FIC: Burn (Sam, Dean, PG-13)
Burn
Sam, Dean, PG-13, 1,865 words
Written for the First Time for Everything Chart Challenge at spn_challenges.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, and all characters depicted within are copyright The CW. No offense or copyright infringement is intended.
Sam gets his first drink at twelve years old, going ninety down a two-lane highway in the Middle-of-Nowhere, South Dakota. There's snot and blood and tears all over his face, and his leg hurts like a sonuvabitch, which he says out loud, and expects to hear "Sam, language!" but Dad doesn't say anything at all. Dean is freaking out and trying to pretend he's not, his hands wrapped tight around Sam's skinny thigh, trying to keep pressure on the wound. Sam is leaning against Dean's chest, a little frightened because he can't remember what happened or why he's bleeding. He hears Dad say something to Dean, but he can't make out words around the buzzing in his ears.
Dean's nodding, his chin bumping the top of Sam's head, and he says, "Hold on, Sammy, just a minute, let me ..." and his voice is warm and reassuring in Sam's ear. He's groping under the front seat for something, and comes back with a bottle of Dad's Jack. He puts the cap in his mouth and twists it off with his teeth and one hand, and then presses the bottle to Sam's mouth.
"Drink," he says, tipping the bottle up, and the glass is cold and hard against Sam's lips.
He drinks, not sure what to expect, but whatever he expects it's not the burning down his throat and sinuses, and he coughs. Dean pulls the bottle away immediately, leans his chin against Sam's shoulder and tells Sam to breathe.
"It'll get better," he says. "It'll be better, soon. Dad's gonna stitch you up, and you'll be okay, you'll see, Sammy, you'll ..."
"Give him some more, Dean. Slowly." Dad's voice from the front seat, and Sam knows that tight tone from every time Dean's ever come home hurt from a hunt. It scares him more than anything else, because every time Dad uses that tone, Sam thinks Dean is going to die.
"I need you to drink a little more, Sammy," Dean says. His hand only shakes a little as he presses the bottle to Sam's lips again, and Sam licks his lips and tastes the burn on the mouth of the bottle. "Nice and easy," Dean whispers, tipping the bottle up, more slowly this time. A little trickle slips past Sam's lips and down his throat, and it still burns, but he's prepared for it this time. He swallows dutifully and only chokes a little.
"Atta boy," Dean says, and wedges the bottle between himself and the seat so he can switch the hand holding Sam's leg. Sam whimpers, because the change in pressure makes the pain bloom into something sharp and immediate, but then Dean's big hand is clamping down again and things fade back to a dull throbbing.
"Okay, Sammy?" Dean asks, and when Sam shakes his head no, no, not okay, he presses a kiss to Sam's forehead.
Sam feels something damp against his temple, but it takes him a moment to work out the fact that Dean is crying. Dean is sixteen, and he's brave, and he doesn't cry, not ever, or at least not since he was thirteen and broke his arm in four places. Sam doesn't understand, because he doesn't think Dean's hurt, but then maybe he is, and he's being brave so that Sam won't be scared. Sam wishes he was as brave as Dean, wishes that he weren't piss-in-his-pants scared just from a little blood and pain.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, and that's when Dean's silent tears turn into to full-on sobs. He's still quiet about it, quiet enough that Dad doesn't say anything from the front seat, but his tears are hot and wet on the back of Sam's neck and his body is shaking with the force of it.
"Dad, I think Dean's hurt," Sam says in a small voice.
At first he doesn't think Dad hears him, but then he sees the sharp eyes in the rearview mirror and Dad asks, "Dean?"
Dean's head snaps up and he wipes hurriedly at his face with his free hand, smearing Sam's blood on his cheeks in the process. He shakes his head violently, but when he speaks his voice is still clogged with tears. "I'm not ...I'm fine, Dad. It's just ..." his voice hitches, but he shakes his head again. "Are we there yet?" Sam feels like he's missing something huge and obvious, but he can't figure it out, and his leg hurts.
"Almost, son. Sam, how're you doing?"
It hurts sounds stupid and childish in Sam's head, so he says, "Okay," and prides himself that the tone is almost normal.
Ten minutes and three burning sips of whiskey later, Dad parks the car in front of their motel. Sam blacks out when they pick him up to carry him into the room, and wakes up propped against the headboard with Dean clutching his hand and Dad bending over his leg. They cut away his jeans, and there's blood everywhere, but Dean's hand is on his forehead smoothing his hair back and somehow it doesn't seem so bad. The stitches are the worst, because they don't have anything to numb it but ice, and he can feel every burning tug of the thread through his skin.
The whole process - cleaning, stitches, bandages - takes less than half an hour. Dad gives him half a Vicodin, and Sam's out almost before he hits the pillow.
