tabaqui | Supernatural fic....'Bonds'

Supernatural fic....'Bonds'

tabaqui

Wednesday, March 1st, 2006 05:31 pm

As you may or may not know...or care...i joined

darkhavens challenge comm,

kaz2y5. The challenge this week was 'bonds', and for some reason i *struggled*. Maybe 'cause i decided to go with Sam's POV, i dunno...

Anyway, here's the fic, too late to go in the comm, but i thought i'd post it anyway. My other Supernatural ficlets are here.

If you like the fandom, join the comm! Watchers and writers both are good! *ahem*
And i got nothin' for title. Sheesh. My brain still hasn't turned back on.
ETA: Spoilers for the ep 'The Benders' - sorry!

Dean was the one who'd gotten burned, stabbed and beat on but it was Sam who got sick, walking seventeen miles in the cold mist. And sitting on damp straw and iron for nearly 24 hours in his shirt-sleeves. For some reason, this annoyed Sam.

By the time they got back to the car and found a motel - and Sam had to get the room with yet another scammed credit-card, which just pissed him off - he could tell he was running a temperature. And that pissed him off more. But the first aid kit didn't have anything for burns - they'd used it all up three months back - so Sam parked Dean in the bathroom with instructions to get the dreck off, grabbed another Visa and headed for the twenty-four-hour gas station hoping like hell he'd find the stuff he needed.

Sam was supposed to have gotten the first aid kit refilled after last time and he'd forgotten but - and he told Dean this as Dean gingerly pried his soaked, muddy boots off - Dean should have reminded him. Dean just grinned - kept grinning at him while Sam shivered and blew his nose and sniffled all the way out the door. Sam's irritation over the cold and the cards and the fucking long walk all transferred straight to Dean and his irritating, annoying self. Annoying about so much, and sometimes Sam wondered why the hell he put up with it.

For instance, the 'wouldn't you look pretty sitting on my cock' once-over and leer he gave almost any girl who crossed his path. And the way half of them leered back, like being someone's private porno was no big deal. Or the insufferably cocky way he'd start off a story or make a point by saying 'When I was hunting on my own, these past couple years...' Like that gave him a right to call Sam 'Sammy' and 'junior' and 'noob'.

And could their job get any harder than when Dean decided that the local sheriff or police or, hell, park rangers were too pathetic for words and started making little, digging comments about how they handled 'the job'? Sometimes, Sam just wanted to smack Dean right in front of God, the cops, and everybody.

*Not really mad at you, Dean. Just scared out of my fucking mind. I didn't pay attention and I almost got you killed by some fucked up group of inbred low-lifes. I did that and I'm not mad at you, my fucking fault you'll have a scar here, damnit, God damnit...* Sam wiped his nose with the back of his wrist and put down the last bit of tape on the bandage on Dean's burnt shoulder - packed up the kit and then shed his own damp, dirty clothes and went to stand under a spray of hot water for about twenty minutes. It helped, but not a lot.

By the time he got out he was shivering again and he dug back into the kit for aspirin - bundled up in a t-shirt, flannel, hoodie, sweats and socks and crawled miserably into bed. He lay there, body locked into spasmodic shudders, gritting his teeth every time Dean flipped past the Cartoon Network.

Eventually, he dozed off.

When he woke up, Dean was just slipping in, looking a bit grey and rumpled around the edges and Sam frowned and sat up and groaned. His head thumped along with his heart and he felt like he was freezing to death. Red-orange dawn-light coming in past the curtains, little ray that lanced straight across the room.

And Dean was humming something - some stupid head-banger tune while he poked around in rustley, crinkly bags.

"You should be in bed," Sam muttered - his throat felt like he'd swallowed salt and nails. He watched Dean limp and wince and make small hissing sounds when he moved his arm - pivoted on the leg that had gotten stabbed. His eyes were a little bloodshot.

"I mostly was," Dean muttered back, and Sam noticed how twisted the covers were. He straightened them with shaking hands, pushing a pillow behind his back and then Dean was sitting down on the edge of the mattress, handing Sam two bright-blue capsules and two aspirin and a ginger ale. Sam took them - swallowed the pills - sipped the ginger ale, which soothed his throat.

Then Dean handed him a little cup of sweet-and-sour soup and a little cup of orange Jell-O and Sam was starting to smile, now. Then Dean laid a fan of Jumbo Crossword Puzzles! and Jumbo Hidden Pictures! and Jumbo Designs for Coloring! on Sam's thighs - put a packet of pre-sharpened colored pencils on top of that and a packet of black-ink Bic pens. Hard-core flashback to fifth grade strep throat and the only time Sam'd ever been sick enough to go to the ER.

"Sorry you're sick, Sammy," Dean said, and Sam blinked down at the books and the soup and the Jell-O - at the pills and ginger ale on the nightstand and then up into Dean's tired, smiling gaze.

"I'm okay. This is - great." *Sorry, Dean, sorry...* "You wanna watch Oprah?"

"Joan Rivers is on," Dean said, heeling off his boots and settling down, right under the covers and knee to thigh to shoulder, warm and solid.

"Thanks," Sam whispered and Dean just leaned into him a little more and sighed, pillow bunched under his neck. In five minutes he was asleep and Sam very carefully did nothing at all until he woke up again.

Tags:

kaz2y5,
spn

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