SPN FIC - Dancing With the Furies
The middle of the night, in another nameless motel. A bad dream. And a brother who can spin it with the best of 'em.
CHARACTERS: Sam and Dean
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 956 words
DANCING WITH THE FURIES
By Carol Davis
Once upon a time, Sam could have slept through a low-level nuclear blast. These days, it takes very little to wake him up.
Which isn't to say you could classify the flailing and shrieking going on in the other bed as "very little."
"Dean?" he rasps, hauling himself into a sit.
Dean's in the midst of a bad dream; that's plain - unless something (angel, Sam thinks, or demon) has gotten into his head. That's a nightmare of its own kind, one Sam is all too familiar with. Scrubbing away the last remnants of sleep, Sam stumbles to the other bed and seizes the hunting knife Dean keeps under his pillow - the way Dean's flailing, if he got hold of the knife, he could do some serious damage, to the pillow, the bed, maybe to himself.
"DEAN," Sam barks. "Dude. Wake up."
It takes several more repetitions of that - issued more and more loudly - to rouse Dean toward consciousness. His eyelids flutter crazily as he peers at Sam, and he's swaying back and forth like he's on the deck of the Andrea Gail during the Perfect Storm.
Then, oddly, he shudders and looks away.
"What the hell were you dreaming?" Sam asks.
"Nothin'."
"Come on, man. You were like Hercules battling the Furies."
Dean shakes his head, avoiding Sam's gaze.
He's very seldom shamefaced, even on those (thankfully rare) occasions when Sam's walked in on him while he was "having some private time." Now, though… Even in the dim light filtering in from the parking lot, he's visibly blushing.
"No way," Sam says. "You don't get to not tell me."
"The hell I don't."
"I'll get it out of you."
"Like to see you try," Dean mutters.
Sam reaches over and switches on the lamp. Sits on the edge of his bed. Gazes at his brother with the faintest hint of a smile.
"You suck," Dean grouses.
"Spill it."
There's a long, long silence.
"Was on Dancing With the Stars," Dean mumbles, addressing his left thigh rather than Sam.
"And?"
"I don't need to tell you jack shit. It's my head. Things are private, dammit."
The heat in Dean's voice has no effect on Sam, who sits there patiently, his whisper of a smile undisturbed.
"In a thing," Dean blurts.
"A thing?"
"A dress, all right? I was wearing a dress with… sparkly things."
"Sequins," Sam says.
"And that little - she's gotta be a demon. Or a Leviathan. She's just not reasonable, Sam. She said I was pathetic."
"In your head."
If Dean happened to have laser eyes, Sam figures, there wouldn't be much left of the room. Possibly the entire town.
"Ruby?" Sam guesses. "Bela? Eve? Jo?"
"No," Dean grouses.
"Then -"
"That little tyrant in the suit. On the NCIS thing. The one who's always spying on everybody and calling them 'Mister'."
The answer pops into Sam's head like a well-timed punch line, and the mental picture it brings with it is so perfect that he bursts into laughter, convulses with it, breath coming in whoops, until he drops onto his back on the bed, tears trailing along his temples into his ears.
"You SUCK," Dean informs him, when Sam finally falls into a hiccupping silence.
It's a struggle to sit up again. "Dude," Sam says, swiping his tears away with the heel of a balled-up hand. "You were competing on Dancing With the Stars in a sequined dress. Being criticized by Linda Hunt. Seriously, man. You are pathetic."
"LL Cool J friggin' agreed with her."
"My god, man. That's awesome."
It might or might not be an act, but Dean looks hurt.
"You ate two-thirds of a banana cream pie and a pint of ice cream," Sam points out. "That's your brain on a ton of sugar."
"You could be a little sympathetic."
"Sympathetic, hell. I'm gonna call Bobby."
Dean's lower lip slides out.
"Were there high heels involved?" Sam asks.
"You seriously asking for a revisit of the Nair in the shampoo?"
"Who were you dancing with?"
Dean's nostrils flare.
"You were dancing with LL Cool J?"
Sam laughs until he can't inhale. His belly cramps hard enough to bring the tears back, and he has to turn away from his brother, focusing instead on the ugly painting of ducks on the opposite wall, so he can get some oxygen. Three times he thinks he can get a grip on himself, and fails.
Finally - and it's probably been a good twenty minutes - the laughter fades away.
It feels good, to have laughed so hard, for so long.
Anyone who knows Dean even slightly less well than Sam does would miss it. Would completely fail to catch the flicker of expression that crosses Dean's face as Sam turns back to face him.
Dean always has known how to play him.
Has always known what he needs.
"Thanks, man," Sam says quietly.
"For what?"
Some of it might have been true. The circumstances. The dress. God knows Sam's dreamed some weird crap in his life.
But maybe there were Furies, instead of Linda Hunt, and Dean - as he's somehow always able to do - spun it around.
Made it work for him.
Dean left the TV remote on the bedside table, when they turned out the lights a few hours ago. Sam grabs it, points it at the TV, and thumbs the power button, smiling as the TV twinks on.
TV's an old friend.
A comfort in the middle of the night.
A Golden Girls rerun is on. Dean's always had a soft spot for Estelle Getty.
"Okay?" Sam asks, nodding at the set.
His brother smiles.
There might have been Furies - or Linda Hunt. It doesn't matter; the result's the same.
