Of Age and Wisdom, [PG-13] 4/10, Sam, Dean
Title: Of Age and Wisdom
Author:deanie_mcqueen
Rating:PG-13
Genre: Humor, Hurt/Comfort
Characters: Sam, Dean
Total Word Count: 11, 551
Spoilers/Warnings: N/A
Summary: Sam suddenly finds himself afraid of little old ladies. Dean does his best to see his baby brother through this odd phobia.
Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10
________________________
"This is ridiculous, Dean." Sam grumbled as he folded his legs into the Impala. It was early enough that the world was quieter than normal; the sun was just a promising glow on the horizon, and Dean's eyes were still slanted and small from sleep. "I really don't think it's necessary."
Dean shook his head. "You have a phobia," he said, far too cheery considering the hour. "It's in some unwritten brotherly code that I have to help you overcome it." He smiled at Sam's groan, and reached over to pat his brother's shoulder. "If it's not necessary, then it won't take long. We'll just grab some donuts and scope out some wrinkles."
Wrinkles. Sam couldn't keep himself from shivering. He didn't look over to see if Dean had noticed, just pretended to wipe away a smudge on his window. After all, Sam might not be able to control his phobia, but he could control oil-levels on glass. Smudges and stains of any nature rarely lasted in the younger Winchester's presence.
"On we go, then," Dean said for no reason at all, and let the Impala lurch out of the parking spot.
Sam let the rumble of the engine rattle his bones and calm his mind. The bumps of the road were their own kind of lullaby, and Sam did his best to think positive thoughts about the upcoming experience. His phobia was ridiculous and embarrassing; Sam visualized himself conquering it, walking into the store and buying a sugar-laden donut with his head held high. Old ladies were nothing to fear.
"Thinking big thoughts, I can tell." Dean interrupted Sam's musings, thumbs tapping out whatever rock was playing softly from the speakers. "Planning on sharing?"
"Nothing to share," Sam said, looking over at his brother. He raised his voice when Dean only raised his eyebrows. "Nothing, okay? So I have a little problem. We're going to do this-" Sam flapped his hand in the general direction of the windshield, "-and I'll be fine. I can handle a stupid grocery store, Dean."
"Can you?" Dean asked, and Sam didn't bother to hide his doubt.
________________________________________
The store was far too bright.
Sam blinked as they walked in, eyes watering at the glare from the white floors and walls. Some kind of greeter chirped a happy hello and offered them a cart, which made Sam inexplicably irked. He didn't want to be here, surrounded by discounted Teddy Grahams and colorful fruit. His shoes squeaked as he followed Dean to the bakery, hands fumbling at lint in his pockets.
"Jelly, no jelly?" Dean poked him in the ribs when they stood in front of the donut rack. Sugar and sprinkles of all kinds glared at them through the plastic doors, and Sam found that he didn't really have an opinion.
"Get whatever," he said, and immediately stiffened when he heard a voice asking for prunes. An old voice asking for prunes.
Dean instantly noticed, putting a calming hand on Sam's back. "S'all right," he whispered, and thumped Sam firmly between his shoulder blades. "Just pretend she's on her way to get Botox or some shit. Pretend the wrinkles are temporary."
I can't, Sam wanted to spit, because why didn't Dean understand? He couldn't do anything in such a state; he could already feel his lungs filling up with fear, making it hard to breathe. His fingers tingled and his skin crawled and it was only because of a voice.
He felt pathetic and small.
Torn between terror and embarrassment, Sam gathered all of his courage and leaned back into Dean's hand, seeking comfort. He let his mind take him out of the grocery store and away from the elderly vocal chords and tried to recall the time he'd gotten chickenpox. It was all Reggie's fault; Sam took a sip of his apple juice even though Reggie had a runny nose because the other boy had promised he was fine. Two days later and they were both at their respective homes, itching and moaning for relief. Dean had given Sam an oatmeal bath and rubbed his little boy feet through his socks and even though Sam was in terrible discomfort, he had found faith in his brother's care. He knew Dean would make him well, and he summoned up that assurance as best he could in the grocery store. Dean would set things right.
"Look at you," Dean said proudly, snapping Sam out of his thoughts, "Already breathing better."
"I am?" Sam already knew the answer, but he craved additional confirmation. He liked hearing Dean's pride, especially when it was directed at him.
"Sure are," Dean confirmed, and quirked up a small smile. "Like a champ."
A champ! Sam tried not to preen, hearing such a thing. It was hard, though, as hearing Dean's praise filled him with boyish glee. Sam decided he wanted to earn such a wonderful title, and in a brash move, turned in the direction of the voice.
His heart nearly stopped in his chest from fear, but he soldiered on. Sam swallowed spit and met the gaze of an elderly woman in Crocs head-on, only letting out the smallest of whimpers when she raised her hand in a wave.