---
Sam doesn't wake up til almost noon the next day. His leg is throbbing and his mouth feels like it's stuffed with cotton. Dean is sitting on the bed beside him, watching Jerry Springer on mute, but there's no sign of Dad.
"You're awake," Dean says brightly, when Sam rolls over to look at the clock. There are dark smudges under Dean's eyes, like he didn't get enough sleep, and he obviously hasn't taken a shower since last night, though he might have washed his face. There's still a smudge of dried blood by his hairline. "How're you feeling?"
Sam moves his tongue inside his mouth, and grimaces when it sticks to the roof. "Hurts," he manages, and swallows against the dryness. "Water?"
The word is barely out of his mouth, and Dean is reaching for the nightstand, where there's a glass of water waiting. He passes it to Sam, and then watches anxiously as he takes a few deep gulps. "Better?" Dean asks.
Sam manages a smile, though it feels stiff, like his face doesn't remember how to work. "Yeah," he says, and tries swallowing again, pleased to feel actual spit sliding down his throat. "Where's Dad?"
Dean shrugs. "Dunno. I only went to sleep for a couple hours, but when I woke up, he was gone." He doesn't seem concerned, though, so Sam doesn't worry. Dad will come back; he always comes back.
Dean takes the empty glass from Sam and sets it back on the nightstand. "I can get you more if you want. Or there's a Coke in the fridge."
"I"m good," Sam murmurs, lying back and closing his eyes again. He slept for almost twelve hours, but he still feels exhausted. He doesn't want to go back to sleep, though, so he pries his eyes back open and looks up at Dean. "What happened last night?"
Dean's jaw clenches, and he stares at the T.V., but Sam can tell he's not really watching it. He almost opens his mouth to tell Dean 'c'mon, stop ignoring me,' but then Dean speaks. "You got hurt," he says, and then his jaw clenches so tight that Sam can almost hear the teeth grinding.
"Duh," Sam says, a little mystified by Dean's behavior. He already knew that part. "I mean, what else? I don't remember much of what happened."
"It was a ghoul," Dean says shortly. "It hurt you, and then Dad killed it." 'End of story' his tone says, but Sam's still not satisfied.
"You didn't get hurt?"
"I didn't get near it!" Dean snaps, and finally turns furious eyes on Sam. Sam shrinks back against his pillow, clutching the bedsheets - not scared, but a little taken aback. "And you wouldn't have, either, if you'd stayed with me like Dad said! Why the hell do you always have ...do you always have to ..." Dean's voice cracks, his face contorting into a pained expression, and he looks like he can't decide whether he wants to punch Sam or hug him.
"Why were you crying?" Sam asks softly, because he somehow feels it's imperative that he knows.
That seems to knock all the anger right out of Dean, and he slumps against the headboard, refusing to meet Sam's eyes. "I was afraid," he whispers, and his voice hitches like he's going to start crying all over again.
Sam stares at Dean in a mixture of awe and confusion. "But you're not afraid of anything."
Dean is shaking his head, though, and he reaches out to touch Sam's cheek, and it's almost like he's reassuring himself that Sam's real. "There was so much blood, Sammy," he says, and then his voice breaks and he rolls over to bury his face in the curve of Sam's neck. Sam feels tears hot against his throat, and when Dean speaks again, his voice his muffled against Sam's skin. "I thought you were ...you were going to die."
Sam pats Dean's head, and then lets his hand rest on the back of Dean's neck, nervously petting the prickly hairs there. "I'm sorry," he murmurs. "I'm sorry I made you worry, but I'm alright, I didn't die, okay? I'm fine."
"I know," Dean mutters, and he shifts his body and slides down the bed so he can rest his head on Sam's shoulder. He sniffs; his eyes are all red and puffy, and his cheeks are wet.
Sam feels wretched. "I'm sorry," he says again, his voice so tiny that it's barely audible.
"You gotta promise me," Dean says, and then pauses. Stops and thinks for a minute, and then says, "You gotta promise me you won't get yourself killed. No more stupid stunts like that. You gotta promise."
"I promise," Sam says fervently.
Dean pushes up onto one elbow and regards him seriously. "You gotta mean it, Sammy. Do you mean it?"
Sam nods; he means it, he does, he hadn't meant to get himself gored and make Dean worry like that. "Yeah. Yeah, I do. I promise."
"Good," Dean says. He seems satisfied then, and other than blotchy cheeks and red eyes, looks almost normal again. He shifts up a little, and then lays down so that his head is crowding onto Sam's pillow, their shoulders pressed tight together and their temples brushing. Then he reaches for the remote, and turns up the volume on the T.V.
Sam sighs and closes his eyes. His leg still hurts, and he kind of wants to ask for another Vicodin, but then Dean would have to get up, and he doesn't want that. If he lies still with his eyes closed, he can focus Dean's breathing, the way he smells, the vibration of his laughter, and somehow everything else just seems less important.
end.
