Fic: "Ticky-boxing"
Nov. 19th, 2010 09:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cyusTitle: Ticky-boxing
Characters: Dean, Sam
Rating: G
Length: 600 words
Summary: Dean's cataloging things Sam is and isn't anymore.
Notes: set around 6x05
"Any reason in particular you didn't let me go with two?"
Dean didn't bother turning around, dumped his bag on one of the beds and walked across to the window, glancing out at another dirty city, emergency stairwell, few people.
"No," he replied as he moved to the other window, glance to the right and the left. He smiled as he turned. "I just like fucking with you and your new-" He looked Sam over, waved his hand in his general direction and didn't complete the sentence. "First separate cars and now separate rooms? Trying to break my heart, Sammy?" Dean forced a smile to Sam's bitch-please face, then ticky-boxed another thing on the list of Things Sam Wasn't Anymore and it was unnerving that Things Sam Still Was came down to his stupid hair and... his stupid hair.
"Right," Dean said. "Homely." And he pushed away from the window and went to dig through his bag for a few print-outs of meager research leads he'd scraped together.
"Dean-" Sam said from the side, half a whine.
Dean glanced across the room, Sam still only halfway in the doorway, and at Sam's pathetic excuse for plaintive and begging. "You're not that good an actor, Sam. Don't bother on my account."
Just like that Sam's face dropped to neutral and Dean smiled at him because he *was* that good an actor.
"The case, then," Sam said, unpacking his own bag. He settled at the rickety table, marked up files and a stack of notes spread out before him. Sam rattled off the info. Most of it flew past Dean because his brain was stuck on Things Sam Wasn't. "Are you with me?" Sam asked eventually, looking up at Dean with his hand still in his bag like he was rooting for secret treasures.
Dean rubbed his thumb over the curly-eared print-outs in his hand, three pages to Sam's high style files with neon highlights. He forewent an answer and settled against the window sill across the room and behind Sam. Sam's gaze tracked his progress before he turned to look back down on his file, reciting information in bored monotone.
Dean stared at the back of Sam's head like What Sam Was would sprout out like tentacles or neon signs. It didn't.
"You know, I think you prefer the act, Dean," Sam said right in the middle of talking about torn bodies and sleeves of skin on scenes of crime, non-sequituring it.
"You think?" Dean gave back.
"Yeah. Yeah I think."
"Don't hurt yourself, Sammy." Dean smoothed out the creases in his print-outs before he glanced up at Sam, lips tight.
They stretched the silence over the sounds of cars outside and the A/C rattling in the corner.
"You could just cut me loose. Let me do my job." Sam didn't turn to look at him, his pencil still on the paper.
Dean snorted, pursed his lips as he inhaled, then pushed away from the window and settled across from Sam at the table, looking right at Sam's stupid hair. "That's not gonna happen." He turned some of Sam's files around. "I say we talk to the Sheriff. Either he knows or he doesn't but it'd be a starting point," he said, forcing himself not to meet Sam's gaze until Sam cleared his throat and they talked casespecs.
It was thrumming in the back of Dean's skull that even if it was only the stupid hair, it was still something.
Characters: Dean, Sam
Rating: G
Length: 600 words
Summary: Dean's cataloging things Sam is and isn't anymore.
Notes: set around 6x05
"Any reason in particular you didn't let me go with two?"
Dean didn't bother turning around, dumped his bag on one of the beds and walked across to the window, glancing out at another dirty city, emergency stairwell, few people.
"No," he replied as he moved to the other window, glance to the right and the left. He smiled as he turned. "I just like fucking with you and your new-" He looked Sam over, waved his hand in his general direction and didn't complete the sentence. "First separate cars and now separate rooms? Trying to break my heart, Sammy?" Dean forced a smile to Sam's bitch-please face, then ticky-boxed another thing on the list of Things Sam Wasn't Anymore and it was unnerving that Things Sam Still Was came down to his stupid hair and... his stupid hair.
"Right," Dean said. "Homely." And he pushed away from the window and went to dig through his bag for a few print-outs of meager research leads he'd scraped together.
"Dean-" Sam said from the side, half a whine.
Dean glanced across the room, Sam still only halfway in the doorway, and at Sam's pathetic excuse for plaintive and begging. "You're not that good an actor, Sam. Don't bother on my account."
Just like that Sam's face dropped to neutral and Dean smiled at him because he *was* that good an actor.
"The case, then," Sam said, unpacking his own bag. He settled at the rickety table, marked up files and a stack of notes spread out before him. Sam rattled off the info. Most of it flew past Dean because his brain was stuck on Things Sam Wasn't. "Are you with me?" Sam asked eventually, looking up at Dean with his hand still in his bag like he was rooting for secret treasures.
Dean rubbed his thumb over the curly-eared print-outs in his hand, three pages to Sam's high style files with neon highlights. He forewent an answer and settled against the window sill across the room and behind Sam. Sam's gaze tracked his progress before he turned to look back down on his file, reciting information in bored monotone.
Dean stared at the back of Sam's head like What Sam Was would sprout out like tentacles or neon signs. It didn't.
"You know, I think you prefer the act, Dean," Sam said right in the middle of talking about torn bodies and sleeves of skin on scenes of crime, non-sequituring it.
"You think?" Dean gave back.
"Yeah. Yeah I think."
"Don't hurt yourself, Sammy." Dean smoothed out the creases in his print-outs before he glanced up at Sam, lips tight.
They stretched the silence over the sounds of cars outside and the A/C rattling in the corner.
"You could just cut me loose. Let me do my job." Sam didn't turn to look at him, his pencil still on the paper.
Dean snorted, pursed his lips as he inhaled, then pushed away from the window and settled across from Sam at the table, looking right at Sam's stupid hair. "That's not gonna happen." He turned some of Sam's files around. "I say we talk to the Sheriff. Either he knows or he doesn't but it'd be a starting point," he said, forcing himself not to meet Sam's gaze until Sam cleared his throat and they talked casespecs.
It was thrumming in the back of Dean's skull that even if it was only the stupid hair, it was still something.
