"So, okay...we've got a guy who can...make you forget all about him, who can control a...a spirit..."
"And who may or may not be a freakin' Civil War soldier."
"We don't know that," Sam argued mildly, sitting up a little straighter.
"I dunno, man – that coat, those books...the same name on the BDUs... Pretty damn hinky."
"Yeah, but not conclusive. Could just be...family heirlooms or something."
Yeah, but if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck. . . .
Sam ran his fingers over the seam of the laptop but didn't open it. Dean sat up and untied his boots – kicked them across the floor. He peeled his socks off and tossed them at the open duffel in the corner. They fell a foot short. Then he just sat there, his hand coming up and absently rubbing his chest. "You okay?"
My first guess would be no.
Then they both just lay there, panting, until Dean pushed half-heartedly at Sam's shoulder.
"What," Sam muttered, and Dean pushed again.
"Lemme up." Dean turned his head and kissed the side of Sam's neck and Sam lifted his head – pushed himself up onto his fists again, elbows bent and shaky, still. "Gotta pee."
Be still, my beating heart! He's a latter days Shakespeare!
"Nice afterglow talk."
"There's afterglow? I thought we'd have round two in the shower."
So subtle, so beautiful--ah, his words. . . !
Sam lifted his hand and lightly, lightly traced the tattoo that his gun shot had ruined. Guilt making his chest ache – guilt and anger, that Dean had to be scarred – had to be touched by the evil things they hunted. "Your shield knot's toast, man."
"Yeah." Dean's hand was on Sam's hip, just holding. Thumb rubbing in a little circle and Sam knew that was Dean saying: 'it's okay, it doesn't matter, I'm not mad at you...' It helped, a little. Made Sam feel like he could breathe, at least.
That really is beautiful. That kinda speaking-without-words only family and lovers seem to have. Little gestures and looks that could mean a million different things to someone who isn't in the know.
"Got that one in...Kentucky."
"Wasn't that the place that was...gun shop, tattoo shop, palm readings?"
"Yup. Mustang Sally's Shoot the Moon,"
Is that place real? I would seriously put Kentucky on my roadtrip map just for that place.
Dean laughed – shifted under Sam and then made an 'ick' face. "Dude. Squishy."
"God, you're gross."
Nice.
"Fuck, I'm starving."
"You're always starving."
"I'm a growing boy, Sammy." Dean sauntered into the bathroom and Sam rolled over – hauled the phone book out of the nightstand and started flipping back to the R's. "Get dumplings!" Dean called, over the whoosh of the toilet. "And pancakes!"
"So I guess we're getting Chinese," Sam muttered, but he was grinning.
Or possibly German-Polynesian.
Those hula-fraus? Make the best pancake-dumpling surprise you'd ever wanna taste.
"Yes, I've Googled myself and you. We're not unique snowflakes. Here, look at this." Sam turned the laptop around and Dean tossed the towel down and went to lean on the table edge. Sam was on some kind of Army website, if the camo borders and insignia were anything to go by. Two pictures dominated the screen. One was of a mud-spattered tank, perched lopsidedly on churned-up looking ground. The other was of four soldiers, shirtless and grinning, lounging atop the tank's mud-encrusted treads. The background suggested jungle of some kind – dense, heavy greens gone olive with time. The tank itself was Vietnam-era, an M48 Patton, Dean was pretty sure. "Look at the guy that's the second from the left," Sam said.
Dean leaned in closer. "Damn. That looks like him."
Yeesh, is he some kinda eternal soldier, leap-frogging from war to war--yikes! That'd suck, to be him.
no subject
"And who may or may not be a freakin' Civil War soldier."
"We don't know that," Sam argued mildly, sitting up a little straighter.
"I dunno, man – that coat, those books...the same name on the BDUs... Pretty damn hinky."
"Yeah, but not conclusive. Could just be...family heirlooms or something."
Yeah, but if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck. . . .
Sam ran his fingers over the seam of the laptop but didn't open it. Dean sat up and untied his boots – kicked them across the floor. He peeled his socks off and tossed them at the open duffel in the corner. They fell a foot short. Then he just sat there, his hand coming up and absently rubbing his chest. "You okay?"
My first guess would be no.
Then they both just lay there, panting, until Dean pushed half-heartedly at Sam's shoulder.
"What," Sam muttered, and Dean pushed again.
"Lemme up." Dean turned his head and kissed the side of Sam's neck and Sam lifted his head – pushed himself up onto his fists again, elbows bent and shaky, still. "Gotta pee."
Be still, my beating heart! He's a latter days Shakespeare!
"Nice afterglow talk."
"There's afterglow? I thought we'd have round two in the shower."
So subtle, so beautiful--ah, his words. . . !
Sam lifted his hand and lightly, lightly traced the tattoo that his gun shot had ruined. Guilt making his chest ache – guilt and anger, that Dean had to be scarred – had to be touched by the evil things they hunted. "Your shield knot's toast, man."
"Yeah." Dean's hand was on Sam's hip, just holding. Thumb rubbing in a little circle and Sam knew that was Dean saying: 'it's okay, it doesn't matter, I'm not mad at you...' It helped, a little. Made Sam feel like he could breathe, at least.
That really is beautiful. That kinda speaking-without-words only family and lovers seem to have. Little gestures and looks that could mean a million different things to someone who isn't in the know.
"Got that one in...Kentucky."
"Wasn't that the place that was...gun shop, tattoo shop, palm readings?"
"Yup. Mustang Sally's Shoot the Moon,"
Is that place real? I would seriously put Kentucky on my roadtrip map just for that place.
Dean laughed – shifted under Sam and then made an 'ick' face. "Dude. Squishy."
"God, you're gross."
Nice.
"Fuck, I'm starving."
"You're always starving."
"I'm a growing boy, Sammy." Dean sauntered into the bathroom and Sam rolled over – hauled the phone book out of the nightstand and started flipping back to the R's. "Get dumplings!" Dean called, over the whoosh of the toilet. "And pancakes!"
"So I guess we're getting Chinese," Sam muttered, but he was grinning.
Or possibly German-Polynesian.
Those hula-fraus? Make the best pancake-dumpling surprise you'd ever wanna taste.
"Yes, I've Googled myself and you. We're not unique snowflakes. Here, look at this." Sam turned the laptop around and Dean tossed the towel down and went to lean on the table edge. Sam was on some kind of Army website, if the camo borders and insignia were anything to go by. Two pictures dominated the screen. One was of a mud-spattered tank, perched lopsidedly on churned-up looking ground. The other was of four soldiers, shirtless and grinning, lounging atop the tank's mud-encrusted treads. The background suggested jungle of some kind – dense, heavy greens gone olive with time. The tank itself was Vietnam-era, an M48 Patton, Dean was pretty sure. "Look at the guy that's the second from the left," Sam said.
Dean leaned in closer. "Damn. That looks like him."
Yeesh, is he some kinda eternal soldier, leap-frogging from war to war--yikes! That'd suck, to be him.