Sam, Dean, PG-13, 1,865 words
Written for the First Time for Everything Chart Challenge at spn_challenges.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, and all characters depicted within are copyright The CW. No offense or copyright infringement is intended.
Sam gets his first drink at twelve years old, going ninety down a two-lane highway in the Middle-of-Nowhere, South Dakota. There's snot and blood and tears all over his face, and his leg hurts like a sonuvabitch, which he says out loud, and expects to hear "Sam, language!" but Dad doesn't say anything at all. Dean is freaking out and trying to pretend he's not, his hands wrapped tight around Sam's skinny thigh, trying to keep pressure on the wound. Sam is leaning against Dean's chest, a little frightened because he can't remember what happened or why he's bleeding. He hears Dad say something to Dean, but he can't make out words around the buzzing in his ears.
Dean's nodding, his chin bumping the top of Sam's head, and he says, "Hold on, Sammy, just a minute, let me ..." and his voice is warm and reassuring in Sam's ear. He's groping under the front seat for something, and comes back with a bottle of Dad's Jack. He puts the cap in his mouth and twists it off with his teeth and one hand, and then presses the bottle to Sam's mouth.
"Drink," he says, tipping the bottle up, and the glass is cold and hard against Sam's lips.
He drinks, not sure what to expect, but whatever he expects it's not the burning down his throat and sinuses, and he coughs. Dean pulls the bottle away immediately, leans his chin against Sam's shoulder and tells Sam to breathe.
"It'll get better," he says. "It'll be better, soon. Dad's gonna stitch you up, and you'll be okay, you'll see, Sammy, you'll ..."
"Give him some more, Dean. Slowly." Dad's voice from the front seat, and Sam knows that tight tone from every time Dean's ever come home hurt from a hunt. It scares him more than anything else, because every time Dad uses that tone, Sam thinks Dean is going to die.
"I need you to drink a little more, Sammy," Dean says. His hand only shakes a little as he presses the bottle to Sam's lips again, and Sam licks his lips and tastes the burn on the mouth of the bottle. "Nice and easy," Dean whispers, tipping the bottle up, more slowly this time. A little trickle slips past Sam's lips and down his throat, and it still burns, but he's prepared for it this time. He swallows dutifully and only chokes a little.
"Atta boy," Dean says, and wedges the bottle between himself and the seat so he can switch the hand holding Sam's leg. Sam whimpers, because the change in pressure makes the pain bloom into something sharp and immediate, but then Dean's big hand is clamping down again and things fade back to a dull throbbing.
"Okay, Sammy?" Dean asks, and when Sam shakes his head no, no, not okay, he presses a kiss to Sam's forehead.
Sam feels something damp against his temple, but it takes him a moment to work out the fact that Dean is crying. Dean is sixteen, and he's brave, and he doesn't cry, not ever, or at least not since he was thirteen and broke his arm in four places. Sam doesn't understand, because he doesn't think Dean's hurt, but then maybe he is, and he's being brave so that Sam won't be scared. Sam wishes he was as brave as Dean, wishes that he weren't piss-in-his-pants scared just from a little blood and pain.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, and that's when Dean's silent tears turn into to full-on sobs. He's still quiet about it, quiet enough that Dad doesn't say anything from the front seat, but his tears are hot and wet on the back of Sam's neck and his body is shaking with the force of it.
"Dad, I think Dean's hurt," Sam says in a small voice.
At first he doesn't think Dad hears him, but then he sees the sharp eyes in the rearview mirror and Dad asks, "Dean?"
Dean's head snaps up and he wipes hurriedly at his face with his free hand, smearing Sam's blood on his cheeks in the process. He shakes his head violently, but when he speaks his voice is still clogged with tears. "I'm not ...I'm fine, Dad. It's just ..." his voice hitches, but he shakes his head again. "Are we there yet?" Sam feels like he's missing something huge and obvious, but he can't figure it out, and his leg hurts.
"Almost, son. Sam, how're you doing?"
It hurts sounds stupid and childish in Sam's head, so he says, "Okay," and prides himself that the tone is almost normal.
Ten minutes and three burning sips of whiskey later, Dad parks the car in front of their motel. Sam blacks out when they pick him up to carry him into the room, and wakes up propped against the headboard with Dean clutching his hand and Dad bending over his leg. They cut away his jeans, and there's blood everywhere, but Dean's hand is on his forehead smoothing his hair back and somehow it doesn't seem so bad. The stitches are the worst, because they don't have anything to numb it but ice, and he can feel every burning tug of the thread through his skin.
The whole process - cleaning, stitches, bandages - takes less than half an hour. Dad gives him half a Vicodin, and Sam's out almost before he hits the pillow.
