A little ficlet written for the drabble challenge over on FF.net. The challenge word was scratch.
Characters: Dean Winchester and Sam Winchester
Word Count: 400
Disclaimer: I don't own them
Dean's head swam nauseously, and his eyes felt like scratchy balls of fire as he leaned woozily against the brothers' motel room door, trying manfully to unlock it with a key that seemed to have taken on a life of its own.
Glancing at his watch, he sighed. He could barely focus his heavy-lidded eyes even to see his arm, never mind the tiny glowing numbers on his watch face; it was an act of utter futility.
All he knew was that it was friggin' ass o'clock in the morning, and he really, really shouldn't have had that last drink.
Somewhere in their room, Sam would be in bed, sound asleep, and Dean was becoming increasingly frustrated, as trying to guide the key into the door's lock through the darkness and with the co-ordination of a bucket of stoned frogs on a trampoline, was a challenge like no other. No, scratch that; it was completely freakin' impossible.
Eventually, and with a sense of totally wasted effort, he gave up and slowly, and really rather gracefully, slid down the wall until his face made contact with cool concrete.
Huh, whoever would have thought that a doorstep would have been so comfortable?
Dean's sore eyes flickered open to blinding sunlight and he groaned miserably. There wasn't a part of him that didn't ache or want to puke.
In an act of superhuman strength and concentration, he managed to sit up; burped lavishly and scratched his head. Blinking blearily through the daylight, he sat in front of the door, unaware of the weave of the doormat imprinted in his face, and knuckled his teary, red-rimmed eyes. Somewhere in the distance, in amongst the thrum of distant traffic and his own throbbing headache thought he could hear Sam's voice.
And boy, did it sound pissed.
He looked up and, sure enough, there was Sam, features twisted into an epic bitchface as he peered through the brothers' doorway toward Dean.
The brothers' doorway which wasn't in front of Dean, but was in fact two rooms away.
That's when he noticed that the door before him had opened and there was a shocked middle-aged woman resplendent in pink nightie and curlers, who was looking down on him as if he'd crawled off the street.
Which, okay, he kind of had.
"Morning, ma'am," he mumbled scratchily, scrambling unsteadily to his feet; "Jus' doing a doormat inspection."
"Uh, yours passed."