Of Age and Wisdom, [PG-13] 8/10, 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
___________________________
Dreams wouldn't come easy to Sam.
"Have a rest, dear," Marcia had said, suddenly at his shoulder like she'd warped from the couch to the bookshelf in some scientifically impossible way. "Good boys need their naps. Wouldn't want you to get clumsy with the duster, would we? My books are quite precious."
Nodding along for no reason at all, Sam had let himself be led down a short hallway and into what was clearly a guest bedroom. Marcia cooed about making some kind of stew and how she had to check the mail and she tucked Sam under the covers as she did so, patting his head when she finished.
"Just some chopping for the stew," Marcia reminded, heading for the door. "You let the dreams come, and I'll be back to wake you."
Sam didn't dare say he wasn't tired, or that he hadn't had a nap in a significantly long period of time. Sam had always been an awake sort of person, quite unlike his older brother, who could sleep anytime and anywhere as long as he wasn't being shot at by something unnatural.
Dean.
Longing swooped in Sam's stomach at the thought of his brother. He was tired of being held captive by Marcia, as when he looked at the situation sideways in his mind, it was all very ridiculous. Sam was a grown man - a tall and sturdy and muscular grown man, thank you - and Marcia was a wrinkly woman with no discernable means of power beyond her ability to scare Sam into submission. Reviewing the past few hours in his mind was an embarrassing ordeal; Sam cringed when he recalled the way he'd behaved. Scared of spritzing? Fearful of slippers and their potential to smack him? In the bed as he was, these things didn't seem nearly as horrifying. He was scared of neither slipper nor spritz, but he was terrified of Marcia.
Unreasonable as his fears were, Sam didn't know if he could hold himself together long enough to escape. Knowing that he shouldn't be scared didn't mean he wasn't scared. Just thinking of Marcia and her holiday sweater made Sam want to disappear into the safer world of dreams.
The faint sounds of chopping floated in through the cracked door. Sam bit at his lips as he tried to gather enough courage to get out of bed, telling himself she wouldn't be able to hear. Old ears were poor ears, after all.
You can do it, Sam told himself. One step at a time. First step: getting up. Second step: freedom.
He just needed to gain confidence, was all. He'd already disobeyed Marcia by not sleeping; getting out of bed was next on Sam's agenda, and he intended to follow through.
And yet, no amount of motivational thinking was enough to stop Sam's heart from beating faster when his feet hit the floor.
Bad, bad, bad, his mind told him. You're being such a bad boy.
"Stop it," Sam whispered to the walls, shaking his head, but the voice wouldn't leave him alone. It mocked him in a very Marcia-like way as he creeped towards the door, hands already shaking and legs full of lead.
Sam made it nearly three feet from the door before he had to turn around.
He brought his hands up to his temples and sweat-damp hairline, clutching at his head. "What's the matter with me?" he whispered again, pained. Sam could no longer hear the sounds of chopping over the sudden flurry of worry rushing through his skull. She'd find him, no doubt. He'd open the door and she'd immediately know his intentions - his badwrongawful intentions - and she'd punish him in some way that he wouldn't be able to stand.
Gasping as quietly as he could, Sam stopped clutching at his head only to clutch at his knees. He tried to imagine that Dean was with him, standing behind him with a strong and comforting brotherly hand. Dean would tell him to think happy thoughts, so that's what Sam tried to do.
Sam thought about the Impala, driving down another nameless highway while his big brother sang something really old and repetitive. Sam thought about the first time he'd heard Death Cab and how he'd eaten the most amazing fruit salad later that same evening. He thought about cartoon-watching with Dean when they were left behind by John, how Dean would fix him cereal and blabber about Henrietta or Jackie or Wendy.
A million and one happy memories bounced around Sam's brain, calming him down like Dean would have known.
A second later, and Sam felt brave enough to reassess the situation. Perhaps his escape via door could wait while he explored the bedroom and gained confidence.
It was a dull bedroom, by anyone's standards. The walls were covered with yellowing wallpaper and various framed cross-stitch designs, all boring and bleak. Light struggled to pass through the heavy mauve curtains, and Sam's hand itched for the duster when he spotted the layer of grime on the dresser.
Curiosity dulling fear, Sam made his way to the dresser and pulled out the first drawer. It was full of snow-globes. "Weird," he said, and shut the drawer only to pull out the second, full of masking tape and rubber gloves. This seemed a bit more sinister, so Sam shut it in favor of opening up the third.
"What the hell." Sam knelt down so he could rummage through page after page of spells. Witches spells, his brain informed him, even though something about the words struck him as odd. He'd never really seen spells like these before: spells to soften sheets, spells to banish computer viruses and spells to summon firecrackers. Spells to steal HD radio and spells to enhance the flavor of stew.
Half-bemused, Sam picked up a spell that had been written on a page taken from a Lisa Frank journal. Whoever it was that had written the "Spell Check Spell" had an apparent fondness for pink gel pens. Which struck Sam as funny, considering how-
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"
Whipping around, Sam locked eyes with Marcia. A very angry-looking Marcia with mail in her hands and the faintest hint of dirt on her slippers.
