Title: Ever So Humble
Word count: 930
A/N: Cardfic for blackrabbit42: Timestamp for Gonna Make It Feel Like Home - staying in a motel for old time's sake.
Summary: It's funny, the things you miss.
Sam was only barely keeping his eyes open by the time Dean finally deigned to pull into one of the innumerable shitty motels that lined the 66.
"You know," Sam said, shifting into a more properly upright position. His neck twinged painfully and Sam remembered how much he'd always hated that side effect of sleeping in the car. "Road tripping for 'old time's sake' does not mean we have to arrive in the middle of the night too tired to stand up straight."
"Don't be such a princess," Dean said, one arm flung over the seat back as he reversed neatly into a parking spot. "All you've done is sit in the damn car. I'm the one who's doing all the work. You turn into an old man sometime when I wasn't looking?"
"I dunno," Sam said around a yawn. "You been feeling a sudden urge to explore daddy issues in the bedroom?"
Dean made a disgusted face, which Sam considered the sign of a job well done. "Gross, dude. That was so not cool." He threw the car into park and gave Sam an imperious look. "Go book us a room."
"No," Sam said as he unbuckled his seatbelt, just because he could. The creak of the shocks as he climbed out of the Impala was as familiar a sound now as it had ever been but, after a couple of years of what could, horrifically, almost have counted as domestic bliss, it seemed incredibly nostalgic to hear it in the middle of a mostly-deserted motel parking lot.
Getting the room was rather less nostalgic, mostly because he was using his actual credit card to pay for it. Sam was sure it had to have happened at least once in their lives, probably before Dad got into credit card scams as a long term financial plan, but he'd be damned if he could remember when.
The complete disinterest of the guy staffing the desk was intimately familiar, though.
"Bout time," Dean said when Sam returned. He was leaning up against the hood of the Impala and the gleam from the overhead lamps highlighted the gold - and the slowly encroaching gray - threaded through his hair. He levered himself upright and slung Sam's duffel bag at him. "Which room?"
Sam managed to catch his bag before it hit him in the gut, though he sadly he didn't manage to nail Dean in the face with the door key when he chucked it at him in retaliation. "Eight."
Dean led the way, his gait as smooth and cocksure as ever. He opened the door with the practiced ease of someone used to sticky locks and Sam wished he had a camera to catch the crestfallen, reluctantly impressed expression that spread immediately across his face.
"Two queens?" Dean demanded. "Seriously?"
Sam shrugged, failing utterly at not smirking. "You wanted verisimilitude. Hence, two queens."
Dean snorted. "Clearly you're not that tired, if you're barfing up bits of the dictionary. Also, totally not getting laid tonight." He flicked on the light with one hand and tossed the keys in the general direction of the desk with the other.
"That's not as much of a threat as you think it is." Sam let his duffel bag hit the floor next to the bed farthest from the door - a force of habit as much as the awareness that Dean would pitch a fit if he didn't - and sprawled himself lengthwise across the mattress. He sighed and let his eyes close, feeling the shifting click of his bones as his body adjusted to the change in orientation. "No watching the pay-per-porn channel," he told Dean, without opening his eyes. "I am not using my paycheck to let you watch bad porn."
Dean muttered something uncomplimentary at him and Sam listened to the protesting squeak of the other bed as Dean slumped down on it. The sound repeated a couple of times - Dean bouncing his weight on the mattress because he was secretly five years old - then Sam heard the twin thumps of Dean's boots hitting the floor.
They lay in silence long enough that Sam found himself drifting off, still fully clothed and lying on the sheets rather than under them. Which also brought back memories, although at least he wasn't bleeding and/or covered in dirt this time.
Dean's bed creaked again. "This bed's like a rock with pillows. Remind me again why I missed this?"
"Because you're a sentimental dumbass," Sam yawned at him. He lifted one hand in an incredibly fucking lazy beckon. "Get over here, already."
Dean grumbled at him, but complied. This was part of the routine too, after all.
The bed absolutely wasn't designed to accommodate two men their size, but they'd always made do before and this time was no different. They wound up with Dean half-sprawled on top of Sam and Sam's arm hooked around Dean's waist to keep one or both of them from rolling off the side of the bed. It was awkward, vaguely uncomfortable and just what Sam needed right now.
Because, somehow, he'd kind of missed this too.
"M'starving," Dean said into his shoulder.
"Mmmkay," Sam mumbled, and promptly made no effort whatsoever to move.
Dean chuckled and it reverberated through Sam's skin. "Later, huh? You really are getting old there, Sammy."
Sam cracked an eye open to glare at him. "F'k off."
"Bitch." A hand that could very well have been a figment of his imagination ghosted over Sam's forehead. "Go to sleep already."
"Jerk," Sam muttered, before doing just that.