SPN fic: He's Not Heavy
Jul. 27th, 2008 03:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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lindahoyland a Supernatural fic since sometime in January. Well, I'm a little late, but I haven't forgot and here it is.
Title: He's Not Heavy (He's My Brother)
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG-13 (mild language)
Genre: Gen
Spoilers: set early to mid season one, so possible spoilers up to that point
Word count: 1039
Prompt: Supernatural please if you feel like it with lots of brotherly angst. Sam is in danger/gets hurt and Dean agonizes/cares for him.
Disclaimer: I own nothing related to Supernatural and make no profit from this.
Betaed byeve11, who made it a much more readable story. Any remaining faults are mine.
He's Not Heavy (He's My Brother)
The gash on Sam’s arm is long but not deep and he takes a minute to dig out the first aid kit and wrap some gauze and a strip of bandaging around it. It wouldn’t do for the long haul, but it’ll keep the wound covered ‘til they find a place to stop. Probably in a few hours, far from this quiet little town that won’t be so quiet in the morning, when the news of desecrated graves hits the airwaves. No one will ever know it was a revenant disturbing their town until he and Dean put an end to her. He’s gotten used to that though, and folds his long frame into the car wearily but without regret. Wordlessly accepting the ibuprofen and bottle of water Dean hands him, he downs two pills and leans his head on the back of the seat. It’s been a hell of a night and he’s done for a while.
Sam doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep until Dean shakes him awake. “Dude, you’re too big to carry, so either get your ass out of the car, or sleep here.”
Squinting against the overhead lights of a motel parking lot, indistinguishable from hundreds of similar lots he’s seen, Sam considers doing as Dean suggested and just staying right here. The idea holds a certain appeal and God knows it wouldn’t be the first time either of them had slept in the car. He’s still trying to convince himself that it’s a stupid idea and he should really move, when Dean gets fed up with waiting. “Jesus, Sam. Do you have brain damage or something? You’re not sleeping in the freakin’ car.” There’s a moment of quiet and then Dean asks, more seriously, “Did you hit your head?” Suddenly he’s probing Sam’s head, fingers brushing through his hair in search of a bump.
“I’m fine,” Sam mumbles, shoving his brother’s hand away from his head. Truth be told, he’d done a header into a tree early in the fight, hard enough to double his vision for a minute or three, but he’d shaken it off, and in the adrenaline of kill or be killed, he’d forgotten about it. Now that Dean has reminded him, he’s aware of a slowly growing throb at the back of his head, adding to all the other aches and pains he’d barely noticed until now.
He closes his eyes, just for a moment, and is startled when a hand clamps around his good arm. Forcing his eyes open again, he stares up at Dean, confused. Before he can protest, his arm is slung over Dean’s shoulder and he’s being hoisted out of the car and upright. Once on his feet, he scowls and steps away from his brother. “I’m fine,” he repeats, more firmly this time, trying to convince himself as much as Dean. “Just, you know, half asleep still.”
“Mm hm,” Dean agrees skeptically, but he moves back, giving Sam room. Grateful, Sam grabs his bag from the trunk and follows Dean into an anonymous room. It’s bland and beige, with generic prints of hunting dogs and scenic hillsides hanging above the beds, a hint of staleness in the air. The room gives no indication of where they are, and Sam is too tired to ask. Instead, he drops his bag next to one of the beds, and drops himself onto the bed. After a moment of blankness, he thinks he should probably take his boots off, and only realizes he’s said it out loud when Dean snorts and agrees. “Here, let me. You’ll only fall off the bed and make things even worse.”
Sam looks up in time to see the role of big brother settling onto Dean like a well-worn jacket. He kneels in front of Sam and starts picking at the tangled knots in his laces. Groaning in defeat, Sam flops backwards onto the mattress, mostly biting back a whimper of pain when the move jars both his head and his arm. He feels a tugging as his boots are removed and then Dean reappears in his line of sight, looking a bit tight about the eyes. “Enough, Sam. You’ve never been able to pull off stoic and you’re sucking at it a lot, right now. So screw ‘I’m fine’ and tell me where you’re hurt.”
“Just my arm,” Sam mutters his defiance, but the weight of Dean’s disbelieving glare is too heavy and he adds, “and my head,” almost under his breath. Dean disappears again and Sam sighs out his weariness, turning his head to avoid the harsh overhead light.
Warm fingers touch his scalp, startling him, and he thinks about telling Dean to leave it alone, but that seems to require far more energy than he has, at the moment. Dean is quiet as he searches for the bump he now knows is there, and when he finds it, his fingers go gentle before pulling away. A moment later something shockingly cold is pressed against the hurt, waking Sam a bit. “Don’t,” he mumbles, not entirely sure what he’s protesting, but it doesn’t matter, because Dean ignores him.
“I don’t think you need stitches,” Dean says, and after a moment Sam realizes Dean has moved on to the cut on his arm. “But I need to clean it out. It’s gonna hurt like a bitch.” He pauses and waits until Sam meets his eyes. “You ready?”
Sam nods and Dean’s right. It does hurt exactly like a bitch. He clenches his jaw and keeps quiet by dint of sheer willpower, when all he wants to do is hurl invective like spears at his brother’s head. Dean’s touch is sure and practiced, however, and he’s soon done, rewrapping the wound in fresh bandages. Sam is done, too. He barely notices when Dean nudges at him, shifting him about until his head is on the pillows, and he only distantly feels the warmth of a blanket settling on his shoulders. He frowns slightly, just awake enough to realize that he’s still lying on top of his own blankets. He stirs, trying to wake up, to return the blanket, to be the good brother, but “Sleep, Sammy,” Dean orders, and unable to refuse, Sam does.
lindahoyland a Supernatural fic since sometime in January. Well, I'm a little late, but I haven't forgot and here it is.Title: He's Not Heavy (He's My Brother)
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG-13 (mild language)
Genre: Gen
Spoilers: set early to mid season one, so possible spoilers up to that point
Word count: 1039
Prompt: Supernatural please if you feel like it with lots of brotherly angst. Sam is in danger/gets hurt and Dean agonizes/cares for him.
