Ficlet -- "Taking Care of Sammy"
Jan. 18th, 2008 06:53 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fannishlissTaking Care of Sammy
Fandom: Supernatural
Rated: Gen
Pairing: none, brotherly love only.
Summary: Dean just wants to do his job and take care of Sammy likes he’s always done.
SPOILERS: situation at end of season 2. Nothing specific from Season 3.
Disclaimer: The characters and basic premise within are property of Warner Bros, Eric Kripke, etc. No money is being made off this work of fiction.
Notes: 1,300 words. A ficlet! I’m working my way up from drabble! Many, many thanks to susannaheanes and cormallen, the generous betas who helped a newbie despite the impending threat of narcolepsy, whose wise suggestions helped me make a bit more of my little ficlet. Any remaining eccentricities are my own!
Fandom: Supernatural
Rated: Gen
Pairing: none, brotherly love only.
Summary: Dean just wants to do his job and take care of Sammy likes he’s always done.
SPOILERS: situation at end of season 2. Nothing specific from Season 3.
Disclaimer: The characters and basic premise within are property of Warner Bros, Eric Kripke, etc. No money is being made off this work of fiction.
Notes: 1,300 words. A ficlet! I’m working my way up from drabble! Many, many thanks to susannaheanes and cormallen, the generous betas who helped a newbie despite the impending threat of narcolepsy, whose wise suggestions helped me make a bit more of my little ficlet. Any remaining eccentricities are my own!
Taking Care of Sammy
Coming down off a relatively simple salt and burn. Or, you know, as simple as these things ever get, for them. Vengeful spirit, grave located, no disturbances until right as they've just hit spade to the lid of the coffin, and whoa, there's that freakin' baby tornado thing that just seems to spiral up out of the grave, sending dirt and sand and who knows what kind of decayed shit up their noses and into their eyes, and Sam gets all desperate with the spade and he's just whacking the shit out of the coffin. Dean's all up out of the grave pretty nimble, ready with the shotgun if he can draw a bead on the thing, the squeeze can of lighter fluid, the salt, and the matches ready for Sam to get the hell up out of there. Crazy whirlwind's getting stronger by the second till Sam finally breaks through the lid, then the spirit's materializing, and sure enough, going for Sammy's throat as per usual.
So, for Christ's sake, Dean has to shoot him at close range with a load of rock salt to keep the spirit from choking him to death, long enough for him to drag himself up out of the grave. They douse the coffin with accelerant and salt, quick as they can, and set that mother on fire.
Wind dies down pretty quick, then, and Dean surveys Sammy to check the damage. This is why they dress in layers, or one reason anyhow, cause the heavy flannel jacket had stopped most of the rock salt, which thankfully had just glanced across Sam’s back and the top of his shoulder.
Well, thanks to that thick layer of flannel, at least Sam is able to help shovel dirt back down into the hole, and they’re out of there, spirit put down, and no one the wiser.
Back at the motel room, Sam is moving pretty slow even after using up as much of the hot water as he wanted, and Dean isn't even bitching at him for being in there half an hour. Sam just kind of comes out and flops down face first on his bed with a groan.
Dean goes on in to the shower, just interested in getting the dirt out of his pores and hoping the steam would loosen up his sinuses a little. That shit up your nose, man, is just way too disgusting.
Dean figures Sam would be asleep before he came out, but as he gets into a t shirt and some clean shorts, he hears Sam get up to go digging around in the first aid.
Sammy’s giving him the big eyes again. Little brothers just have this innate gift for getting what they want with whatever tools necessary. Sammy doesn't even have to say a word, just reaches out to Dean with the arnica gel and resumes his position facedown on the bed.
Dean sighs. As much as he ranks on Sam about his girly ways, pampering himself in the shower and darting into hippy little health food stores to lay out Dean’s hard-earned money for supposedly restorative creams and lotions, he'd taken a hit in the line of duty this evening, and it’s Dean's job to take care of him when that kind of thing happens.
Dean squeezes out a generous portion of the gel –according to Sammy, it’s good for sprains and bruises, but Dean figures it’s mostly psychological -- and plops it straight onto Sam's back, grinning a bit sadistically when his little brother startles at the sudden cold. He smoothes the gel in to the couple dozen angry red spots that will soon blacken into bruises. Most of the chunks of salt had hit Sam on the left shoulder and across the top left side of his back. None had hit the scar, the one Dean didn't like to think about, but there it was.
Dean’s just lightly smoothing the gel into Sammy's back, but Sammy is quivering a bit in reaction, his muscles are that tense. Sam is a big guy, really strong after these past couple of years on the road, but he never gets in enough stretching and between hunching over the laptop and cramming himself into the passenger side of the Impala, his back is usually a mess. Now, with the frantic shoveling, the painful bruises from the rock salt are just the tip of the iceberg.
