Rating: PG - Gen
Disclaimers: SPN & characters are owned by their various creators.
Summary: Sometimes you just gotta stop and smell the asphalt...
Dean hadn't been outside during the daylight in a real long time.
His arms seemed too pale in the sun, his week old bruises more green and yellow than they had appeared in the dim gauzy lamplight that came filtered through the plastic curtain of a shower. He could imagine what his sore face looked like. Collapsing and laying back on the warm worn asphalt he folded his hands behind his head and settled his boots up on the guard rail.
It was funny, these little stops, like a tourist oasis along the mountain routes that always liked to announce when there was a scenic view. Small little turn offs with barely enough room to park. Photographic opportunity. Historical landmark. Stop here or you'll miss it.
There was something he really hated about a chipped painted sign that told him when and where he had to appreciate something.
This particular one was as badly maintained as any of the others which he found at least somewhat agreeable. The staked out plot of importance was overgrown with wild flowers. They were almost pouring over the old metal barricade that carefully circled the precise area you were supposed to enjoy the view. Small white flowers bobbed on their long unchecked stalks with the unsteady breeze. Beyond and sweeping for green cool miles below them was the sight he was supposed to be in awe of.
The clouds were drifting overhead, just as lazy as he felt. Their slow metamorphosis from shape to shape as they wandered across his field of vision made him feel sleepy.
Dean shut his eyes, his left already conveniently and almost completely swollen shut.
There was that slip. It was like when you were in bed and you started to go, dropping through the mattress and down into all your personal versions of oblivion. He felt unanchored and sliding off of center, the small sound of his sigh as he started to fall softly out of the back of himself. He was far away and right inside his head all at the same time.
Something larger than a cloud moved over him and blocked out the sun.
"You look like road kill."
Dean blinked up, his hand automatically shielding his eyes. It took as much time to slip back into his body as it did to slip out. Maybe everyone was a ghost at some time or another. Leaving and going, appearing and reappearing at the least expected times.
"Not yet." He said up to the silhouette of his brother.
Sam's face looked worse than his felt. One side of it was abused into stains of a sunset. The other side just looked tired.
He shut his eyes again. "Gimme ten more minutes." Dean crossed his ankles in the tangle of fragrant weeds and resettled himself.
"You've got five."
Six minutes was just enough to dream something good.