Oh, thinks Sam. Oh, shit, man. You wanna hit something, just hit me, just do it. Just fucking do it, but Dean’s already inside, sidling up to the bartender, extra flip in his step.
You boys look worn, man says, eyeing them. He’s big, dark, probably Mexican. His shirt stretches tight across the width of his shoulders, the heft of his chest, and he’s wearing an expression that would probably make his mama cringe. His fingers twitch a little, dark hair curling between the knuckles. Rough drive? he asks.
Ain’t none a your fuckin business, Dean says and Sam thinks Shit again, because Dean wants a brawl and Dean always gets what he wants.
A Dean who's lost and a Sam who is, ultimately, his weather anchor. Lovely, lovely stuff. *sniff*
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Date: 2006-11-25 12:42 am (UTC)You boys look worn, man says, eyeing them. He’s big, dark, probably Mexican. His shirt stretches tight across the width of his shoulders, the heft of his chest, and he’s wearing an expression that would probably make his mama cringe. His fingers twitch a little, dark hair curling between the knuckles. Rough drive? he asks.
Ain’t none a your fuckin business, Dean says and Sam thinks Shit again, because Dean wants a brawl and Dean always gets what he wants.
A Dean who's lost and a Sam who is, ultimately, his weather anchor. Lovely, lovely stuff.
*sniff*