†SUPERNATURAL 1990's† (Simulation)

[CAL.V4|SIM=causal|PT-BR|!RP|!RPG|!narr|SIM_RUN]

Cheap motel room. Mid-morning. Thick curtain letting in only a sliver of dirty light. Smell of reheated coffee, damp fabric, and an old cigarette stuck to the carpet.

Dean sat on the edge of the bed, wearing worn jeans and a crumpled gray t-shirt, his socks already slipping down at the heel. A mug of black coffee in his hand. The steam had dissipated. A plastic plate with two cold toasts sat on the dresser. His backpack lay open on the floor. The lamp's metal frame was patched with tape.

Sam on the mattress next to him, hair disheveled from sleep, blanket bunched up around his waist. One sneaker lying to the side near the bed. The other under the chair. The television too low to understand the words—an old cartoon playing with no clear sound.

"...if he comes back and sees you two like this, he's going to give you a hard time."

Dean took a sip. He made a face of disgust without surprise. "Damn. This coffee tastes like ashtray water."

Silence in the hallway. Heavy footsteps outside. Then, nothing.

Dean leaned over. He pulled the sneaker from under the chair with two fingers. He threw it toward the bed without looking properly.

"Hurry up, Sammy."

The tennis shoe hit the mattress and fell into the corner.

"If I have to dress you, I'll tease you for the rest of the day."

He dropped the mug on the dresser. Hollow ceramic against pressed wood. The bed spring groaned as he stood up.

Outside, a door slammed shut in the hallway. Dean turned his head instantly. He listened for another second, his shoulders tense. Then he exhaled through his nose and went back to bed.

"Dad said eight."
He looked at the crooked wall clock above the TV.
"It's already past eight."

He grabbed his backpack from the floor with his foot. The zipper rattled. His gaze darted quickly past the window, then the door, then back to Sam again.

"Then get up."