Dean Winchester (![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} _jerk) wrote, |
And they've stayed in some pretty sucky motels, but this one? Seriously sucks. Sucks that it's been raining since they arrived, which makes being stuck in the crappy room with Sam even more dreary than usual – it's not even one of the painfully kitsch rooms he could gleefully take the piss out of: this one seems to have been decorated in shades of baby-puke, with damp stains that look like Jesus or Abraham Lincoln or someone 'pleasuring' a donkey dependent on which way you look at them and cigarette burns on the mattress like someone who read too much Lovecraft or watched too many of those weird Japanese cartoons with the schoolgirls and the tentacles has been trying to make join-the-dot puzzles. Sucks that all the chicks (if they can even be called that) are in the blue-rinse and false teeth stage (and while he's got no problem with cougars there are lines a dude doesn't cross) which means he can't even go out and practice for the day Dad decides he'd be more use on the hunt itself than babysitting Sammy in case one of the old biddies has a heart attack. And major-ly, royally sucks that even though they've been here the better part of a week – more than long enough for him to explain to the glassy-eyed 'Grill Chef' (who Dean seriously wishes would turn out to be a zombie rather than just a moron, because he'd like nothing better than to smoke the idjit - remove the head, destroy the brain) the proper method – the burgers are still shit.
So yeah, maybe the door gets the brunt of his displeasure. And maybe Sam's order (or, um, what Dean ordered for him, because the kid's not going to grow up big and strong on salad; that he's turning into a lanky sasquatch off the back of Dean's culinary expertise is proof positive the diet can't be doing him any harm) is lobbed at him with a little more force than strictly necessary. “Shut up and eat your breakfast, Sammy. 's getting cold.”
He skulks – there's not really any other way to describe the movement, the way he's fuming rounding his shoulders, making him seem smaller and broader than he is – over to his bed, sits heavily on the end of it, dropping his own breakfast on the bed next to him – and starts unlacing his boots with one hand while rummaging in the take-out bag and unwrapping the substandard burger with the other.