Dean goes back to the first aid kit to get out the almond oil. No good hunting with a partner all seized up and in pain. He pours a good pool of oil into the little hollow beneath Sam's shoulder blades, again grinning as Sammy jerks a bit. Hey, you gonna give your brother a massage, you gotta make him pay somehow, right? Otherwise he starts calling you Heidi and asking for hot stones or some shit.
Secretly, Dean derives a good bit of satisfaction from his skill at massage. Good with his hands, engine work, weapons detail, forgery, this is no different. Dean can feel the tension in the long muscles along Sam's spine, in the well-developed trapezius and the deltoids, and he applies his own strength into working it loose.
The gentle vegetable scent of the arnica is quickly overpowered by the calming tones of almond coming up from the oil as Dean works up from Sam's hips in long strokes toward his shoulders. He presses slowly and firmly, stretching the muscles away from the direction they’re usually pulled by gravity. He can feel Sam sigh and relax more deeply with every touch. He works his way up to the shoulders, but it’s a lot harder to relax those muscles without hurting Sam. Hey, he’s not a professional. But he gently and thoroughly pulls the shoulders down away from Sam's ears, and he tries that trick of lifting Sam's head and stretching out his neck by pulling really hard – that seems to help.
Dean works on the shoulders for a good long while, till Sammy stops flinching and lets out contented little hums every so often. But Dean doesn't want to stop. His brother's shoulders are warm and relaxed now. They’re broad and strong in a way that makes Dean so proud, so proud of everything the youngest Winchester has gone up against, and still come out standing. Still here, still fighting, still on the right side, still alive. Sammy has never given in, never will.
But Dean had. Sam is alive now, bringing him back was the one temptation Dean just didn't have it in him to resist. Dean would never be sorry. His eyes drift down to the scar, faded improbably almost to nothing. It’s a terrifying scar, big, and crossing the spine in that horrible, fatal way, but it looks old, like Sam’s had it a lifetime. Dean can't touch it though. He's already healed it the only way he knows how.
Dean finishes off the backrub, running his fingers up Sammy's neck and up on into his scalp. He gives him a rough pat on the shoulder and gets off him, pulls up the cheap motel comforter and the thin acrylic blanket so Sam won't have to move now that he’s so relaxed.
“Next time don’t get shot. Or strangled, if you can avoid it. Which I doubt,” Dean murmurs through the shadow of a grin.
“Next time don’t shoot me,” Sam grumbles, then adds a bit hazily, “Thanks, Dean.”
“Sure thing,” Dean returns, and goes on over to his own bed, makes sure his knife is ready there under the pillow, but his eyes won't close. His eyes are on his brother, relaxed now, almost asleep. Dean just wants to take care of Sammy for always. But that’s not in the cards. Sammy will try to save him; Dean, bound by the deal, will try to stop him. They’ll fight, to keep Sam safe, till Dean is gone, and Sam will have no one to take care of him but himself.
Dean feels an ache settle in between his shoulders as he wills his eyes closed and tries to sleep.
Coming down off a relatively simple salt and burn. Or, you know, as simple as these things ever get, for them. Vengeful spirit, grave located, no disturbances until right as they've just hit spade to the lid of the coffin, and whoa, there's that freakin' baby tornado thing that just seems to spiral up out of the grave, sending dirt and sand and who knows what kind of decayed shit up their noses and into their eyes, and Sam gets all desperate with the spade and he's just whacking the shit out of the coffin. Dean's all up out of the grave pretty nimble, ready with the shotgun if he can draw a bead on the thing, the squeeze can of lighter fluid, the salt, and the matches ready for Sam to get the hell up out of there. Crazy whirlwind's getting stronger by the second till Sam finally breaks through the lid, then the spirit's materializing, and sure enough, going for Sammy's throat as per usual.
So, for Christ's sake, Dean has to shoot him at close range with a load of rock salt to keep the spirit from choking him to death, long enough for him to drag himself up out of the grave. They douse the coffin with accelerant and salt, quick as they can, and set that mother on fire.
Wind dies down pretty quick, then, and Dean surveys Sammy to check the damage. This is why they dress in layers, or one reason anyhow, cause the heavy flannel jacket had stopped most of the rock salt, which thankfully had just glanced across Sam’s back and the top of his shoulder.
Well, thanks to that thick layer of flannel, at least Sam is able to help shovel dirt back down into the hole, and they’re out of there, spirit put down, and no one the wiser.
Back at the motel room, Sam is moving pretty slow even after using up as much of the hot water as he wanted, and Dean isn't even bitching at him for being in there half an hour. Sam just kind of comes out and flops down face first on his bed with a groan.
