorway. Step forward. Half-turn. Push the door shut until the latch engages. Turn the deadbolt. Somewhere, buried deep in the torrent of thoughts that's still ricocheting around inside his head, is the hope that when he turns around, Dean will be lying on top of his still-made bed, propped against a nest of pillows, TV remote in his hand, a collection of snacks heaped on the bedside table.
But … no.
A peek over his shoulder reveals dark blue sheets. A lot of rumpled cash.
"Could you -" Sam groans, thumping his forehead against the door. "What the HELL, man. What are you doing?"
There's a thump. Dean's weight hitting the floor.
The rustle of clothing.
The storm outside is no match for Dean's expression, when Sam finally musters the courage to turn around.
"I shoulda known," Dean blusters. "I shoulda frigging known."
"Known -?"
"'Perfectly well, thank you,'" Dean simpers. "'On silk sheets, rolling naked in money.'"
That makes no sense for a moment. Then the memory's there: Dean asking Bela how she could sleep at night, and her coy, self-satisfied reply. Rolling naked in money. "So you decided to try it?" Sam asks, grimacing.
"Well - yeah."
Like so many other things. Bacon cheeseburgers for breakfast. Seeking out a woman he'd had a wild weekend with nine years ago. Atlantic City (for what little that was worth). Running from one thing to the next.
Try it all, Sam thinks. Do it all, before the curtain drops.
"They're not silk," he says quietly, picking up the packaging Dean tossed aside when he re-made the bed. "They're 'silkette'."
"Close enough," Dean mutters.
"It's some kind of polyester."
Dean makes a stab at glowering, but the steam's pretty much gone out of his mood. He wanted this to be some sort of over-the-top experience; that's plain. He wanted to believe he could add something else to his list of I did this, and it was friggin' AWESOME. That's written on his face, the way disappointment has always been etched there. Fleetingly, sometimes, but when you see something often enough, you recognize it, even though it only lasts for an instant.
"Cotton," Sam says softly.
"What?"
"Cotton. Decent thread count. You wash 'em a bunch of times, and they get as soft as a baby's butt."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Shoulda bought that, then. I should know better than to listen to that -"
"Yeah," Sam shrugs. "You should."
He crosses the room then, reaching for the heap of sheets that were originally on Dean's bed, now lying in the corner near the closet. He picks them up all at once, arms wrapped around the bundle, and takes a sniff. They've got that bleachy smell that's unavoidable at motels, but it's faint, and the fabric is reasonably soft. "These aren't bad," he tells his brother.
"I wasted sixty bucks."
Sam seldom made his bed, as a kid, though Dean had taught him how (more or less). When he did bother, it was a simple yanking of the covers into some sort of order. That was Dean's method. It was enough to suit Dad, most of the time.
It wasn't enough for Jess.
With Dean watching from nearby, he strips the dark blue sheets (not silk, for sure, though he has only a vague idea of what real silk feels like) from Dean's bed, rolls them into a ball with Bela's money at its core and tosses it aside. The bottom sheet that belongs on the bed isn't fitted, and takes a bit of experimentation to position it properly, so there's enough to tuck underneath the mattress on each side. Sam smooths it swiftly with splayed hands, then flips the top sheet into place, followed by the blanket, and tucks those in at the bottom.
Pulls everything tight. Straight.
Finally, he drops the pillows into place.
"Who you tryin' to impress?" Dean asks when Sam turns to face him.
If all Bela Talbot is able to do, Sam thinks, is sleep on silk sheets, rolling naked in money, then she's got no idea what life's really about.
What it ought to be about, at least.
Silk sheets.
Piles of cash.
Bacon cheeseburgers and gallons of liquor. Intruding on other people's lives. Sex with strangers, with loud music playing.
Hours on the road, with loud music playing.
The rain's coming down hard now, peppering the window with fat, hard drops driven by the wind.
"I'll go get us some food," Sam says. "There's a Back to the Future marathon on tonight. I saw it listed in the paper. We haven't seen 'em all the way through in a while."
"Pouring out there," Dean observes.
"Yeah. I know."
"Sammy -"
Sam shakes his head. "I'll be back in ten. Keep your clothes on this time."
He knows his brother, he thinks, better than Dean knows himself. And he's seen the look that passes through Dean's eyes often enough that he can recognize it for what it is, even though it only lasts a moment.
"I'll be right back," he tells Dean.
Then he slips out into the rain.
* * * * *
Thoughts bombard each other inside his skull, none of them complete, none of them sensible. He's breathing, can feel himself inhaling and exhaling, and moving his lips, his tongue, but somehow, none of that turns into words. The world's frozen, somehow. Then it's not.
CHARACTERS: Sam and Dean
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1874 words
LOST IN TRANSLATION
By Carol Davis
Sometimes, it's better not to ask.