---
Sam doesn't wake up til almost noon the next day. His leg is throbbing and his mouth feels like it's stuffed with cotton. Dean is sitting on the bed beside him, watching Jerry Springer on mute, but there's no sign of Dad.
"You're awake," Dean says brightly, when Sam rolls over to look at the clock. There are dark smudges under Dean's eyes, like he didn't get enough sleep, and he obviously hasn't taken a shower since last night, though he might have washed his face. There's still a smudge of dried blood by his hairline. "How're you feeling?"
Sam moves his tongue inside his mouth, and grimaces when it sticks to the roof. "Hurts," he manages, and swallows against the dryness. "Water?"
The word is barely out of his mouth, and Dean is reaching for the nightstand, where there's a glass of water waiting. He passes it to Sam, and then watches anxiously as he takes a few deep gulps. "Better?" Dean asks.
Sam manages a smile, though it feels stiff, like his face doesn't remember how to work. "Yeah," he says, and tries swallowing again, pleased to feel actual spit sliding down his throat. "Where's Dad?"
Dean shrugs. "Dunno. I only went to sleep for a couple hours, but when I woke up, he was gone." He doesn't seem concerned, though, so Sam doesn't worry. Dad will come back; he always comes back.
Dean takes the empty glass from Sam and sets it back on the nightstand. "I can get you more if you want. Or there's a Coke in the fridge."
"I"m good," Sam murmurs, lying back and closing his eyes again. He slept for almost twelve hours, but he still feels exhausted. He doesn't want to go back to sleep, though, so he pries his eyes back open and looks up at Dean. "What happened last night?"
Dean's jaw clenches, and he stares at the T.V., but Sam can tell he's not really watching it. He almost opens his mouth to tell Dean 'c'mon, stop ignoring me,' but then Dean speaks. "You got hurt," he says, and then his jaw clenches so tight that Sam can almost hear the teeth grinding.
"Duh," Sam says, a little mystified by Dean's behavior. He already knew that part. "I mean, what else? I don't remember much of what happened."
"It was a ghoul," Dean says shortly. "It hurt you, and then Dad killed it." 'End of story' his tone says, but Sam's still not satisfied.
"You didn't get hurt?"
"I didn't get near it!" Dean snaps, and finally turns furious eyes on Sam. Sam shrinks back against his pillow, clutching the bedsheets - not scared, but a little taken aback. "And you wouldn't have, either, if you'd stayed with me like Dad said! Why the hell do you always have ...do you always have to ..." Dean's voice cracks, his face contorting into a pained expression, and he looks like he can't decide whether he wants to punch Sam or hug him.
"Why were you crying?" Sam asks softly, because he somehow feels it's imperative that he knows.
That seems to knock all the anger right out of Dean, and he slumps against the headboard, refusing to meet Sam's eyes. "I was afraid," he whispers, and his voice hitches like he's going to start crying all over again.
Sam stares at Dean in a mixture of awe and confusion. "But you're not afraid of anything."
Dean is shaking his head, though, and he reaches out to touch Sam's cheek, and it's almost like he's reassuring himself that Sam's real. "There was so much blood, Sammy," he says, and then his voice breaks and he rolls over to bury his face in the curve of Sam's neck. Sam feels tears hot against his throat, and when Dean speaks again, his voice his muffled against Sam's skin. "I thought you were ...you were going to die."
Sam pats Dean's head, and then lets his hand rest on the back of Dean's neck, nervously petting the prickly hairs there. "I'm sorry," he murmurs. "I'm sorry I made you worry, but I'm alright, I didn't die, okay? I'm fine."
"I know," Dean mutters, and he shifts his body and slides down the bed so he can rest his head on Sam's shoulder. He sniffs; his eyes are all red and puffy, and his cheeks are wet.
Sam feels wretched. "I'm sorry," he says again, his voice so tiny that it's barely audible.
"You gotta promise me," Dean says, and then pauses. Stops and thinks for a minute, and then says, "You gotta promise me you won't get yourself killed. No more stupid stunts like that. You gotta promise."
"I promise," Sam says fervently.
Dean pushes up onto one elbow and regards him seriously. "You gotta mean it, Sammy. Do you mean it?"
Sam nods; he means it, he does, he hadn't meant to get himself gored and make Dean worry like that. "Yeah. Yeah, I do. I promise."
"Good," Dean says. He seems satisfied then, and other than blotchy cheeks and red eyes, looks almost normal again. He shifts up a little, and then lays down so that his head is crowding onto Sam's pillow, their shoulders pressed tight together and their temples brushing. Then he reaches for the remote, and turns up the volume on the T.V.
Sam sighs and closes his eyes. His leg still hurts, and he kind of wants to ask for another Vicodin, but then Dean would have to get up, and he doesn't want that. If he lies still with his eyes closed, he can focus Dean's breathing, the way he smells, the vibration of his laughter, and somehow everything else just seems less important.
end.