rating: almost porny. ehhh, hard 14a.
characters/pairings: ofc, Sam/Dean.
summary: 1190ish words of a third person observing how much Dean loves Sam. And vice-versa.
note: son-of-a-bitch is used as a generic all-purpose expletive. Just so you know. The book Eleanor Rigby is a reference to the beatles song [lyrics] and is obviously referring to the novel by Douglas Coupland, which I got signed last night. *squee!*
It was so fucking boring. I hadn't a thing to do, not since six-o-clock when I flipped the channel to news. Fucking bombings. Fucking american foreign policy. I hate this job, stupid son of a bitch-
A car rolled into the parking lot, and it was dark all-american muscle and I'd probably get a chance later to poke through it, since I pretty much only got runaways and cheating spouses and all they wanted was a more or less private room, something where they wouldn't have to smell fucking and dirty sheets for days, reminding them of what they'd done.
I hate this job.
So, this guy jumped out, this dude about half a foot taller than me, with this quirk in his step that said he'd been hurt, hurt real bad, and a smirk at the corner of his mouth that said well, hello sweetheart. It was an empty promise, and I knew it because his body shifted, aiming all his attention at the other person exiting the car, placing all his attention on this tall-drink-of-water kind of guy. I probably would to, if I had anyone like that. If I had anyone at all, that son of a bitch.
The tall guy paused outside the door, shot a look in through the office window at me and I looked away, because I knew how these things worked. The other one, with the lies at the edges of his voice, came in the the office, ordered a room - single, please - and slapped down a visa I knew would go through. I figured it would rip off the credit card company, and I didn't care because the fuckers screw over people all the time anyways, I didn't see why I should do them any favours. Fuck, if I had my choice I'd pull a Fight Club and blow up every goddamn-
He signed the register as Roger Coupland, and everybody lies on those things. At least it was the same as the credit card, easier that way to get insurance back when the card bounces later.
He paid for three days. I put them in the room next to mine.
It was late, and I was the only one on duty, seeing as how the manager had gone on vacation three weeks ago, that son of a bitch-
Whatever. I read this book, something called Eleanor Rigby, and I was trying to stay awfully quiet, since I was curious about those two and these walls were paper thin, something they wouldn't discover if I was careful and if we didn't get any more customers. Not that I expected any, not in this middle-of-fucking-nowhere Wyoming.
I laid in bed, lights off, listening to them talk. Creepy as fuck, I know, but I liked the sound of their voices, especially when they weren't hiding anything, something that people tend to do when they know people are listening. It was this cadence, this rise and fall. I heard them muffled through the walls, saying things like it's not that, dean! and i know, you got any better ideas? and we've got a little time and it's okay, it's okay.
They were whispering, and I couldn't understand what they were saying but it was soothing, the way their words washed over me, deep and rolling and quiet. There were gasps, and moans, and I could hear the headboard knocking against the wall in constant, steady rhythm, oh oh, oh! Dean! and ahhhh ah ah Sam... and I could almost picture them-
I bit my lip, and I counted to a thousand, listening to them the whole time. Then I slid a hand down between my legs.
I checked to make sure the Do Not Disturb sign wasn't up, and then I knocked on the door.
I didn't get a reponse, so I eased the door open quietly. I imagined that they'd be long gone or out or something already, and I was right. They were out, but they had their stuff spread around and I guessed they'd be back later, after they did whatever they came to do.
I laid down on their sex-soaked sheets and thought about what love tasted like.
Creepy as fuck, I know, I know, I really do, and I felt so fucking dirty but I couldn't help it, not really. I was jealous, fuck-all jealous because I'd never had that, nothing like it. I wanted to know what it was like, just once, something honest and pure even, not hidden away and dirty like the hookers or the cheating husbands I always saw.
I watched. Watched Dean close the laptop, stand up, walk over to Sam and pull him down; watched Sam curve a big hand over Dean's ass, bumping his hips against Dean too slow for it to be an accident. Watched Dean unbutton Sam's shirt, shove it off Sam's shoulders, spread his hands across Sam's chest, lick at his adam's apple. Watched Sam wriggle a hand between them, slide it down Dean's jeans-
I turned around quietly, and I sat down at the edge of the porch that ran around the entirety of the single-storey motel. I listened to them for a long time, this weird aching fucking longing in the middle of my chest and in my wrists and behind my knees and snapping along my spine. I listened until I fell asleep, because for once I felt safe.
I walked over to their car. It was early-morning bright out, no one was up, and I ran my hand along the car's lines, taking easy note of the wear and the upkeep. She looked good, real good considering the mileage that I figured she had.
"Can I help you?"
Dean seemed to show up out of nowhere. I should have been paying attention, definitely, but I wasn't. I looked down and swished my skirt, kicking some pebble out of the way.
"Sorry," I whispered - still painfully shy despite the social job - "I was just looking."
"It's okay," Dean said easily, and my eyes caught the beretta he had at his waistband. I was suddenly afraid, 'cause I had nothing with me and if he wanted to, he could break me. His attention drifted elsewhere, though, and I heard the heavy crunch of gravel that said someone was behind me.
"I'll just get out of your way. Thanks for visiting." I scurried off, and neither of them looked back as they pulled out of the lot. I wasn't expecting them to, but it hurt just the same knowing I'd made no impression, that neither would remember me. It wasn't like I hoped for anything more, but yet-
If we had talked any longer, I bet that I would have asked him about how he kept the car in such good condition. I bet he'd shrug and say something like take care of the things you care about, or something like that but way less cheesy and definite without girly phrasing.
I'd notice him watching Sam, coming towards the car with a grin and a duffel over a shoulder, and I'd realise he was right.