So when Dean returns to the car with his purchases double (maybe triple) bagged, and stashes them quickly in the trunk, which is certainly going to be beyond Sam's reach while they're in motion, Sam says nothing. Doesn't do so much as raise an eyebrow. He slides into the passenger seat wearing a noncommittal smile, and once they're back on the road, he settles into a reasonably comfortable curl and drifts off to sleep.
He doesn't question Dean's choice of motel, three or four steps up the ladder from the crazy themed places Dad taught them to pick when they were kids. They can afford it, Sam figures; they've got Bela's money.
Ill-gotten, in a sense, but what the hell.
"Guy at the desk says they got good hot water in the shower," is Dean's only explanation.
"Fine," Sam says.
"That's okay with you?"
"Sure. I could use a hot shower. I still feel kind of … sticky."
What Sam means is icky, not sticky. It's been two days and almost a thousand miles since they bid goodbye to Gertrude Chase, but … well. The memory lingers. As does her saliva. He took a shower this morning, a good long one, but he feels like there's still a trail from Gert's tongue running all the way down his ear canal.
Jesus, he thinks. It's worse than monster goo.
"Horndog," Dean offers.
"Don't start," Sam warns.
He's got a set of car keys, but he lets Dean unlock the trunk and pop the lid as if Dean's the only one capable of doing it. Lets Dean toss him his duffel of clothes. There's a prank coming, he thinks. Some monumental, possibly multi-step prank. That's the only explanation for the way Dean's treating the bundle he carried out of Target. Hell, it's the only explanation for Dean's need to shop in Target in the first place, since there was a Walmart right across the road.
Bring it on, he thinks.
Maybe, once whatever Dean's begun to put together has started to unspool, there's a chance Sam can get him back.
That Sam can find it in him to play along.
As if nothing's wrong.
As if this is a day like any other day. As if this year is no different from any other.
He watches his brother wrap his arms around his double (possibly triple) bagged purchase. Watches Dean's brow furrow a little. It's a warning, of course: Don't even try touching this.
There's some comfort in knowing that Target doesn't sell sex toys, but that's not giving Dean credit for creativity.
"I'm gonna go for a walk," Sam says.
Dean's brow furrows some more. "Thought you were gonna take a shower."
"I will. Need to stretch my legs first."
Dean gives that a good long think. "So … what, then? Twenty minutes?"
"I don't know. We passed a nice park on the way in. I think it runs down by the river. Looked like there was a jogging path."
"A jogging path."
"Yep."
So: the prank needs some serious set-up time. And Sam's just handed it over to his brother, whose mood lifts noticeably. Dean's movements are almost jaunty as he juggles his duffels and the mysterious package, wrestles the door open and strides into the upscale room (upscale for them, at least) that he's rented for the night.
He beams at Sam as Sam switches out his boots for a pair of sneakers and his denim jacket for a comfortable hoodie.
"Half an hour?" he inquires as Sam moves toward the door.
"Hour, maybe," Sam replies. "It's a nice day."
But, as has happened so many times - too damn many times, though that's often enough that Sam simply greets the turn-around with a sigh, rather than letting it piss him off - the nice day gives way to an oncoming storm. A sudden, sharp wind, a bank of near-black clouds boiling in from the west. The one good thing about it is that it simply dogs Sam's heels until he reaches the edge of the motel parking lot, and he's just damp, not soaked, as he strides along the walkway toward their room.
Hand on the knob, he hears his brother's voice.
TV, he thinks, but it's not; it's Dean, complaining about something. No porn channel, maybe. Or maybe Bela's called. They left Bela behind (in theory, she left them behind, but whatever) two days ago, but she has a way of turning up. Again and again. The proverbial bad penny.
Don't need this now, Sam thinks, and thrusts the door open.
"Oh my GOD," he blurts.
The room's got two beds, like all the other rooms they've rented in the past couple of years. One of them - the one Sam tossed his duffel onto - is still as he left it, neatly made, save for the rumples he created when he sat down to change his shoes.
The other one's been stripped, its plain white sheets replaced with dark blue ones.
There's money scattered across the sheets.
A lot of money.
Bela's money.
And on top of it lies his brother. Buck naked and red in the face.
Dad taught them to react quickly to things. Lobbed things at them, tripped them, pounced on them without so much as a breath of warning. It was shit to go through at the time, but all that training's been valuable - which was, of course, Dad's point. Sam doesn't often freeze. Isn't often completely flabbergasted. A response like that can get you killed.
Sam's often figured that his final glimpse of this earthly plane won't end up being a rainbow, or puppies.
But if something struck him dead right now?