"Yeah," Dean says. "Okay."
* * * * *
CHARACTERS: Sam and Dean
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 956 words
DANCING WITH THE FURIES
By Carol Davis
Once upon a time, Sam could have slept through a low-level nuclear blast. These days, it takes very little to wake him up.
Which isn't to say you could classify the flailing and shrieking going on in the other bed as "very little."
"Dean?" he rasps, hauling himself into a sit.
Dean's in the midst of a bad dream; that's plain - unless something (angel, Sam thinks, or demon) has gotten into his head. That's a nightmare of its own kind, one Sam is all too familiar with. Scrubbing away the last remnants of sleep, Sam stumbles to the other bed and seizes the hunting knife Dean keeps under his pillow - the way Dean's flailing, if he got hold of the knife, he could do some serious damage, to the pillow, the bed, maybe to himself.
"DEAN," Sam barks. "Dude. Wake up."
It takes several more repetitions of that - issued more and more loudly - to rouse Dean toward consciousness. His eyelids flutter crazily as he peers at Sam, and he's swaying back and forth like he's on the deck of the Andrea Gail during the Perfect Storm.
Then, oddly, he shudders and looks away.
"What the hell were you dreaming?" Sam asks.
"Nothin'."
"Come on, man. You were like Hercules battling the Furies."
Dean shakes his head, avoiding Sam's gaze.
He's very seldom shamefaced, even on those (thankfully rare) occasions when Sam's walked in on him while he was "having some private time." Now, though… Even in the dim light filtering in from the parking lot, he's visibly blushing.
"No way," Sam says. "You don't get to not tell me."
"The hell I don't."
"I'll get it out of you."
"Like to see you try," Dean mutters.
Sam reaches over and switches on the lamp. Sits on the edge of his bed. Gazes at his brother with the faintest hint of a smile.
"You suck," Dean grouses.
"Spill it."
There's a long, long silence.
"Was on Dancing With the Stars," Dean mumbles, addressing his left thigh rather than Sam.
"And?"
"I don't need to tell you jack shit. It's my head. Things are private, dammit."
The heat in Dean's voice has no effect on Sam, who sits there patiently, his whisper of a smile undisturbed.
"In a thing," Dean blurts.
"A thing?"
"A dress, all right? I was wearing a dress with… sparkly things."
"Sequins," Sam says.
"And that little - she's gotta be a demon. Or a Leviathan. She's just not reasonable, Sam. She said I was pathetic."
"In your head."
If Dean happened to have laser eyes, Sam figures, there wouldn't be much left of the room. Possibly the entire town.
"Ruby?" Sam guesses. "Bela? Eve? Jo?"
"No," Dean grouses.
"Then -"
"That little tyrant in the suit. On the NCIS thing. The one who's always spying on everybody and calling them 'Mister'."
The answer pops into Sam's head like a well-timed punch line, and the mental picture it brings with it is so perfect that he bursts into laughter, convulses with it, breath coming in whoops, until he drops onto his back on the bed, tears trailing along his temples into his ears.
"You SUCK," Dean informs him, when Sam finally falls into a hiccupping silence.
It's a struggle to sit up again. "Dude," Sam says, swiping his tears away with the heel of a balled-up hand. "You were competing on Dancing With the Stars in a sequined dress. Being criticized by Linda Hunt. Seriously, man. You are pathetic."
"LL Cool J friggin' agreed with her."
"My god, man. That's awesome."
It might or might not be an act, but Dean looks hurt.
"You ate two-thirds of a banana cream pie and a pint of ice cream," Sam points out. "That's your brain on a ton of sugar."
"You could be a little sympathetic."
"Sympathetic, hell. I'm gonna call Bobby."
Dean's lower lip slides out.
"Were there high heels involved?" Sam asks.
"You seriously asking for a revisit of the Nair in the shampoo?"
"Who were you dancing with?"
Dean's nostrils flare.
"You were dancing with LL Cool J?"
Sam laughs until he can't inhale. His belly cramps hard enough to bring the tears back, and he has to turn away from his brother, focusing instead on the ugly painting of ducks on the opposite wall, so he can get some oxygen. Three times he thinks he can get a grip on himself, and fails.
Finally - and it's probably been a good twenty minutes - the laughter fades away.
It feels good, to have laughed so hard, for so long.
Anyone who knows Dean even slightly less well than Sam does would miss it. Would completely fail to catch the flicker of expression that crosses Dean's face as Sam turns back to face him.
Dean always has known how to play him.
Has always known what he needs.
"Thanks, man," Sam says quietly.
"For what?"
Some of it might have been true. The circumstances. The dress. God knows Sam's dreamed some weird crap in his life.
But maybe there were Furies, instead of Linda Hunt, and Dean - as he's somehow always able to do - spun it around.
Made it work for him.
Dean left the TV remote on the bedside table, when they turned out the lights a few hours ago. Sam grabs it, points it at the TV, and thumbs the power button, smiling as the TV twinks on.
TV's an old friend.
A comfort in the middle of the night.
A Golden Girls rerun is on. Dean's always had a soft spot for Estelle Getty.
"Okay?" Sam asks, nodding at the set.
His brother smiles.
There might have been Furies - or Linda Hunt. It doesn't matter; the result's the same.
"Yeah," Dean says. "Okay."
* * * * *