Sam couldn't help it: he screamed.
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
___________________________
Dreams wouldn't come easy to Sam.
"Have a rest, dear," Marcia had said, suddenly at his shoulder like she'd warped from the couch to the bookshelf in some scientifically impossible way. "Good boys need their naps. Wouldn't want you to get clumsy with the duster, would we? My books are quite precious."
Nodding along for no reason at all, Sam had let himself be led down a short hallway and into what was clearly a guest bedroom. Marcia cooed about making some kind of stew and how she had to check the mail and she tucked Sam under the covers as she did so, patting his head when she finished.
"Just some chopping for the stew," Marcia reminded, heading for the door. "You let the dreams come, and I'll be back to wake you."
Sam didn't dare say he wasn't tired, or that he hadn't had a nap in a significantly long period of time. Sam had always been an awake sort of person, quite unlike his older brother, who could sleep anytime and anywhere as long as he wasn't being shot at by something unnatural.
Dean.
Longing swooped in Sam's stomach at the thought of his brother. He was tired of being held captive by Marcia, as when he looked at the situation sideways in his mind, it was all very ridiculous. Sam was a grown man - a tall and sturdy and muscular grown man, thank you - and Marcia was a wrinkly woman with no discernable means of power beyond her ability to scare Sam into submission. Reviewing the past few hours in his mind was an embarrassing ordeal; Sam cringed when he recalled the way he'd behaved. Scared of spritzing? Fearful of slippers and their potential to smack him? In the bed as he was, these things didn't seem nearly as horrifying. He was scared of neither slipper nor spritz, but he was terrified of Marcia.
Unreasonable as his fears were, Sam didn't know if he could hold himself together long enough to escape. Knowing that he shouldn't be scared didn't mean he wasn't scared. Just thinking of Marcia and her holiday sweater made Sam want to disappear into the safer world of dreams.
The faint sounds of chopping floated in through the cracked door. Sam bit at his lips as he tried to gather enough courage to get out of bed, telling himself she wouldn't be able to hear. Old ears were poor ears, after all.
You can do it, Sam told himself. One step at a time. First step: getting up. Second step: freedom.
He just needed to gain confidence, was all. He'd already disobeyed Marcia by not sleeping; getting out of bed was next on Sam's agenda, and he intended to follow through.
And yet, no amount of motivational thinking was enough to stop Sam's heart from beating faster when his feet hit the floor.
Bad, bad, bad, his mind told him. You're being such a bad boy.
"Stop it," Sam whispered to the walls, shaking his head, but the voice wouldn't leave him alone. It mocked him in a very Marcia-like way as he creeped towards the door, hands already shaking and legs full of lead.
Sam made it nearly three feet from the door before he had to turn around.
He brought his hands up to his temples and sweat-damp hairline, clutching at his head. "What's the matter with me?" he whispered again, pained. Sam could no longer hear the sounds of chopping over the sudden flurry of worry rushing through his skull. She'd find him, no doubt. He'd open the door and she'd immediately know his intentions - his badwrongawful intentions - and she'd punish him in some way that he wouldn't be able to stand.
Gasping as quietly as he could, Sam stopped clutching at his head only to clutch at his knees. He tried to imagine that Dean was with him, standing behind him with a strong and comforting brotherly hand. Dean would tell him to think happy thoughts, so that's what Sam tried to do.
Sam thought about the Impala, driving down another nameless highway while his big brother sang something really old and repetitive. Sam thought about the first time he'd heard Death Cab and how he'd eaten the most amazing fruit salad later that same evening. He thought about cartoon-watching with Dean when they were left behind by John, how Dean would fix him cereal and blabber about Henrietta or Jackie or Wendy.
A million and one happy memories bounced around Sam's brain, calming him down like Dean would have known.
A second later, and Sam felt brave enough to reassess the situation. Perhaps his escape via door could wait while he explored the bedroom and gained confidence.
It was a dull bedroom, by anyone's standards. The walls were covered with yellowing wallpaper and various framed cross-stitch designs, all boring and bleak. Light struggled to pass through the heavy mauve curtains, and Sam's hand itched for the duster when he spotted the layer of grime on the dresser.
Curiosity dulling fear, Sam made his way to the dresser and pulled out the first drawer. It was full of snow-globes. "Weird," he said, and shut the drawer only to pull out the second, full of masking tape and rubber gloves. This seemed a bit more sinister, so Sam shut it in favor of opening up the third.
"What the hell." Sam knelt down so he could rummage through page after page of spells. Witches spells, his brain informed him, even though something about the words struck him as odd. He'd never really seen spells like these before: spells to soften sheets, spells to banish computer viruses and spells to summon firecrackers. Spells to steal HD radio and spells to enhance the flavor of stew.
Half-bemused, Sam picked up a spell that had been written on a page taken from a Lisa Frank journal. Whoever it was that had written the "Spell Check Spell" had an apparent fondness for pink gel pens. Which struck Sam as funny, considering how-
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"
Whipping around, Sam locked eyes with Marcia. A very angry-looking Marcia with mail in her hands and the faintest hint of dirt on her slippers.
Sam couldn't help it: he screamed.