Thoughts bombard each other inside his skull, none of them complete, none of them sensible. He's breathing, can feel himself inhaling and exhaling, and moving his lips, his tongue, but somehow, none of that turns into words.
The world's frozen, somehow.
Then it's not.
"SHIT," Dean announces, loudly and vehemently.
And still, there are no words.
"Close the damn door!" Dean bellows.
That's a multi-step process, since Sam's standing in the doorway. Step forward. Half-turn. Push the door shut until the latch engages. Turn the deadbolt. Somewhere, buried deep in the torrent of thoughts that's still ricocheting around inside his head, is the hope that when he turns around, Dean will be lying on top of his still-made bed, propped against a nest of pillows, TV remote in his hand, a collection of snacks heaped on the bedside table.
But … no.
A peek over his shoulder reveals dark blue sheets. A lot of rumpled cash.
"Could you -" Sam groans, thumping his forehead against the door. "What the HELL, man. What are you doing?"
There's a thump. Dean's weight hitting the floor.
The rustle of clothing.
The storm outside is no match for Dean's expression, when Sam finally musters the courage to turn around.
"I shoulda known," Dean blusters. "I shoulda frigging known."
"Known -?"
"'Perfectly well, thank you,'" Dean simpers. "'On silk sheets, rolling naked in money.'"
That makes no sense for a moment. Then the memory's there: Dean asking Bela how she could sleep at night, and her coy, self-satisfied reply. Rolling naked in money. "So you decided to try it?" Sam asks, grimacing.
"Well - yeah."
Like so many other things. Bacon cheeseburgers for breakfast. Seeking out a woman he'd had a wild weekend with nine years ago. Atlantic City (for what little that was worth). Running from one thing to the next.
Try it all, Sam thinks. Do it all, before the curtain drops.
"They're not silk," he says quietly, picking up the packaging Dean tossed aside when he re-made the bed. "They're 'silkette'."
"Close enough," Dean mutters.
"It's some kind of polyester."
Dean makes a stab at glowering, but the steam's pretty much gone out of his mood. He wanted this to be some sort of over-the-top experience; that's plain. He wanted to believe he could add something else to his list of I did this, and it was friggin' AWESOME. That's written on his face, the way disappointment has always been etched there. Fleetingly, sometimes, but when you see something often enough, you recognize it, even though it only lasts for an instant.
"Cotton," Sam says softly.
"What?"
"Cotton. Decent thread count. You wash 'em a bunch of times, and they get as soft as a baby's butt."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Shoulda bought that, then. I should know better than to listen to that -"
"Yeah," Sam shrugs. "You should."
He crosses the room then, reaching for the heap of sheets that were originally on Dean's bed, now lying in the corner near the closet. He picks them up all at once, arms wrapped around the bundle, and takes a sniff. They've got that bleachy smell that's unavoidable at motels, but it's faint, and the fabric is reasonably soft. "These aren't bad," he tells his brother.
"I wasted sixty bucks."
Sam seldom made his bed, as a kid, though Dean had taught him how (more or less). When he did bother, it was a simple yanking of the covers into some sort of order. That was Dean's method. It was enough to suit Dad, most of the time.
It wasn't enough for Jess.
With Dean watching from nearby, he strips the dark blue sheets (not silk, for sure, though he has only a vague idea of what real silk feels like) from Dean's bed, rolls them into a ball with Bela's money at its core and tosses it aside. The bottom sheet that belongs on the bed isn't fitted, and takes a bit of experimentation to position it properly, so there's enough to tuck underneath the mattress on each side. Sam smooths it swiftly with splayed hands, then flips the top sheet into place, followed by the blanket, and tucks those in at the bottom.
Pulls everything tight. Straight.
Finally, he drops the pillows into place.
"Who you tryin' to impress?" Dean asks when Sam turns to face him.
If all Bela Talbot is able to do, Sam thinks, is sleep on silk sheets, rolling naked in money, then she's got no idea what life's really about.
What it ought to be about, at least.
Silk sheets.
Piles of cash.
Bacon cheeseburgers and gallons of liquor. Intruding on other people's lives. Sex with strangers, with loud music playing.
Hours on the road, with loud music playing.
The rain's coming down hard now, peppering the window with fat, hard drops driven by the wind.
"I'll go get us some food," Sam says. "There's a Back to the Future marathon on tonight. I saw it listed in the paper. We haven't seen 'em all the way through in a while."
"Pouring out there," Dean observes.
"Yeah. I know."
"Sammy -"
Sam shakes his head. "I'll be back in ten. Keep your clothes on this time."
He knows his brother, he thinks, better than Dean knows himself. And he's seen the look that passes through Dean's eyes often enough that he can recognize it for what it is, even though it only lasts a moment.
"I'll be right back," he tells Dean.
Then he slips out into the rain.
* * * * *