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An hour each day from the mountains.
Supernatural. Sam/Dean. PG-13. Approx. 500 words. Title from Jim Morrison.


He's never bled in the desert.

It sounds so small, so insignificant that way. But he's stained feet of beach sand red in his lifetime, and he's passed out from blood loss in ragged mountains stretching north to south across the map. He nearly died in the woods, once, when he was just twelve. When something bigger and stronger with curving claws and slick, yellow teeth slashed at his skin like a cat with a hanging toy. He's suffered gunshot wounds in schoolyards: they left three tattered bullet holes in the cheap metal slide.

The desert feels almost safe. Like nothing can happen, because nothing ever has. Sam never says a word to Dean, never talks about it, but he thinks his brother gets it. They always drive to the desert, come November.

::

If you look close enough, there are colors in the sand. The shimmer like water rising off the street, that could be an oil painting. It's like the kid who saw beauty in the goddamned fluttering plastic bag—out here, he looks and he finds. He looks and he sees.

Aloud, he bitches about the heat. Complains about the dead, dry landscapes. And Dean rolls his eyes and says, You went to college, right? Shortest distance is a straight line.

He turns sharply off the road, and it's flat enough that Sam doesn't even notice when they hit the dirt. Dean turns the key and says, You picked the job, Sammyboy. There's just not a lot too look at.

And he shoves a hand down the front of Sam's jeans.

::

Sam gets them a room while Dean wrestles with the rusted gas pump across the street. It's not a dirt road, but it might as well be.

He says to the girl behind the desk, Does anyone ever come through here?

And she takes the card from his hand and says, Town's ten minutes west. People come through.

She holds up a key with a jingle of plastic and metal, and then she goes back to her magazine without another word.

::

We're close.

He says it with his eyes closed against Sam's skin, his body curved around his brother's like a shield, mostly out of habit. Sam's never gotten hurt in the desert, and that's where they are, even if some semblance of civilization's just a few miles down the road.

His mouth pressed to Sam's shoulder blades, his hand tracing lines across Sam's thigh, moving to just hold Sam's cock, soft now, like the rest of him. Sam lays boneless, like he could slip into sleep at any moment. Dean doesn't get to see that often.

The job, it's not this town. But we're close. We'll make it by tomorrow. Evening tomorrow.

Tomorrow? S'not that far. Why tomorrow?

But he doesn't try to move.

Dean grins down at him and says, 'Cause I'm sure as hell not leaving here at least for another three rounds. Now go to sleep.
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