"Doing great," Dean encouraged, voice near Sam's ear. "Botox. Remember Botox."
Sam swallowed again. No amount of muscle immobilization would aid the elderly woman before him-her wrinkles were too deep and too grand-but he let Dean's confidence wash through his body, forcing his lungs to expand and contract. He could breathe. He just needed to keep telling himself he could breathe. There was nothing sinister about wrinkles or old ladies and he was a fool for letting this phobia take control.
It was still hard, but Sam forced himself to turn back to the donuts, ignoring the voice in his head that screamed about the dangers of lowered defenses. Purposefully calm, Sam picked out a nice, small donut from the back of a tray.
Dean already had a bag out and ready when Sam started to look, and so he dropped the donut in on top of Dean's and let out a big breath. He'd done it.
"Good job," Dean said, rolling up the bag. "You've done great, dude, but I think we should stay for a few more minutes. Push it a little."
Sam did not entirely approve of this plan, but he knew it was for the best. "Okay," he said, and with a determined nod of his head, set off towards the bananas and an elderly gentleman with a cane and a patchwork hat.
Some spunky cashier's voice rang out on the loudspeaker, asking for a price check. Sam clung to the normalcy of that as he moved closer to the old man, fighting the urge to plug his nose when he smelled the stale scent of the other man's clothes.
The old man was mumbling to himself (something to do about the price of oranges and leather), which Sam found rather disturbing. Standing next to the man was easier than looking at the woman, but Sam knew his issue was tied to old women, specifically. This made sense. Still, it was a confidence builder to stand so close to someone who had seen so many days. Sam let his hands roam over various fruits, enjoying the textures on his fingers. It was almost calming.
"Ready to go?" Dean had stayed by the donuts, but he walked over now, proud smile still in place. "I think that's enough for now."
"Yeah." Sam was definitely ready to go. He was proud of himself, but he was reaching the end of his summoned calm. A whole hoard of old ladies had just hobbled into the store, obviously eager to take advantage of the half-price peaches. Sam spied canes and walkers and even a wheelchair; such instruments were too easily re-imagined as weapons, and signaled the end of their visit.
Nevertheless, Sam walked back to the Impala with a new outlook. Maybe he was actually getting somewhere. He'd test it further soon, but for now he was content to munch on his treat with his brother at his side.
He felt like a champion.
Author:deanie_mcqueen
Rating:PG-13
Genre: Humor, Hurt/Comfort
Characters: Sam, Dean
Total Word Count: 11, 551
Spoilers/Warnings: N/A
Summary: Sam suddenly finds himself afraid of little old ladies. Dean does his best to see his baby brother through this odd phobia.
Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10
________________________
"This is ridiculous, Dean." Sam grumbled as he folded his legs into the Impala. It was early enough that the world was quieter than normal; the sun was just a promising glow on the horizon, and Dean's eyes were still slanted and small from sleep. "I really don't think it's necessary."
Dean shook his head. "You have a phobia," he said, far too cheery considering the hour. "It's in some unwritten brotherly code that I have to help you overcome it." He smiled at Sam's groan, and reached over to pat his brother's shoulder. "If it's not necessary, then it won't take long. We'll just grab some donuts and scope out some wrinkles."
Wrinkles. Sam couldn't keep himself from shivering. He didn't look over to see if Dean had noticed, just pretended to wipe away a smudge on his window. After all, Sam might not be able to control his phobia, but he could control oil-levels on glass. Smudges and stains of any nature rarely lasted in the younger Winchester's presence.
"On we go, then," Dean said for no reason at all, and let the Impala lurch out of the parking spot.
Sam let the rumble of the engine rattle his bones and calm his mind. The bumps of the road were their own kind of lullaby, and Sam did his best to think positive thoughts about the upcoming experience. His phobia was ridiculous and embarrassing; Sam visualized himself conquering it, walking into the store and buying a sugar-laden donut with his head held high. Old ladies were nothing to fear.
"Thinking big thoughts, I can tell." Dean interrupted Sam's musings, thumbs tapping out whatever rock was playing softly from the speakers. "Planning on sharing?"
"Nothing to share," Sam said, looking over at his brother. He raised his voice when Dean only raised his eyebrows. "Nothing, okay? So I have a little problem. We're going to do this-" Sam flapped his hand in the general direction of the windshield, "-and I'll be fine. I can handle a stupid grocery store, Dean."
"Can you?" Dean asked, and Sam didn't bother to hide his doubt.
________________________________________
The store was far too bright.
