Title: Alone Time
Disclaimer: Not mine. Gimme?
Rating: PG-13 for some naughty words and activities
Spoilers and/or Warnings: Brief mention of episode 06, 'Skin'
Summary: Dean wants Sam out of the way, but for what nefarious purpose?
Author's Notes: This story was written for the '60minutefics' LiveJournal community. Basically, you're given the choice of several prompts, or 'triggers' and you have an hour to whip something up and post it. This is the first SPN effort of mine that I've felt confident enough to submit, so I hope you like it.
The trigger was: 'In Flagrante Delicto' or, 'caught in the act'. Hee. I couldn't resist.
Sam had driven around lost for over fifteen minutes now, and in that short amount of time, he'd built up an impressive head of steam. He was beginning to realize that he'd been sent on a wild goose chase, and if (when, dammit!) he managed to find his way back to the hotel, the first thing on his agenda was to beat Dean senseless.
He glanced down at the scribbled directions once again, grinding his teeth in frustration. He was sure he hadn't made any wrong turns...
Some jackass picked that moment to lean on his car horn for a solid thirty seconds, having apparently decided that this was the best and most effective way of prompting Sam to pull his head out of his ass and notice that the light had turned green.
Southern hospitality was such a load of horseshit.
Dean's directions were always painstaking and precise. The man loved to drive, could read a road atlas entirely through osmosis, and was intimate with his car on a level that Sam considered unhealthy. Why in the holy name of fuck was his brother making him drive around in circles?
When Sam turned the corner onto Hamilton Street, his first thought was that maybe he'd had a stroke, or that perhaps one of the industrial plants here in downtown High Point, North Carolina might be leaking some sort of toxic substance. Those were the only two reasonable explanations he could think of to account for a hallucination so... bizarre.
He craned his neck up to gape at the forty foot chest of drawers -- complete with two argyle socks dangling over the edge of one -- and waited patiently for someone to let him in on the cosmic joke. He was right in the middle of a rather run down part of town, not an amusement park in sight, thank you very much, but no explanation was forthcoming.
Sam exhaled a pent-up breath. Surely Dean would have mentioned a landmark so distinctive, so unique, so... obnoxious?
Sam Winchester was at a loss for words, even inside his own head.
Ginormous wooden bureau, check.
Nondescript office buildings to the left and right, check.
Oh, look -- a FOR SALE sign out front. How very anticlimactic.
Sam wrinkled his brow in concentration.
High Point... High Point...
He vaguely recalled a highway sign as they had arrived in the wee hours of the morning. Something about this area being home to American Idol winner Fantasia Barrino (and who put that kind of sad crap on official state signs except in the Deep South?), as well as the fact that they were now entering the self-proclaimed Furniture Capital of The World.
Okay. Mystery solved, no Latin catechisms or rock salt necessary.
After that revelation, all he had left in his repetoire was a helpless shrug and a three point turn back the way he had come. Dean had assured him that there was a Krispy Kreme doughnut shop around here somewhere, and two stoplights later, Sam was face to face with it at last.
On Main Street, no less.
For some reason, Dean had found saying 'Turn right out of the hotel parking lot and then hang a left onto Main', too difficult to impart, and Sam was beginning to think that he'd been deliberately gotten rid of.
The question of the hour was why.
Armed with two dozen warm glazed doughnuts and some righteous indignation, Sam headed back to the Wisteria Hotel. Dean Winchester had some 'splaining to do.
For a brief moment, Sam entertained the notion that Dean had decided to pull a proverbial 'take the money and run' scam on his little brother, but Sam actually knew better. The South Carolina lottery had been kind to them in the form of a five thousand dollar winning combination, but they had yet to claim their cash, and Sam was legally the only one who could do so. Dean being, well... dead, and all.
Their celebration had consisted of using the last of the money on hand to perform some routine maintenance on the Impala, and once they were over the border into North Carolina, checking themselves into a four star hotel with, Holy Mary, Mother of God, actual room service.
The current plan was to investigate the local legend of a haunted train station here in High Point, and then hightail it back down south and cash in that lottery ticket.
The second they'd hit the beds in their room at five AM this morning, Dean had immediately wheedled Sam into heading out on his own and rounding up breakfast. He'd claimed to know the area well, their Dad having been laid up here with a sprained ankle once upon a time, leaving Dean with nothing to do other than explore.
