Stitches | Sam & Dean (gen)
Randomly remembered I never reposted my spnspringfling entry!
Title: Stitches
Pairing or Characters: Sam & Dean (gen)
Rating: PG
Words: 2500
Summary: Dean doesn’t want his little brother to be in this life if he can help it, but right now, Sam is Dean’s only hope.
Warnings: minor injury/blood; Dean is a 14 and Sam is 10
Beta: the lovely kelleigh :-****
Read on AO3
There’s great relief when Dean spots the flickering neon motel sign between tree branches. A short stumble as his eyes water, then he’s back upright and running along the frontage road. He holds tight to his shoulder, palm a loose compression to the wound that’s been bleeding sluggishly for the last twenty minutes.
He’s lightheaded, stuttering steps here and there when he looks behind him in hopes Dad is on his way, but he’s all alone. Has been since he first stepped foot into that rundown English cottage. They’d split up with Dad heading to the cemetery to smoke bones and leaving Dean on his own for the first time. Now fourteen years old, Dean proudly stayed behind to protect a few college kids who’d been looking for a place to squat for the night.
Instead, those kids found a ghost. Dean found her, too, along with this deep gash in his shoulder he sustained when he fought her off long enough for the kids to get lost. Once the ghost had misted out of existence, Dean felt the full impact of the injury and took off for the motel on foot. It wasn’t far, should’ve been a fairly easy jog, if not for the blood loss and pain slowing him down.
It’s an even slower pace across the parking lot and around the side of the building to their room, but his fist is quickly pounding on the door, nearly as fast as his heart races and head spins.
“Sam!” Dean yells. “C’mon, man! Let me in!”
As soon as the door slips open, Dean barrels into the motel room, doorknob smacking into cheap paint and plaster. He winces, partly for the damage, mostly for the harsh, thumping pain in his shoulder that just won’t quit.
Dean yanks off his jacket, cringing through the sharp, menacing ache of every move, and tosses it on the ground. He reaches for the bottle of whiskey next to the TV and Sam finally pipes up.
“Dean, what’re you doing? Dad’s gonna kill you.”
“Dad’s the least of my worries,” Dean grits out. Even if there’s a sliver of worry about what’s taking him so long to get back; Dad has the car to get anywhere faster than Dean could run in this state.
“Where is Dad?” Sam asks, and Dean ignores him in favor barking orders.
“Get the kit and towels. Some wet and some dry.”
“What’s going on? Where’s Dad?”
“Sam, you gotta move your ass while you talk,” Dean complains just before he holds a deep breath. Then he clenches his eyes shut and dares to take off his flannel, shaking out of the left sleeve, the safe arm, then slowly and carefully pulling the right down.
Dean pulls up on the sleeve of his tee and that’s when Sam flips.
“What happened? Oh my God, that looks bad. How long’ve you been bleeding? Was it the ghost?”
Dean smiles for his brother, forces it into place against the pain, and pats the side of Sam’s head when the kid stands in front of him. “Yeah, the ghost did it, and it probably looks worse than it is.”
“It looks pretty ugly,” Sam says through a twisted frown. He reaches for Dean’s shoulder and it doesn’t matter how cautious he is, it still hurts and Dean hisses through a breath.
With a crooked smile, Dean amends, “Okay, maybe it’s about as bad as it looks.” When he finds Sam staring at the gash, stock still and big eyed, he repeats his commands. “Enough staring. Get the kit and towels.”
“Alright, okay, jeez,” Sam complains as he gets to work collecting the items.
It’s all deposited on the bed, and Dean sits at the edge then tugs Sam down at his right. “You’re gonna help me out, okay?”
Sam’s eyes get even wider as he falls down the rabbit hole of what else he has to do, as if he already knows, but won’t dare acknowledge it. “I already did help,” he says in a voice smaller than his ten years of sitting backseat to this life would tell.
“I need you to sew me up.”
“No, Dean, no, I - ”
“It’s my right arm,” Dean points out, lowering his voice to comfort his brother’s shaky nerves. Maybe his own, too. “I can’t sew with my left. And it’s not that bad. Just gotta close it up before it bleeds too much.”
Sam looks right at the wound and shakes his head. “It’s already bleeding too much.”
“Okay, before it bleeds more.”
“It looks so bad,” Sam whispers.
Dean immediately sets his hand on his brother’s shoulder. Such a tiny, slim shoulder that has to hold so much responsibility right now. He was probably younger than Sam now when he first patched up Dad. Definitely younger when he held his first gun and fired, but this isn’t what he wants for Sam. Doesn’t want his little brother to be in this life if he can help it, but right now, Sam is Dean’s only hope.
