ffffffffffffffyes \o/
Sep. 21st, 2010 08:18 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
whitereflection!!!! and also !
The Sam and Dean are reunited (or Dean at least finds out Sam isn't dead) comment-fic meme ~ courtesy of![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fleshflutter.
All I can say is *yes*. Omfg, *yes*. ♥
And I uh, may have written a little something there. >_>
Title:: A Little Pick-Me-Up
pt.1, pt.2
(forsistabro's prompt of It is raining/snowing/weathering of your choice, and Dean stops for a hitchhiker, who turns out to be Sam., PG, schmoopy gen, 1298 words)
ETA: adding it here as well, just to have it on my own LJ.
Dean knows there's a thousand reasons why he shouldn't do it. He knows all the so-called urban legends about hitchhikers; heck, he's hunted pretty much all of them. And he knows that just as likely as that, is picking up some guy on the road can get you robbed or hell, even killed.
Or picking up some woman, to be all equal about things. Because, yeah, Meg. He remembers how that all started.
But when he'd finally had enough, and the need to get back out on the road got too strong to ignore and he'd finally left normal-apple-pie-picket-fence behind, the one thing Dean still couldn't stomach was that empty passenger seat. Sure, there'd been time after time that seat had been empty, and each time sucked ass, whether it was empty for years or days. But this time, yeah, this time sucked the worst.
Maybe someday there'd be another person sitting shotgun. But it would never be the one person he wanted it to be.
So when he saw a glimpse of the lone figure walking on the shoulder as he was heading up 35 to Duluth, he knew even before he started to ease off the accelerator that he'd be offering whomever it was a ride. Fuck it, why not. It was dark, and while it'd been pouring down rain all day, now that it was night it'd switched over to sleet--sloppy, crappy wet stuff that'd been splatting against the car for a good hour or more.
Dean caught a glimpse of black-brown coat and denim gone midnight-colored from wet in the beams of the Impala's headlights as he braked beside the hitchhiker, but in the between-streetlights dim, couldn't make out much more about the person. Though he could at least tell, as he leaned over to open the passenger door from the inside, that the guy--from that build, it had to be--was kind of stupidly tall.
And wasn't that ironic. Well, at least Dean knew to forewarn whatever his name was that he'd probably feel like his knees were mashed up against the glovebox after not too long. Though now Dean felt like something was twisting beneath his ribs, especially when the interior lights came on and he could make out from their glow that the man was dark-haired. Yeah, he'd wanted another body in that seat just for a little bit, to forget it was empty; but fuck if he wanted someone who looked just similar enough that he'd have to remind himself every time he saw them out of his peripheral vision that, no, it wasn't.... Well too late for that now. Maybe it'd teach Dean a lesson about the whole hitchhiker thing finally.
The guy obviously had heard the sound of the Impala's engine and had heard it pull to a stop behind him, but at the creak of the door, he jerked like he'd been startled out of his skin.
"I'm heading up north, if you want a ride," Dean called out to the hitchhiker, voice raised to be heard over the hiss and spatter of the rain and snow mix. "Cutting west after Duluth, but I can at least get you that far."
For the longest time, the guy didn't answer, and Dean wondered if he needed to shout again. Or what if the guy couldn't hear? He wondered if he should try to gesture something, but how the hell did a person ask something like that with hand signals? Or maybe he thought Dean was gonna try to screw with him somehow, since okay, it definitely wasn't always the hitchhiker that was the potential serial killer in these situations.
"Look, man, I'm not gonna hurt or rob you. Just thought you'd want to take a break from the cold and wet--"
The man dropped the duffel he'd been carrying with a damp, slapping thud, the sound of a smaller bag hitting the ground following immediately after. "Dean?"
Dean not just heard the hesitantly-spoken word, but felt it, from the sharp clench of his chest, in an almost-painful flash through his skin. His heart didn't beat; he didn't breathe.
Then the man stepped closer, into the light from inside the Impala, and Dean found he still had air in his lungs to swear, his voice a hoarse whisper. "What the goddamn how in the fuck?"
Sam took another step toward the car, reaching out tentatively to touch the open door, like maybe it might disappear when fingers met metal and glass. "It is you. Oh my god...fuck, Dean, it is you. I heard...but I thought there was no way. That I was imagining.... God, Dean." Finally close enough to grasp the top of the window, Sam--holy shit, Sam--leaned down, peering inside the car. He was absolutely soaked through, clothes and that stupidly long hair all dripping, his skin pale, no doubt from the cold. And his eyes were wide as he stared inside at Dean, like he couldn't believe that Dean was real. Like he couldn't believe that Dean was real. Sleet dripped off Sam's head as he leaned over, trailed right down the bangs hanging in saturated clumps in front of his face, fell off onto the passenger seat.
