Of Age and Wisdom, [PG-13] 6/10, 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
_________________________
Kind boys do as they're told.
Kind boys don't ask questions.
You're a kind boy, aren't you, Samuel?
The words wouldn't leave him alone; they rang in his head and filled his lungs with all the fear he'd tried so hard to overcome these past few months. Everything was fuzzy and fog-like in his head, blurring away the logic that told him he could flee.
Sam didn't want to be where he was; he knew that much, but something was keeping him from truly attempting to escape. He longed to be outside where he could find the Impala and touch her leather seats and feel at home. This wasn't his home. He wanted to find his brother. Wanted Dean. He wasn't happy here, and with the last vestiges of his sanity Sam knew he was under some kind of spell.
A small spritz of water to his face knocked Sam out of his thoughts. He gasped a little when his vision refocused and he realized he'd been caught. Marcia was glaring up at him with fierce little eyes and her spray can. She was wearing a holiday sweater and beige slacks, Sam noted. It was August.
"Did I ask you to stop cleaning, Samuel?" Marcia's voice was something sickly sweet and poisonous. With her free hand, she pointed to the feather duster in Sam's hand, and then to the bookshelf he'd been working on. "My books still look dirty. What did I tell you about dirty books?"
"You don't like them," Sam mumbled, keeping his eye on the bottle in her hand. It was red and yellow and he couldn't squint, or it looked too much like a clown. Being punished by water spritzes was bad and humiliating enough, so Sam made sure to keep the container in focus.
"I don't like them," she repeated, nodding. Sam wondered if she was going to offer him another slice of watermelon as a reward. She'd cut one up earlier, brandishing a large and imposing knife that Sam shied away from. It was far too easy to imagine the poor fruit's skin as his own. "Too many thoughts are running through your head," she warned, and stepped closer to poke Sam in the ribs. "That doesn't please me."
"I'm sorry," Sam said, and meant it. He didn't want to upset Marcia; something told him bad things would come of it.
Marcia pulled and patted at the skin near his ribs like it was one of his cheeks. "You are," she replied, and it seemed like she believed him. "Now I'd like you to get back to work. After the bookshelf, I'd like you to polish my silver. And then perhaps we'll have lunch, hmm?" She didn't bother to wait for a reply, merely hobbled back to the sofa and picked up her embroidery. Sam had spied it earlier when he'd fluffled the pillows; it was a fiercely ugly depiction of two rabbits destroying a field of black flowers.
Remembering why he'd been punished moments before, Sam turned back to his dusting. There were all sorts of books on the shelves, and it was one of the strangest collections Sam had ever seen. Books on home gardening were sandwiched between titles like Wildebeast Anatomy: An Illustrated Guide, and The Do's and Don'ts of Global Anarchy. What scared Sam the most, however, was Marcia's very trashy romance novels. Sam frowned as he dusted over cover after cover of scantily-clad, busty women and men with impressive packages and tight shorts. What sort of person would find such a thing appealing, he wondered. So much lyrca was unsightly, not to mention the dangers it posed to fertility and sexual-
Another spritz to the face. Sam shreiked.
"I am very disappointed in you." As soon as he was looking, Marcia spritzed Sam in the face again. He wasn't sure why he found it as frightening as he did, but the cold water was a terrible punishment. "You're thinking things you shouldn't."
Sam swallowed.
"I saw you looking at my stories," Marcia said, and reached up a small hand to caress the nearest title. "You frowned."
"I didn't mean to," Sam whispered.
"You don't approve of my reading material, is that it?"
"No, ma'am," Sam said, shaking his head. "I mean, it's fine. It's all fine. I wasn't thinking a thing." He suspected it wouldn't be wise to admit he found romance novels a blight in an otherwise redeemable literary landscape. "I didn't mean to upset you," he finished lamely.
Marcia narrowed her eyes. "I'm not quite sure I believe you this time, Samuel. You seem to take some pleasure in upsetting me. What is it going to take to get through to you?" She spoke the last bit with the air of someone truly and utterly offended, as if Sam's dislike of romance novels was an attack on her very soul. "More spritzing?"