“We should call 9-1-1,” Sam argues, moving for the phone behind him.
In a second, Dean tugs him back. They don’t have time for that, and Dad will definitely beat both their asses if they get the authorities involved. “No, it’s okay. I’m fine,” he assures, voice low and level, tacks on a gentle smile to soften the tension settling around them. He even press a damp towel against the wound, gritting his teeth through the flare of pain with the touch. “I’ll hold this here until you’ve got everything in place.”
Sam fiddles with the first-aid kit in his hands, picking at the canvas edges. “I’ve never done this before.”
Dean cheekily grins at him. “First time for everything, Sammy.”
“Yeah, but what if - ”
“I’ll talk you through it. You’ll be fine. Now get the needle and thread.”
Sam does as told, albeit with fidgeting hands and stubby fingers that can’t seem to thread a needle to save either of their lives.
Dean talks him through knotting the end of the thread then pulls the towel away to give proper directions of where to start, how much force to use to get through the skin, and how close to keep each line so it pulls the wound closed and heals well.
Or well enough, with a 10-year-old bucket of nerves trying to close Dean up.
“You ready then?” Dean asks, eyes right on Sam.
Sam doesn’t answer; maybe he can’t. Like he’s torn between being honest and letting his big brother down.
“I trust you, Sam,” Dean swears, shoving his whole heart into it. “You can do this.”
There’s a tiny, nearly imperceptible nod, except Dean is always watching out for Sam and his soft shell, which probably isn’t meant for any of the things they do. But here they are, alone in a motel room with Dean bleeding and Sam prepping for his first surgery.
Dean clears his throat, nods at Sam. “Okay then. Whiskey first.”
Sam’s watched Dad and Dean patch and clean each other up enough times that he knows to pour some over the wound. He moves slow under Dean’s instructions, the soft assured guidance that Sam is doing exactly what he needs to, and Dean focuses more on that than the increasing pain of fussing with the wound or the pounding of his worried heartbeat in his ears.
Three stitches in, Dean thinks he may pass out from the pain. He takes steadying, deep breaths and asks, “Whiskey?”
Sam pauses and gets the bottle from the floor with the other. “Pour it again?”
Dean shakes his head and grabs the bottle, drinking from it without another word.
“Dean.”.
“You’re doing great, Sammy,” he insists through the burn of his arm and now the alcohol in his chest.
Sam sighs, but continues working, and Dean sees how closely Sam is watching his own work with his tongue peeking out between his teeth, even as his hands continue to shake.
To relieve his brother, and himself, of the tense quiet, Dean speaks up. “That old lady came at me from nowhere.”
Pursing his lips, Sam’s eyes remain on the needle’s movements, while his edgy voice is aimed right at Dean. “Told you not to go alone.”
“Yeah, well …” Dean takes another swig of whiskey. “Didn’t have much choice, did I?”
“I could’ve gone,” Sam offers.
“And you could’ve been the one with a hole in his arm.” Dean’s stomach turns at the thought of one day seeing his little brother in this position, knocked down and tore up. “Not an option,” he decides for the both of them.
“But I want to help.”
“You are helping,” Dean tells him with a reassuring bump of the bottle to Sam’s knee.
“I hate staying behind by myself,” he mumbles.
Dean nods a bit and hangs his head. “Yeah, I know.” After a moment, he bumps Sam’s knee again, puts on a curling smile and spirited tone. “But you gotta stay behind so you can clean up my messes, right?”
“How’d this mess happen?” Sam asks with a quick glance at Dean.
Another pull from the whiskey and Dean sighs through the heat running in his system. There’s a whole new haze softening the edges as the alcohol gets to work, taking over the dark smog weighing him down since he got hurt. “She threw me across the room and I got caught on a bolt.”
“Was it rusty?”
“Yeah, it looked pretty ugly.”
“Uglier than your face?” Sam asks with a small, taunting smile.
Dean huffs a laugh and lets the joke slide, so long as Sam is no longer tense and scared.
“What about a tetanus shot? If it was that rusty …”
“That’s tomorrow’s problem,” he declares. Then he shouts in pain at a harsh tug on his skin, the shoulder flaring to life again with a new round of throbbing anguish.
Before he can complain, Sam wipes a wet towel across Dean’s arm then sits back with a nervous look. “All done.”
“What? Already?” Dean looks at his shoulder and most of the blood is gone. Upon inspection, he sees that while the lines are a mess of tangled back and forth string, Sam has done his job to close the wound and tie off the ends.
