This is Our Design

Ritardando Part 5

                           Carry on my wayward son

                            There'll be peace when you are gone

                             Lay your weary head to rest

                           Don't you cry no more

By the time Dean and Sam reach 'home', a cheap motel they've rented out as a temporary base, the moon has risen and a cool, summer breeze replaces dusk's place in the world. The motel, as usual, is silent save for chirping crickets and hissing cockroaches; Dean finds both insects crawling on the lamp beside his bed. He looks at them for a second, laying spread out on the mattress, hunter's jacket still fit snugly to his shoulders, and wonders if their puny lives are worth taking.

Wry laughter bubbles its way from his throat as he realizes--Deja vu. Wasn't he contemplating about The Science of Cas not long too long ago? And now he's wondering if either of the bugs have a family at home and whether or not they would be missed if Dean decided to snap at them with a towel?

"What are you laughing about?" Sam chirps, sauntering from the bathroom to the bed while simultaneously toweling his hair off. He grows slightly wary of the hysterically manic expression on Dean's face, a quirked eyebrow being all it takes to send him into a fit of laughter. Dean tosses his head back and points to the bed lamp. "What, the lamp?" He giggles nervously.

The marks are showing again.

"Yeah, nothin. It's stupid." I must be really tired if I'm seriously laughing about bugs on a lightbulb. Dean scrubs his hands over his face, as if the gesture could make all the drowsiness disappear. He feels like a flame that's lost its flicker. "Is the shower still decent?" he asks, craving heat. The first time he and Sam checked in had been a nightmare; cockroaches crawling everywhere, a leaky sink, coffee stains on the bed sheets. But the worst of all had really been the bathroom. As usual, Dean obliged an early morning shower before Sam, mainly just to use up all the hot water and piss him off, but when he stepped underneath the spray Dean had a clear view of aged mold and green goo outlining the edges of the shower; it was absolutely disgusting and nearly sent him to his knees, especially after noticing more of it growing on bars of soap too. They swapped rooms after that, thankfully with a better appeal. Making fun of the bathroom's cleanliness has become a sort of inside joke now between the two of them.

"Yeah." San answers. "But I could have sworn that shampoo doesn't have eight legs and hair." Of course he's only kidding, but it definitely pays to see Dean blanche.

He flips him off instead. "Haha, very funny."

"I don't even get why you're scared of spiders, I mean. We've seen worse things Dean. And fuzzy little arachnids can't compare to what's in Dad's journal." Sitting on the bed now, bent forward and retrieving his duffel bag from underneath; Sam slathers on lotion and deodorant (Dean snickers. Can't a man smell like lavender without being made fun of?) and dresses into a pair of basketball shorts, a grey tank to top everything off.

As he arranges and rearranges the contents inside his bag, Sam's fingers brush over something waxy; John Winchester's journal rests beneath his palm like a calling card. "So, a Wrist Scratcher." He pulls it out leisurely, flutters it like a fan.