And that snapped Dean out of his shock. "In or out, stupid. Were you raised in a barn or something?" When Sam continued to blink at him, he rolled his eyes. "What, do I need to use small words, college boy? Get your things. Get in the car," he snapped, over-enunciating each word. "You're letting all the warm air in here out."
Suddenly, Sam was a flurry of movement, and in a moment he was swinging a duffel bag and a backpack into the backseat of the Impala, muttering as he clambered into the passenger seat, "Technically, it's both letting warm air out and letting cold air in...." Slamming the door, he trailed off as he looked back over at Dean.
They stared at each other silently for a minute, maybe more, when Dean punched Sam on the arm. "Know-it-all little bitch."
"Ow, jesus. Lay off, Dean." Sam scowled, and oh hell yes, there was that face. "Stupid jerk," he quickly added. The bitchface disappeared, leaving Sam looking uncertain, wary. "You're not testing me. You're...you're not worried I'm not me?"
"Oh, I'll fucking test you all right," Dean retorted, his eyes narrow and his tone deadly-serious. "Holy water, silver, salt, hell, I'll make you freaking dance the hula while I say Christo until I'm blue in the face." And at that, Dean smirked and gave a See what I did there? sort of wink. "After we get to a motel and give you a chance for a warm shower and dry clothes. And once you've had a good, solid meal. When's the last time you ate?"
"Uh," Sam replied, and Dean snorted.
"Yeah, that's what I thought." The Impala started with a deep growl; and Dean knew for a fact that she'd been running perfectly damned fine before, but now he swore the engine was rumbling just that much more smoothly.
Testing Sam, that'd be a formality. Dean knew full well who was sitting next to him in the Impala's passenger seat: exactly the person who was meant to be there.
*
Maybe when they finally stopped at the Pine Lake Motel just south of Duluth (no pines or lakes in sight, of course), just maybe Dean hugged the freaking hell out of his brother, so long that Sam's still-wet clothing started to soak through Dean's. And maybe he let Sam sniffle into his hair like a giant, weepy girl, and maybe Dean got choked up, too.
But that's the start of a whole different story. One that they won't let me tell. (They threatened to break my fingers.)
The Sam and Dean are reunited (or Dean at least finds out Sam isn't dead) comment-fic meme ~ courtesy of
fleshflutter.All I can say is *yes*. Omfg, *yes*. ♥
And I uh, may have written a little something there. >_>
Title:: A Little Pick-Me-Up
pt.1, pt.2
(for
sistabro's prompt of It is raining/snowing/weathering of your choice, and Dean stops for a hitchhiker, who turns out to be Sam., PG, schmoopy gen, 1298 words)ETA: adding it here as well, just to have it on my own LJ.
Dean knows there's a thousand reasons why he shouldn't do it. He knows all the so-called urban legends about hitchhikers; heck, he's hunted pretty much all of them. And he knows that just as likely as that, is picking up some guy on the road can get you robbed or hell, even killed.
Or picking up some woman, to be all equal about things. Because, yeah, Meg. He remembers how that all started.
But when he'd finally had enough, and the need to get back out on the road got too strong to ignore and he'd finally left normal-apple-pie-picket-fence behind, the one thing Dean still couldn't stomach was that empty passenger seat. Sure, there'd been time after time that seat had been empty, and each time sucked ass, whether it was empty for years or days. But this time, yeah, this time sucked the worst.
Maybe someday there'd be another person sitting shotgun. But it would never be the one person he wanted it to be.
So when he saw a glimpse of the lone figure walking on the shoulder as he was heading up 35 to Duluth, he knew even before he started to ease off the accelerator that he'd be offering whomever it was a ride. Fuck it, why not. It was dark, and while it'd been pouring down rain all day, now that it was night it'd switched over to sleet--sloppy, crappy wet stuff that'd been splatting against the car for a good hour or more.
Dean caught a glimpse of black-brown coat and denim gone midnight-colored from wet in the beams of the Impala's headlights as he braked beside the hitchhiker, but in the between-streetlights dim, couldn't make out much more about the person. Though he could at least tell, as he leaned over to open the passenger door from the inside, that the guy--from that build, it had to be--was kind of stupidly tall.