Dean goes on in to the shower, just interested in getting the dirt out of his pores and hoping the steam would loosen up his sinuses a little. That shit up your nose, man, is just way too disgusting.
Dean figures Sam would be asleep before he came out, but as he gets into a t shirt and some clean shorts, he hears Sam get up to go digging around in the first aid.
Sammy’s giving him the big eyes again. Little brothers just have this innate gift for getting what they want with whatever tools necessary. Sammy doesn't even have to say a word, just reaches out to Dean with the arnica gel and resumes his position facedown on the bed.
Dean sighs. As much as he ranks on Sam about his girly ways, pampering himself in the shower and darting into hippy little health food stores to lay out Dean’s hard-earned money for supposedly restorative creams and lotions, he'd taken a hit in the line of duty this evening, and it’s Dean's job to take care of him when that kind of thing happens.
Dean squeezes out a generous portion of the gel –according to Sammy, it’s good for sprains and bruises, but Dean figures it’s mostly psychological -- and plops it straight onto Sam's back, grinning a bit sadistically when his little brother startles at the sudden cold. He smoothes the gel in to the couple dozen angry red spots that will soon blacken into bruises. Most of the chunks of salt had hit Sam on the left shoulder and across the top left side of his back. None had hit the scar, the one Dean didn't like to think about, but there it was.
Dean’s just lightly smoothing the gel into Sammy's back, but Sammy is quivering a bit in reaction, his muscles are that tense. Sam is a big guy, really strong after these past couple of years on the road, but he never gets in enough stretching and between hunching over the laptop and cramming himself into the passenger side of the Impala, his back is usually a mess. Now, with the frantic shoveling, the painful bruises from the rock salt are just the tip of the iceberg.
Dean goes back to the first aid kit to get out the almond oil. No good hunting with a partner all seized up and in pain. He pours a good pool of oil into the little hollow beneath Sam's shoulder blades, again grinning as Sammy jerks a bit. Hey, you gonna give your brother a massage, you gotta make him pay somehow, right? Otherwise he starts calling you Heidi and asking for hot stones or some shit.
Secretly, Dean derives a good bit of satisfaction from his skill at massage. Good with his hands, engine work, weapons detail, forgery, this is no different. Dean can feel the tension in the long muscles along Sam's spine, in the well-developed trapezius and the deltoids, and he applies his own strength into working it loose.
The gentle vegetable scent of the arnica is quickly overpowered by the calming tones of almond coming up from the oil as Dean works up from Sam's hips in long strokes toward his shoulders. He presses slowly and firmly, stretching the muscles away from the direction they’re usually pulled by gravity. He can feel Sam sigh and relax more deeply with every touch. He works his way up to the shoulders, but it’s a lot harder to relax those muscles without hurting Sam. Hey, he’s not a professional. But he gently and thoroughly pulls the shoulders down away from Sam's ears, and he tries that trick of lifting Sam's head and stretching out his neck by pulling really hard – that seems to help.
Dean works on the shoulders for a good long while, till Sammy stops flinching and lets out contented little hums every so often. But Dean doesn't want to stop. His brother's shoulders are warm and relaxed now. They’re broad and strong in a way that makes Dean so proud, so proud of everything the youngest Winchester has gone up against, and still come out standing. Still here, still fighting, still on the right side, still alive. Sammy has never given in, never will.
But Dean had. Sam is alive now, bringing him back was the one temptation Dean just didn't have it in him to resist. Dean would never be sorry. His eyes drift down to the scar, faded improbably almost to nothing. It’s a terrifying scar, big, and crossing the spine in that horrible, fatal way, but it looks old, like Sam’s had it a lifetime. Dean can't touch it though. He's already healed it the only way he knows how.
Dean finishes off the backrub, running his fingers up Sammy's neck and up on into his scalp. He gives him a rough pat on the shoulder and gets off him, pulls up the cheap motel comforter and the thin acrylic blanket so Sam won't have to move now that he’s so relaxed.
“Next time don’t get shot. Or strangled, if you can avoid it. Which I doubt,” Dean murmurs through the shadow of a grin.
“Next time don’t shoot me,” Sam grumbles, then adds a bit hazily, “Thanks, Dean.”
“Sure thing,” Dean returns, and goes on over to his own bed, makes sure his knife is ready there under the pillow, but his eyes won't close. His eyes are on his brother, relaxed now, almost asleep. Dean just wants to take care of Sammy for always. But that’s not in the cards. Sammy will try to save him; Dean, bound by the deal, will try to stop him. They’ll fight, to keep Sam safe, till Dean is gone, and Sam will have no one to take care of him but himself.
Dean feels an ache settle in between his shoulders as he wills his eyes closed and tries to sleep.
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Date: 2008-01-20 06:41 pm (UTC)Glad you liked it!