Which was really Deanspeak for 'I fucked around town a lot and had to find my way back from various womens' apartments/dorm rooms/parents' houses.'
Apparently, Dean had also added 'get Sammy deliberately lost for half an hour or so' to the plan at some juncture. Now Sam wanted answers.
Standing outside the closed and locked hotel room door, Sam mentally prepared his opening statement. Some habits he'd picked up from Stanford pre-law died harder than others, but he doubted if any of his old professors would appreciate the fact that he intended to punctuate his argument with several swift punches to his brother's face.
He paused with the key card halfway in the slot, and listened intently to the muffled noises coming from behind the door. He knew those sounds, albeit they usually came from behind a shower curtain, or, in days of yore, from the other side of various shared bedrooms.
Sam stood there, his emotions wavering somewhere between annoyed confusion and smug amusement. Dean had essentially kicked his very tired, very compassionate, very irritated brother out into the cold so that he could have some quality time with Rosy Palm and her five sisters.
Sam shifted the doughnuts under his arm and pounded on the door with his fist. "Housekeeping!" he screeched in a falsetto, immensely satisfied at the loudTHUD he heard in response. Strangled cursing followed hard on its heels, accompanied by the unmistakable rustling sound of clothes being donned in a hurry.
"Just a minute!"
Dean sounded out of breath, and a little bit pissed.
He deserved worse.
The door opened, and Dean stood shirtless with his jeans unfastened, spots of color blooming high on his cheeks.
"Sorry, but I could have sworn that I hung the little Do Not Disturb tag on the -- oh. You're back." He seemed unsurprised to see Sam there, but his blush instantly intensified. "I was just, uh... 'bout to go take a shower, and... yeah." His words trailed off, and he offered no further excuses for his rumpled state. Sam was a guy too, and they both knew when to cut their losses and just shut the hell up.
Sam reached out a hand as if to cup Dean's ear. "Hey, is that hair gel?"
Dean jerked his head back, swatting the hand away. "Dude, knock it off. If you were Cameron Diaz, then I wouldn't have this freakin' problem in the first place."
"If I was Cameron Diaz, there's no way in hell that I'd sleep with your sorry ass." Sam pushed his way past, and shouldered the door closed behind him. "Why all the subterfuge, man? If you'd just asked me to leave I would have stepped out for a few minutes, you know that. Minimal bitching involved, I swear."
"It's not like I planned this, OK?"
"And you usually schedule an appointment in order to jerk off?"
Dean scrubbed his fingers through his hair and shot Sam a peeved glare, all furrowed brow and pursed lips. "Well Sam, there's a time and a place for this type of activity..." He sounded so much like their father in full-on lecture mode that Sam had to laugh.
"So this was a spur of the moment thing?"
"Kinda." Dean looked sheepish, which was not an expression he wore all that comfortably, for obvious reasons. "It was the sheets, Sam."
This statement held the air of a confesssion, but Sam wasn't catching on. "Come again?"
"Dude, I'd love to. I was actually going for round three when you showed up." Dean sat down on the edge of one double bed, and caressed the bedding with his hand. The gesture seemed almost...reverent. "These have got to be at least four hundred thread count, Sam. Do you realize how long's it's been since my skin touched anything this, this..." He looked up at Sam, again at a loss for words.
"Decadent?" Sam suggested.
"Yeah. Decadent." Dean closed his eyes, savoring the word as his fingers continued their blissful stroking.
Bemused by his brother's odd behavior, Sam sat down on his own bed and reached under the comforter. "Jesus fuck, that's soft."
"You think you might be willing to step out and grab us some coffee to go with those doughnuts? I may need some alone time with these sheets."
Dean chuckled and bent down to retrieve his t-shirt. "Sure thing, bro, but you so owe me one."
"Duly noted. Oh, and Dean? There's a Starbucks right on Main Street." Sam quirked one eyebrow before amending, "Be sure to hang a left at the giant armoire. You can't miss it."
FYI, the giant chest of drawers DOES exist. For serious. I spent three years of my life in High Point, and I happened upon it while driving around lost. It was... surreal, to say the least.
Asalways, feedback is desired, and con crit is DEMANDED. Tear me a new one, I want you to. Pretty please?