"Please, no," Sam spat out, his heart already beating faster at the suggestion. He was ashamed of himself, in that moment. What kind of a Winchester was he, that he was terrified of water? That he was terrified by an old woman?
In the back of his mind, Sam knew the situation was ridiculous. He was tall and muscular, trained in the use of guns and very sharp weapons. The door was locked, but there was no logical reason why he couldn't smash out of a window, or overpower Marcia long enough to tie her up and recover his cell phone. He could call anyone, he could call Dean, and then perhaps this madness would end. His big brother would find him and take him away from this place. Sam knew it.
Perhaps Dean was looking for him right now. Sam clung to this hope, as he was seemingly incapable of leaving the house on his own. Whatever nonsense the old lady had done to him was incredibly effective. He was terrified and alone, always waiting for the next bad bit of this nightmare to unfold. Even if he did escape, he wasn't sure he'd recover.
He wanted Dean.
"Samuel!" Sometime during his thoughts, Marcia had left and returned with a small and rather dirty-looking slipper. The blue of the silky fabric was torn in places, but it didn't lessen the threat. She tapped it thoughtfully against her own palm, evil thoughts clearly running through her head. "Do I need to use this?"
Sam's eyes flitted between her hand, the slipper, and the determination in her prim little mouth. He didn't doubt that she would use it, if need be, and this only served to terrify Sam further. His mind was already foggy and his limbs were already weighted; it was harder to breathe with every passing second, his fear of Marcia growing. He'd do anything to avoid being hit with such a thing.
He gulped, shaking his head. "No. You don't need to use it."
"I'll be keeping a close eye on you," Marcia growled, and Sam could swear her teeth looked like razors. "Any more lagging, any more unpleasant thoughts, and I won't hesitate. Be a kind boy and you won't have to worry."
Sam nodded and turned back to his dusting. He waited until he heard the sound of the cushions groaning on the couch before he let the tears well. It was hard to be brave.
He didn't know how much longer he could last.
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
_________________________
Kind boys do as they're told.
Kind boys don't ask questions.
You're a kind boy, aren't you, Samuel?
The words wouldn't leave him alone; they rang in his head and filled his lungs with all the fear he'd tried so hard to overcome these past few months. Everything was fuzzy and fog-like in his head, blurring away the logic that told him he could flee.
Sam didn't want to be where he was; he knew that much, but something was keeping him from truly attempting to escape. He longed to be outside where he could find the Impala and touch her leather seats and feel at home. This wasn't his home. He wanted to find his brother. Wanted Dean. He wasn't happy here, and with the last vestiges of his sanity Sam knew he was under some kind of spell.
A small spritz of water to his face knocked Sam out of his thoughts. He gasped a little when his vision refocused and he realized he'd been caught. Marcia was glaring up at him with fierce little eyes and her spray can. She was wearing a holiday sweater and beige slacks, Sam noted. It was August.
"Did I ask you to stop cleaning, Samuel?" Marcia's voice was something sickly sweet and poisonous. With her free hand, she pointed to the feather duster in Sam's hand, and then to the bookshelf he'd been working on. "My books still look dirty. What did I tell you about dirty books?"
"You don't like them," Sam mumbled, keeping his eye on the bottle in her hand. It was red and yellow and he couldn't squint, or it looked too much like a clown. Being punished by water spritzes was bad and humiliating enough, so Sam made sure to keep the container in focus.
"I don't like them," she repeated, nodding. Sam wondered if she was going to offer him another slice of watermelon as a reward. She'd cut one up earlier, brandishing a large and imposing knife that Sam shied away from. It was far too easy to imagine the poor fruit's skin as his own. "Too many thoughts are running through your head," she warned, and stepped closer to poke Sam in the ribs. "That doesn't please me."
"I'm sorry," Sam said, and meant it. He didn't want to upset Marcia; something told him bad things would come of it.