Disclaimer: I own nothing related to Supernatural and make no profit from this.
Betaed by
eve11, who made it a much more readable story. Any remaining faults are mine.He's Not Heavy (He's My Brother)
The gash on Sam’s arm is long but not deep and he takes a minute to dig out the first aid kit and wrap some gauze and a strip of bandaging around it. It wouldn’t do for the long haul, but it’ll keep the wound covered ‘til they find a place to stop. Probably in a few hours, far from this quiet little town that won’t be so quiet in the morning, when the news of desecrated graves hits the airwaves. No one will ever know it was a revenant disturbing their town until he and Dean put an end to her. He’s gotten used to that though, and folds his long frame into the car wearily but without regret. Wordlessly accepting the ibuprofen and bottle of water Dean hands him, he downs two pills and leans his head on the back of the seat. It’s been a hell of a night and he’s done for a while.
Sam doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep until Dean shakes him awake. “Dude, you’re too big to carry, so either get your ass out of the car, or sleep here.”
Squinting against the overhead lights of a motel parking lot, indistinguishable from hundreds of similar lots he’s seen, Sam considers doing as Dean suggested and just staying right here. The idea holds a certain appeal and God knows it wouldn’t be the first time either of them had slept in the car. He’s still trying to convince himself that it’s a stupid idea and he should really move, when Dean gets fed up with waiting. “Jesus, Sam. Do you have brain damage or something? You’re not sleeping in the freakin’ car.” There’s a moment of quiet and then Dean asks, more seriously, “Did you hit your head?” Suddenly he’s probing Sam’s head, fingers brushing through his hair in search of a bump.
“I’m fine,” Sam mumbles, shoving his brother’s hand away from his head. Truth be told, he’d done a header into a tree early in the fight, hard enough to double his vision for a minute or three, but he’d shaken it off, and in the adrenaline of kill or be killed, he’d forgotten about it. Now that Dean has reminded him, he’s aware of a slowly growing throb at the back of his head, adding to all the other aches and pains he’d barely noticed until now.
He closes his eyes, just for a moment, and is startled when a hand clamps around his good arm. Forcing his eyes open again, he stares up at Dean, confused. Before he can protest, his arm is slung over Dean’s shoulder and he’s being hoisted out of the car and upright. Once on his feet, he scowls and steps away from his brother. “I’m fine,” he repeats, more firmly this time, trying to convince himself as much as Dean. “Just, you know, half asleep still.”
“Mm hm,” Dean agrees skeptically, but he moves back, giving Sam room. Grateful, Sam grabs his bag from the trunk and follows Dean into an anonymous room. It’s bland and beige, with generic prints of hunting dogs and scenic hillsides hanging above the beds, a hint of staleness in the air. The room gives no indication of where they are, and Sam is too tired to ask. Instead, he drops his bag next to one of the beds, and drops himself onto the bed. After a moment of blankness, he thinks he should probably take his boots off, and only realizes he’s said it out loud when Dean snorts and agrees. “Here, let me. You’ll only fall off the bed and make things even worse.”
Sam looks up in time to see the role of big brother settling onto Dean like a well-worn jacket. He kneels in front of Sam and starts picking at the tangled knots in his laces. Groaning in defeat, Sam flops backwards onto the mattress, mostly biting back a whimper of pain when the move jars both his head and his arm. He feels a tugging as his boots are removed and then Dean reappears in his line of sight, looking a bit tight about the eyes. “Enough, Sam. You’ve never been able to pull off stoic and you’re sucking at it a lot, right now. So screw ‘I’m fine’ and tell me where you’re hurt.”
“Just my arm,” Sam mutters his defiance, but the weight of Dean’s disbelieving glare is too heavy and he adds, “and my head,” almost under his breath. Dean disappears again and Sam sighs out his weariness, turning his head to avoid the harsh overhead light.
Warm fingers touch his scalp, startling him, and he thinks about telling Dean to leave it alone, but that seems to require far more energy than he has, at the moment. Dean is quiet as he searches for the bump he now knows is there, and when he finds it, his fingers go gentle before pulling away. A moment later something shockingly cold is pressed against the hurt, waking Sam a bit. “Don’t,” he mumbles, not entirely sure what he’s protesting, but it doesn’t matter, because Dean ignores him.
“I don’t think you need stitches,” Dean says, and after a moment Sam realizes Dean has moved on to the cut on his arm. “But I need to clean it out. It’s gonna hurt like a bitch.” He pauses and waits until Sam meets his eyes. “You ready?”
Sam nods and Dean’s right. It does hurt exactly like a bitch. He clenches his jaw and keeps quiet by dint of sheer willpower, when all he wants to do is hurl invective like spears at his brother’s head. Dean’s touch is sure and practiced, however, and he’s soon done, rewrapping the wound in fresh bandages. Sam is done, too. He barely notices when Dean nudges at him, shifting him about until his head is on the pillows, and he only distantly feels the warmth of a blanket settling on his shoulders. He frowns slightly, just awake enough to realize that he’s still lying on top of his own blankets. He stirs, trying to wake up, to return the blanket, to be the good brother, but “Sleep, Sammy,” Dean orders, and unable to refuse, Sam does.