“Is it okay?” Sam asks, voice quiet, a little shaky.
Dean breaths deep. “Well, it’s uglier than your face.”
Sam punches him in the gut, but he’s laughing when Dean pulls him back in.
Dean finds that the adrenaline coursing through his body since the injury is dissipating, leaving room for him to recognize that he’d been flying high on pain and fear since leaving the cottage. His firm control held tight to keep Sam level, but Dean was always moments away from breaking down over the agony of the injury along with the amount of blood he knew he’d lost, or the worry for how much more he would lose if they didn’t stitch it up quick.
“Good job, Sam,” Dean mumbles at the top of Sam’s head, then scruffs a hand through Sam’s hair. With a small, proud smile, he adds, “Knew you could do it.”
Sam slides out of reach, elbowing Dean to get away, and runs fingers in his hair to right it. “God, you’re annoying.”
But Dean spots the smile as Sam stands and walks to the door. “Did you just call me God?” he smarts.
Sam opens the door and turns long enough to theatrically roll his eyes. “You wish.”
“Where you going?” Dean asks, worried for Sam’s quick exit.
“Just want some fresh air,” he replies as he steps outside, the door quickly swinging shut between them.
Something settles heavy in his gut and Dean marches to the door, yanks it open, and frantically searches the area for the brown mop-top.
Sam isn’t in the parking lot. He’s not running off into the night, either. He’s squatting down against the faded shingles of the old motel wall, head in his hands, shoulders rising and falling with each heavy breath.
“I’m fine,” Sam complains. It’s obvious he’s anything but.
Dean goes inside for the whiskey before heading out again to join Sam on the sidewalk, remaining quiet until Sam’s ready to talk. Surely, the kid’s experiencing his own adrenaline crash now that Dean is okay. And for all that Dean had worried for himself, Lord only knows how frantic Sam was about holding that needle, to be responsible for how and if the gash will heal.
Sam sniffs through a breath and Dean looks for tears; there are none on the kid’s cheeks, but maybe he’s holding them in for now with his big brother beside him.
After a quick drink, Dean opens his mouth in hopes of easing Sam’s worries. “You know, the first time I had to stitch up Dad, it was this big hole at his side.” He gestures at the spot when Sam picks his head up to look, offers his brother a smile as he continues. “It was all wet and nasty. I swear I could see a rib.”
“Are you serious?”
Dean chuckles and shrugs, bumping their shoulders together, even when it hurts his bad one. “It seemed that way, at least. I was younger than you. Scared as hell, just kept crying through the whole thing.”
“I didn’t cry,” Sam grumbles.
“Yeah, I know,” Dean agrees with a crooked smile. “You were brave as hell.”
Sam is slow to meet Dean’s eyes, but when he does, his lips turn up in a shy smile.
Holding the look, Dean offers the whiskey bottle and Sam immediately flinches.
“But Dad - ”
“Would say you earned it,” Dean finishes and tips the bottle closer with a cheeky grin. “Baby’s first stitches.”
His hands are shaking worse than when he held the needle, but Sam takes the bottle and tries a sip. He coughs immediately and wipes his mouth, all while Dean’s laughing and taking the bottle for a quick drink before handing it back.
“It tastes like butt,” Sam complains.
“Yeah, it kinda does.”
Sam tries it again, coughing a little less, though he still winces through the taste. “You know what butt tastes like.”
Dean elbows him with a dirty look. “Shut up, runt.”
“I’m not a runt,” Sam mumbles as he takes the bottle for another sip. He doesn’t cough this time, and seems a bit emboldened to say, “One of these days, I’ll be big enough to kick your ass.”
He thinks about harping on Sam for his language, but figures this is their moment. Just two brothers with one bottle and the quiet night keeping them company.
So, Dean just says, “Yeah, I know you will,” and happily returns Sam’s smile.
Title: Stitches
Pairing or Characters: Sam & Dean (gen)
Rating: PG
Words: 2500
Summary: Dean doesn’t want his little brother to be in this life if he can help it, but right now, Sam is Dean’s only hope.
Warnings: minor injury/blood; Dean is a 14 and Sam is 10
Beta: the lovely kelleigh :-****
Read on AO3
There’s great relief when Dean spots the flickering neon motel sign between tree branches. A short stumble as his eyes water, then he’s back upright and running along the frontage road. He holds tight to his shoulder, palm a loose compression to the wound that’s been bleeding sluggishly for the last twenty minutes.