Sam blinked as they walked in, eyes watering at the glare from the white floors and walls. Some kind of greeter chirped a happy hello and offered them a cart, which made Sam inexplicably irked. He didn't want to be here, surrounded by discounted Teddy Grahams and colorful fruit. His shoes squeaked as he followed Dean to the bakery, hands fumbling at lint in his pockets.
"Jelly, no jelly?" Dean poked him in the ribs when they stood in front of the donut rack. Sugar and sprinkles of all kinds glared at them through the plastic doors, and Sam found that he didn't really have an opinion.
"Get whatever," he said, and immediately stiffened when he heard a voice asking for prunes. An old voice asking for prunes.
Dean instantly noticed, putting a calming hand on Sam's back. "S'all right," he whispered, and thumped Sam firmly between his shoulder blades. "Just pretend she's on her way to get Botox or some shit. Pretend the wrinkles are temporary."
I can't, Sam wanted to spit, because why didn't Dean understand? He couldn't do anything in such a state; he could already feel his lungs filling up with fear, making it hard to breathe. His fingers tingled and his skin crawled and it was only because of a voice.
He felt pathetic and small.
Torn between terror and embarrassment, Sam gathered all of his courage and leaned back into Dean's hand, seeking comfort. He let his mind take him out of the grocery store and away from the elderly vocal chords and tried to recall the time he'd gotten chickenpox. It was all Reggie's fault; Sam took a sip of his apple juice even though Reggie had a runny nose because the other boy had promised he was fine. Two days later and they were both at their respective homes, itching and moaning for relief. Dean had given Sam an oatmeal bath and rubbed his little boy feet through his socks and even though Sam was in terrible discomfort, he had found faith in his brother's care. He knew Dean would make him well, and he summoned up that assurance as best he could in the grocery store. Dean would set things right.
"Look at you," Dean said proudly, snapping Sam out of his thoughts, "Already breathing better."
"I am?" Sam already knew the answer, but he craved additional confirmation. He liked hearing Dean's pride, especially when it was directed at him.
"Sure are," Dean confirmed, and quirked up a small smile. "Like a champ."
A champ! Sam tried not to preen, hearing such a thing. It was hard, though, as hearing Dean's praise filled him with boyish glee. Sam decided he wanted to earn such a wonderful title, and in a brash move, turned in the direction of the voice.
His heart nearly stopped in his chest from fear, but he soldiered on. Sam swallowed spit and met the gaze of an elderly woman in Crocs head-on, only letting out the smallest of whimpers when she raised her hand in a wave.
"Doing great," Dean encouraged, voice near Sam's ear. "Botox. Remember Botox."
Sam swallowed again. No amount of muscle immobilization would aid the elderly woman before him-her wrinkles were too deep and too grand-but he let Dean's confidence wash through his body, forcing his lungs to expand and contract. He could breathe. He just needed to keep telling himself he could breathe. There was nothing sinister about wrinkles or old ladies and he was a fool for letting this phobia take control.
It was still hard, but Sam forced himself to turn back to the donuts, ignoring the voice in his head that screamed about the dangers of lowered defenses. Purposefully calm, Sam picked out a nice, small donut from the back of a tray.
Dean already had a bag out and ready when Sam started to look, and so he dropped the donut in on top of Dean's and let out a big breath. He'd done it.
"Good job," Dean said, rolling up the bag. "You've done great, dude, but I think we should stay for a few more minutes. Push it a little."
Sam did not entirely approve of this plan, but he knew it was for the best. "Okay," he said, and with a determined nod of his head, set off towards the bananas and an elderly gentleman with a cane and a patchwork hat.
Some spunky cashier's voice rang out on the loudspeaker, asking for a price check. Sam clung to the normalcy of that as he moved closer to the old man, fighting the urge to plug his nose when he smelled the stale scent of the other man's clothes.
The old man was mumbling to himself (something to do about the price of oranges and leather), which Sam found rather disturbing. Standing next to the man was easier than looking at the woman, but Sam knew his issue was tied to old women, specifically. This made sense. Still, it was a confidence builder to stand so close to someone who had seen so many days. Sam let his hands roam over various fruits, enjoying the textures on his fingers. It was almost calming.
"Ready to go?" Dean had stayed by the donuts, but he walked over now, proud smile still in place. "I think that's enough for now."
"Yeah." Sam was definitely ready to go. He was proud of himself, but he was reaching the end of his summoned calm. A whole hoard of old ladies had just hobbled into the store, obviously eager to take advantage of the half-price peaches. Sam spied canes and walkers and even a wheelchair; such instruments were too easily re-imagined as weapons, and signaled the end of their visit.
Nevertheless, Sam walked back to the Impala with a new outlook. Maybe he was actually getting somewhere. He'd test it further soon, but for now he was content to munch on his treat with his brother at his side.
He felt like a champion.