TITLE: these things are clear to all from time to time
CHARACTERS: Sam, Dean
WORD COUNT: 675
DISCLAIMER The Winchester's don't belong to me. Sad day.
SUMMARY: The whole thing was Sam's fault
A/N: For the lovely a_carlisle, who wondered how the "bitch/jerk" gag started. Set pre-series, and pre-Stanford.
Every time he opens his eyes, it’s there.
The time. Illuminated in the small, worn out looking white letters of the motel room clock, which sits next to a thick stack of magazines- the area dimly lit by a fading lamp, so that only the first lines of their titles are visible:
Car and D... Car and dicks, obviously. Sam snorts.
Road and T... Road and tits. Damn, his brother is starting to rub off on him. Sam shakes his head, noticing the clock again.
There is something in the way that they stare up at him that strikes him as fairly accusatory.
The room is utterly silent, and the clock reads roughly the same time it did last time he stared at it until his vision blurred.
Another town. Another week. Another night without sleep. Listlessly, he begins to tick off the places they’ve lived in the past month: Texas, Ohio, New Jersey… And quickly loses count. Disheartened, he turns his face the wall, as if somehow this will convince sleep to take him, and a piece of hair falls in front of his eyes; he mumbles a profanity.
The demand comes from somewhere to his left, and he is only dimly aware that he’s said anything which might warrant a reply, because, well, its three in the morning and he hasn’t slept most of the night. Again.
Dean grumbles to himself, and rises slowly, the quick brush brush brush sound of denim on denim and he crosses the room in one swift movement, burying his knuckles sharply in his brother’s shoulder.
"Sam, stop waking me up or I swear I’ll give you a swirly."
"Will you?" Sam challenges, rising to stand next to his brother so that the two shadowed figures are positioned head to head, or, more accurately, head to shoulder.
Three seconds, three swift movements and the two are locked in a deadly grip.
"You couldn’t touch me if you wanted," Sam half laughs.
"Oh yeah? Says the kid with the black eye from sneaking up on me last week," Dean disengages himself with the flick of a wrist, turns to point out the damage with a weaving index finger.
Sam puts two fingers up to cover his bruised left eye reflexively, instantly deflated.
"You always were the loser." Dean is the one smirking now, and ducks a blow from Sam as he disappears out the door, a flurry of overly long legs and quiet, half-suppressed laughter.
A small sound from the darkness, fragmented like crumpling paper and Dean jogs after his brother and into the parking lot, two steps at a time and having way too much fun with the whole thing.
It only takes Sam five minutes to give away his location behind an old VW Bus by sneezing, and the two are locked in matched grips for the same span of time.
Only when Dean reaches up and smacks Sam on the head with an echoing THWACK! do the scales tilt in either’s favor.
"You know, I should’ve dropped you on your head as child, might’ve stunted your growth, Gigantor." And Dean, pausing to laugh at his own joke, creates an opening for Sam to get his arm around his brother’s shoulders and police him back into the motel room.
Muffled shouts, a tangle of teenage limbs and six minutes finds Sam pinned to the side of the toilet, water dripping from his now soaked hair, face screwed into a tight mask of frustration.
When Sam comes back into the room, towel in hand, Dean thinks maybe he can see steam pouring from Sam’s ears, and he lets out a stifled laugh.
'You look like a hobo', he wants to say, but instead settles for 'I told you so'.
A flopping noise, and Sam sits, glancing at the clock and clutching his soggy hand towel close to his chest, makes note of the time.
"You’re a jerk, Dean."
"Yeah? Well, you’re a bitch, bitch."
Dean smiles to himself as he reaches for the stack of magazines, and on the other side of the room, as Sam turns to face the wall once more, a grin makes its way across his lips.