SPN - Starving
Title: Starving
Fandom: SPN
By: bythedamned
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1000
Genre: Gen
Warnings: fluff and mentions of torture
Spoilers: Up to an including 6x12
Disclaimer: Not mine, none of it, all characters belong to Kripke and the CW.
Summary: Did anyone else think that when Sam says he's starving in 6x12, Dean looked like he was about to break out his very best Sammy-grin? Sam's back, he's hungry, and Dean's ready to celebrate.
A/N: Love to elveys_stuff for betaing, and for pointing out the ever present robo-crinkle in the first place.
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Cas is fine, Sam - are you okay?
Actually, um, I'm starving.
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He's starving. Lucifer probably eviscerated him on a daily basis just to fuck his innards, there's nothing but a flimsy rice-paper divide between him and the shattered bits of his soul that could sheer his sanity off in a mere blink, and Sam's biggest concern is that he's hungry. Starving. It comes as a shock, actually. Dean can't believe installing Sam's refurbished soul didn't also give him a forked tongue, or black eyes. Or schizophrenia. Even if the reprieve is only temporary, even if this is the first and last day in a year and a half that Sam's going to actually be his brother, it's worth it. Because he's here, all monkey arms and relieved smiles, fucking happy just to be alive, and he's starving.
Dean thinks that might just be the greatest thing he's ever heard.
Bobby makes Sam a sandwich, because Dean can't stop staring like a broken cat-clock, fingers twitching back and forth for some way to confirm, to feel, that Sam’s really whole again. Bobby also cuts the bread on a diagonal, for who-knows-why, and the halves are dwarfed in Sam's hands. He gets his mouth around as much meat and mayo as he can, and takes his time savoring it. There isn't even any lettuce, Bobby's usually more about spicy canned foods this time of year, but Sam chews with his eyes closed like anything less that his full attention is an outright sin. He inhales the first sandwich and most of another before he can even begin to start asking questions and, even then, he won't put the crusts down. He seems unwilling to detour away from eating, to let food fall to the wayside as less important than this conversation, because nothing is less important. Even as he works himself up, running Dean through a half-hearted interrogation that he gives up all too quickly in favor of just trusting his big brother, the sandwich is poised halfway to his mouth.
He gets to the very last bite before he looks at it, contemplating or very possibly communing with it, and finally holds it out to Dean.
"Here. You gotta try this."
Dean laughs, because he can. "That's alright, Sam. I've had about as much of Bobby's cookin' as I can handle."
"Hey," Bobby grunts from his watchdog post by the counter, cranky and harmless.
"No," Sam insists, eyes wide and earnest in a way that triggers parts of Dean's memory he'd considered long-buried. "Really. He's giving me the good stuff cuz I just got jail-breaked, but you have to try this."
It's like kindergarten all over again. Watching Sam learn how to articulate actual feelings, learn how to share. They'd even covered the hugging part. Throw in a picture book for Sam to practice his alphabet on after they crawl into bed, and it really will be just like when Sam was four. Except back then, that eager-to-please look was a constant on Sam, and not such a huge fucking relief.
"Really." Dean waves a hand through the air. "I'm good."
Sam finally relents, popping everything that's left into his mouth with one finger, which he cleans off with a satisfying suck before even chewing the rest. His eyes fall shut again, face slack and peaceful, and he settles back against the wooden slats of the chair. He really takes his time, tonguing behind his teeth to get any last scraps and washing it all down with another half a beer, at least. But when he looks up, still excited and unfettered by the shaggy hair falling in his face, he asks, "Is there more?"
Bobby brings him a huge hunk of cobbler he got at a bake sale - Dean's not going to ask - and Sam takes his time teasing apart each sugary crumble, cutting the soft fruit with the edge of his fork into several pieces just so it will last and last and last. He licks the syrup from the tines in a way that's practically obscene. If Dean were the fork he'd be moaning - if he were a woman he'd be jealous.
"Jesus," Sam groans, "I forgot how good food can be."
That's because, Dean knows, the only food in Hell squirms on the way down and tends to slice when it crawls back up later, but that doesn't even make the top ten on the list of things he'll never let Sam know. The sustenance sliding down his throat now is pain-free, and he wants it to replace all the memories of anything else Lucifer might have ever shoved past Sam's unconsenting tongue.
Later, as Sam falls onto the mattress, he curls one massive hand across his stomach and that little crinkle of his forehead makes a reappearance. Only this time he's not making up blatant lies or excuses, or wondering why the hell Dean's so pissed he forgot to check for a pulse before he torched the corpse some demon had been wearing. He's just confused, dismayed, wondering how his precious food could betray him so.
The crinkle deepens. "I think I ate too much."
"Yeah," Dean says, pulling off Sam's shoes without bothering over the laces. "Thought you might." He just hadn't been able to step between a man and his long lost love, turkey on white.
"Dean?" His eyes stay shut, even as he rolls his head towards the side Dean's standing on.
"Yeah?"
"I don't think they let me sleep, in the pit."
"Don't matter, Sammy," he says, unfurling an extra blanket over Sam, because the covers pinned under Sam are now pinned there for good. "You can sleep here."
Because Sam, this Sam, can. This Sam still gets sleepy when his stomach is full, still leans his whole weight easily against Dean as he helps him up the stairs to a real bed, and still believes Dean when he says they're gonna be fine, Sammy, just fine.
No, not still. Again.
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