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Sam and Dean, tv discussion.


This is where they've always lived, in rooms like this one. Small, contained. One room that doubles up as bedroom and living room, and doubles again if they spring for a kitchenette. They've always been here, making themselves at home in temporary surroundings, living out of bags, their clothes always a little rumpled. They're always ready to walk out the door, never getting weighed down with worldly possessions.

Sam remembers how it was in Stanford, how his friends would complain about the debts they were racking up when Sam knew a dozen different ways he could scam all the money he needed to see him through, even though he never did. How his friends would talk about overdrafts and student loans and long-suffering, expectant, proud parents. How they had five-year plans and already knew about mortgages and job options and internships. While Sam... he was having a hard enough time getting to sleep at night without salt lining his doors and windows. He was still trying to build up the courage to tell Jess the truth, still trying to figure out if he should. He was still wowed at living in the same apartment after a year. A whole year. And he had things: an actual bank account, a student ID with his real name beside his picture. He owned a stereo. A TV. A wok. He had sheets for the bed and towels in the bathroom. They were his: his stuff, his place, his life.

But it never felt like home.

Not like this crappy motel room feels like home right now, with Dean sprawled face down on the bed, watching TV with one eye, too lazy to even lift his head, a beer dangling from his fingers.

Sam sits on the edge of Dean's mattress, holds his palm in the air a couple of inches above Dean's shoulders, close enough to feel the heat radiating through Dean's shirt. Sam follows the curve of his spine down to the small of his back, and just lets his hand hover there.

"What you watching?" he asks, not looking at the screen.

"Shannon Tweed double bill," Dean replies, his voice muffled against the sheets.

"Augh, Dean. Man, she's rancid."

"Hush your mouth," Dean grumbles, sounding scandalised. "Shannon Tweed rocks. She's in my top three favourite actors of all time."

"Yeah, along with Burt Lancaster and Dolly Parton. You always had the worst taste."

"Burt Reynolds, man. Burt Reynolds."

"Like that's so much better."

"Are you kidding me? Cannonball Run? Smokey and the Bandit? Classics. Sammy, you got no style. Sometimes I can't believe we're even related."

"Whatever, man, but come on. Seriously? Dolly Parton?"

Dean lifts his head, because apparently this warrants a look of pure, undiluted contempt. "Dude, Dolly Parton is awesome."

Sam sighs. "Dolly Parton modelled the way she looks on small town hookers because when she was a kid she thought they were the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen."

Dean grins and waggles his eyebrows. "I know."

Sam laughs, and his hand settles on the small of Dean's back, his middle finger resting on the strip of bare skin above Dean's belt.

Dean takes a slug of his beer and hands Sam the bottle before flopping back onto the mattress. "You should watch this with me, Sammy. She's about to seduce the father on the pool table while his kid watches."

Sam pulls a face as he swallows his mouthful of beer. "That's sick."

Dean chuckles. "Yeah," he says, full of admiration. "That's Shannon Tweed."