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Supernatural: double the speed limit
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comment_fic prompt, "SPN, Sam&/Dean, give me the keys."
This is not really a ficlet, I think, more like a condensed summary of the Wincest fics I've been reading. I'm not sure whether this is slash or just intensely pre-slash, but either way I guess it's pretty Wincestuous.
double the speed limit
Supernatural. Sam/Dean. PG13. 450 words.
"Sam gets in shotgun side, Dean backs out of the motel parking lot, and they don't talk about it."
"Give me the keys."
So Sam reaches over and grabs the keys from the bedside table and tosses them at Dean, who is already halfway out the door. He gives himself ten seconds before getting up, grabbing his stuff, and following after. The Impala rumbles to life, and Sam chances a glance at the man in the driver seat, who grips the wheel tightly and leans his head back against the seat, staring straight ahead all gritted teeth.
Sam gets in shotgun side, Dean backs out of the motel parking lot, and they don't talk about it.
+
In a motel a few miles from the Connecticut border, Sam thinks maybe it's about to happen again. He steels himself, an emotional arming that involves heightened senses and slow shallow breaths.
But no. No, Dean's just reaching over to grab Dad's journal from where it's splayed open on the bed by Sam's knee. He flicks through the pages and Sam has to ask him what the question was again.
Dean raises an eyebrow at him. "The last time we hunted manananggal, what was that, in La Honda?"
And Sam exhales his reply: yeah, La Honda, but maybe it's not manananggal this time, because Southeast Asia has several variations on a theme. The Malaysian langsuir is similar enough to be mistaken for a manananggal, and blah blah blah, Sam feels the words coming out of his mouth as blah blah blah, because the way Dean's looking at him, Sam wonders if Dean knows.
Sam wonders if his brother knows that if Dean had reached for him instead of the journal, Sam's not sure if he would've, could've, said no.
+
It subsides after a few weeks on the road, because if Winchesters know anything, it's that 1) killing shit is great catharsis, and 2) emotional repression solves the rest. When you're up to your neck in blood and ichor, you've got no time for distraction. When you're running from the cops, you have to have your head in the game.
So yeah, it's going to be fine. That thing last month, that was just a one-time blip, borne of cabin fever and frustration and being the last remaining constant in each other's lives. Claustrophobia breeds temporary insanity, is all.
In a motel room outside of St. Louis, Sam scrutinizes newspaper articles about exsanguinated corpses. When Dean reaches over, Sam automatically hands him the journal without even looking up.
"Sam," Dean says, and there is something in his voice that makes Sam look up.
Dean sets the journal aside, and something twists inside Sam, recognizing the shuttered look on his brother's face.
Dean reaches over, and Sam doesn't say no.
comment_fic prompt, "SPN, Sam&/Dean, give me the keys."This is not really a ficlet, I think, more like a condensed summary of the Wincest fics I've been reading. I'm not sure whether this is slash or just intensely pre-slash, but either way I guess it's pretty Wincestuous.
double the speed limit
Supernatural. Sam/Dean. PG13. 450 words.
"Sam gets in shotgun side, Dean backs out of the motel parking lot, and they don't talk about it."
"Give me the keys."
So Sam reaches over and grabs the keys from the bedside table and tosses them at Dean, who is already halfway out the door. He gives himself ten seconds before getting up, grabbing his stuff, and following after. The Impala rumbles to life, and Sam chances a glance at the man in the driver seat, who grips the wheel tightly and leans his head back against the seat, staring straight ahead all gritted teeth.
Sam gets in shotgun side, Dean backs out of the motel parking lot, and they don't talk about it.
+
In a motel a few miles from the Connecticut border, Sam thinks maybe it's about to happen again. He steels himself, an emotional arming that involves heightened senses and slow shallow breaths.
But no. No, Dean's just reaching over to grab Dad's journal from where it's splayed open on the bed by Sam's knee. He flicks through the pages and Sam has to ask him what the question was again.
Dean raises an eyebrow at him. "The last time we hunted manananggal, what was that, in La Honda?"
And Sam exhales his reply: yeah, La Honda, but maybe it's not manananggal this time, because Southeast Asia has several variations on a theme. The Malaysian langsuir is similar enough to be mistaken for a manananggal, and blah blah blah, Sam feels the words coming out of his mouth as blah blah blah, because the way Dean's looking at him, Sam wonders if Dean knows.
Sam wonders if his brother knows that if Dean had reached for him instead of the journal, Sam's not sure if he would've, could've, said no.
+
It subsides after a few weeks on the road, because if Winchesters know anything, it's that 1) killing shit is great catharsis, and 2) emotional repression solves the rest. When you're up to your neck in blood and ichor, you've got no time for distraction. When you're running from the cops, you have to have your head in the game.
So yeah, it's going to be fine. That thing last month, that was just a one-time blip, borne of cabin fever and frustration and being the last remaining constant in each other's lives. Claustrophobia breeds temporary insanity, is all.
In a motel room outside of St. Louis, Sam scrutinizes newspaper articles about exsanguinated corpses. When Dean reaches over, Sam automatically hands him the journal without even looking up.
"Sam," Dean says, and there is something in his voice that makes Sam look up.
Dean sets the journal aside, and something twists inside Sam, recognizing the shuttered look on his brother's face.
Dean reaches over, and Sam doesn't say no.
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no subject
Hee! I'm glad I'm not the only one who thinks so. Fic about fic. Goodbye fifth wall!