And wasn't that ironic. Well, at least Dean knew to forewarn whatever his name was that he'd probably feel like his knees were mashed up against the glovebox after not too long. Though now Dean felt like something was twisting beneath his ribs, especially when the interior lights came on and he could make out from their glow that the man was dark-haired. Yeah, he'd wanted another body in that seat just for a little bit, to forget it was empty; but fuck if he wanted someone who looked just similar enough that he'd have to remind himself every time he saw them out of his peripheral vision that, no, it wasn't.... Well too late for that now. Maybe it'd teach Dean a lesson about the whole hitchhiker thing finally.
The guy obviously had heard the sound of the Impala's engine and had heard it pull to a stop behind him, but at the creak of the door, he jerked like he'd been startled out of his skin.
"I'm heading up north, if you want a ride," Dean called out to the hitchhiker, voice raised to be heard over the hiss and spatter of the rain and snow mix. "Cutting west after Duluth, but I can at least get you that far."
For the longest time, the guy didn't answer, and Dean wondered if he needed to shout again. Or what if the guy couldn't hear? He wondered if he should try to gesture something, but how the hell did a person ask something like that with hand signals? Or maybe he thought Dean was gonna try to screw with him somehow, since okay, it definitely wasn't always the hitchhiker that was the potential serial killer in these situations.
"Look, man, I'm not gonna hurt or rob you. Just thought you'd want to take a break from the cold and wet--"
The man dropped the duffel he'd been carrying with a damp, slapping thud, the sound of a smaller bag hitting the ground following immediately after. "Dean?"
Dean not just heard the hesitantly-spoken word, but felt it, from the sharp clench of his chest, in an almost-painful flash through his skin. His heart didn't beat; he didn't breathe.
Then the man stepped closer, into the light from inside the Impala, and Dean found he still had air in his lungs to swear, his voice a hoarse whisper. "What the goddamn how in the fuck?"
Sam took another step toward the car, reaching out tentatively to touch the open door, like maybe it might disappear when fingers met metal and glass. "It is you. Oh my god...fuck, Dean, it is you. I heard...but I thought there was no way. That I was imagining.... God, Dean." Finally close enough to grasp the top of the window, Sam--holy shit, Sam--leaned down, peering inside the car. He was absolutely soaked through, clothes and that stupidly long hair all dripping, his skin pale, no doubt from the cold. And his eyes were wide as he stared inside at Dean, like he couldn't believe that Dean was real. Like he couldn't believe that Dean was real. Sleet dripped off Sam's head as he leaned over, trailed right down the bangs hanging in saturated clumps in front of his face, fell off onto the passenger seat.
And that snapped Dean out of his shock. "In or out, stupid. Were you raised in a barn or something?" When Sam continued to blink at him, he rolled his eyes. "What, do I need to use small words, college boy? Get your things. Get in the car," he snapped, over-enunciating each word. "You're letting all the warm air in here out."
Suddenly, Sam was a flurry of movement, and in a moment he was swinging a duffel bag and a backpack into the backseat of the Impala, muttering as he clambered into the passenger seat, "Technically, it's both letting warm air out and letting cold air in...." Slamming the door, he trailed off as he looked back over at Dean.
They stared at each other silently for a minute, maybe more, when Dean punched Sam on the arm. "Know-it-all little bitch."
"Ow, jesus. Lay off, Dean." Sam scowled, and oh hell yes, there was that face. "Stupid jerk," he quickly added. The bitchface disappeared, leaving Sam looking uncertain, wary. "You're not testing me. You're...you're not worried I'm not me?"
"Oh, I'll fucking test you all right," Dean retorted, his eyes narrow and his tone deadly-serious. "Holy water, silver, salt, hell, I'll make you freaking dance the hula while I say Christo until I'm blue in the face." And at that, Dean smirked and gave a See what I did there? sort of wink. "After we get to a motel and give you a chance for a warm shower and dry clothes. And once you've had a good, solid meal. When's the last time you ate?"
"Uh," Sam replied, and Dean snorted.
"Yeah, that's what I thought." The Impala started with a deep growl; and Dean knew for a fact that she'd been running perfectly damned fine before, but now he swore the engine was rumbling just that much more smoothly.
Testing Sam, that'd be a formality. Dean knew full well who was sitting next to him in the Impala's passenger seat: exactly the person who was meant to be there.
*
Maybe when they finally stopped at the Pine Lake Motel just south of Duluth (no pines or lakes in sight, of course), just maybe Dean hugged the freaking hell out of his brother, so long that Sam's still-wet clothing started to soak through Dean's. And maybe he let Sam sniffle into his hair like a giant, weepy girl, and maybe Dean got choked up, too.
But that's the start of a whole different story. One that they won't let me tell. (They threatened to break my fingers.)