Marcia pulled and patted at the skin near his ribs like it was one of his cheeks. "You are," she replied, and it seemed like she believed him. "Now I'd like you to get back to work. After the bookshelf, I'd like you to polish my silver. And then perhaps we'll have lunch, hmm?" She didn't bother to wait for a reply, merely hobbled back to the sofa and picked up her embroidery. Sam had spied it earlier when he'd fluffled the pillows; it was a fiercely ugly depiction of two rabbits destroying a field of black flowers.
Remembering why he'd been punished moments before, Sam turned back to his dusting. There were all sorts of books on the shelves, and it was one of the strangest collections Sam had ever seen. Books on home gardening were sandwiched between titles like Wildebeast Anatomy: An Illustrated Guide, and The Do's and Don'ts of Global Anarchy. What scared Sam the most, however, was Marcia's very trashy romance novels. Sam frowned as he dusted over cover after cover of scantily-clad, busty women and men with impressive packages and tight shorts. What sort of person would find such a thing appealing, he wondered. So much lyrca was unsightly, not to mention the dangers it posed to fertility and sexual-
Another spritz to the face. Sam shreiked.
"I am very disappointed in you." As soon as he was looking, Marcia spritzed Sam in the face again. He wasn't sure why he found it as frightening as he did, but the cold water was a terrible punishment. "You're thinking things you shouldn't."
Sam swallowed.
"I saw you looking at my stories," Marcia said, and reached up a small hand to caress the nearest title. "You frowned."
"I didn't mean to," Sam whispered.
"You don't approve of my reading material, is that it?"
"No, ma'am," Sam said, shaking his head. "I mean, it's fine. It's all fine. I wasn't thinking a thing." He suspected it wouldn't be wise to admit he found romance novels a blight in an otherwise redeemable literary landscape. "I didn't mean to upset you," he finished lamely.
Marcia narrowed her eyes. "I'm not quite sure I believe you this time, Samuel. You seem to take some pleasure in upsetting me. What is it going to take to get through to you?" She spoke the last bit with the air of someone truly and utterly offended, as if Sam's dislike of romance novels was an attack on her very soul. "More spritzing?"
"Please, no," Sam spat out, his heart already beating faster at the suggestion. He was ashamed of himself, in that moment. What kind of a Winchester was he, that he was terrified of water? That he was terrified by an old woman?
In the back of his mind, Sam knew the situation was ridiculous. He was tall and muscular, trained in the use of guns and very sharp weapons. The door was locked, but there was no logical reason why he couldn't smash out of a window, or overpower Marcia long enough to tie her up and recover his cell phone. He could call anyone, he could call Dean, and then perhaps this madness would end. His big brother would find him and take him away from this place. Sam knew it.
Perhaps Dean was looking for him right now. Sam clung to this hope, as he was seemingly incapable of leaving the house on his own. Whatever nonsense the old lady had done to him was incredibly effective. He was terrified and alone, always waiting for the next bad bit of this nightmare to unfold. Even if he did escape, he wasn't sure he'd recover.
He wanted Dean.
"Samuel!" Sometime during his thoughts, Marcia had left and returned with a small and rather dirty-looking slipper. The blue of the silky fabric was torn in places, but it didn't lessen the threat. She tapped it thoughtfully against her own palm, evil thoughts clearly running through her head. "Do I need to use this?"
Sam's eyes flitted between her hand, the slipper, and the determination in her prim little mouth. He didn't doubt that she would use it, if need be, and this only served to terrify Sam further. His mind was already foggy and his limbs were already weighted; it was harder to breathe with every passing second, his fear of Marcia growing. He'd do anything to avoid being hit with such a thing.
He gulped, shaking his head. "No. You don't need to use it."
"I'll be keeping a close eye on you," Marcia growled, and Sam could swear her teeth looked like razors. "Any more lagging, any more unpleasant thoughts, and I won't hesitate. Be a kind boy and you won't have to worry."
Sam nodded and turned back to his dusting. He waited until he heard the sound of the cushions groaning on the couch before he let the tears well. It was hard to be brave.
He didn't know how much longer he could last.