He’s lightheaded, stuttering steps here and there when he looks behind him in hopes Dad is on his way, but he’s all alone. Has been since he first stepped foot into that rundown English cottage. They’d split up with Dad heading to the cemetery to smoke bones and leaving Dean on his own for the first time. Now fourteen years old, Dean proudly stayed behind to protect a few college kids who’d been looking for a place to squat for the night.
Instead, those kids found a ghost. Dean found her, too, along with this deep gash in his shoulder he sustained when he fought her off long enough for the kids to get lost. Once the ghost had misted out of existence, Dean felt the full impact of the injury and took off for the motel on foot. It wasn’t far, should’ve been a fairly easy jog, if not for the blood loss and pain slowing him down.
It’s an even slower pace across the parking lot and around the side of the building to their room, but his fist is quickly pounding on the door, nearly as fast as his heart races and head spins.
“Sam!” Dean yells. “C’mon, man! Let me in!”
As soon as the door slips open, Dean barrels into the motel room, doorknob smacking into cheap paint and plaster. He winces, partly for the damage, mostly for the harsh, thumping pain in his shoulder that just won’t quit.
Dean yanks off his jacket, cringing through the sharp, menacing ache of every move, and tosses it on the ground. He reaches for the bottle of whiskey next to the TV and Sam finally pipes up.
“Dean, what’re you doing? Dad’s gonna kill you.”
“Dad’s the least of my worries,” Dean grits out. Even if there’s a sliver of worry about what’s taking him so long to get back; Dad has the car to get anywhere faster than Dean could run in this state.
“Where is Dad?” Sam asks, and Dean ignores him in favor barking orders.
“Get the kit and towels. Some wet and some dry.”
“What’s going on? Where’s Dad?”
“Sam, you gotta move your ass while you talk,” Dean complains just before he holds a deep breath. Then he clenches his eyes shut and dares to take off his flannel, shaking out of the left sleeve, the safe arm, then slowly and carefully pulling the right down.
Dean pulls up on the sleeve of his tee and that’s when Sam flips.
“What happened? Oh my God, that looks bad. How long’ve you been bleeding? Was it the ghost?”
Dean smiles for his brother, forces it into place against the pain, and pats the side of Sam’s head when the kid stands in front of him. “Yeah, the ghost did it, and it probably looks worse than it is.”
“It looks pretty ugly,” Sam says through a twisted frown. He reaches for Dean’s shoulder and it doesn’t matter how cautious he is, it still hurts and Dean hisses through a breath.
With a crooked smile, Dean amends, “Okay, maybe it’s about as bad as it looks.” When he finds Sam staring at the gash, stock still and big eyed, he repeats his commands. “Enough staring. Get the kit and towels.”
“Alright, okay, jeez,” Sam complains as he gets to work collecting the items.
It’s all deposited on the bed, and Dean sits at the edge then tugs Sam down at his right. “You’re gonna help me out, okay?”
Sam’s eyes get even wider as he falls down the rabbit hole of what else he has to do, as if he already knows, but won’t dare acknowledge it. “I already did help,” he says in a voice smaller than his ten years of sitting backseat to this life would tell.
“I need you to sew me up.”
“No, Dean, no, I - ”
“It’s my right arm,” Dean points out, lowering his voice to comfort his brother’s shaky nerves. Maybe his own, too. “I can’t sew with my left. And it’s not that bad. Just gotta close it up before it bleeds too much.”
Sam looks right at the wound and shakes his head. “It’s already bleeding too much.”
“Okay, before it bleeds more.”
“It looks so bad,” Sam whispers.
Dean immediately sets his hand on his brother’s shoulder. Such a tiny, slim shoulder that has to hold so much responsibility right now. He was probably younger than Sam now when he first patched up Dad. Definitely younger when he held his first gun and fired, but this isn’t what he wants for Sam. Doesn’t want his little brother to be in this life if he can help it, but right now, Sam is Dean’s only hope.
“We should call 9-1-1,” Sam argues, moving for the phone behind him.
In a second, Dean tugs him back. They don’t have time for that, and Dad will definitely beat both their asses if they get the authorities involved. “No, it’s okay. I’m fine,” he assures, voice low and level, tacks on a gentle smile to soften the tension settling around them. He even press a damp towel against the wound, gritting his teeth through the flare of pain with the touch. “I’ll hold this here until you’ve got everything in place.”
Sam fiddles with the first-aid kit in his hands, picking at the canvas edges. “I’ve never done this before.”
Dean cheekily grins at him. “First time for everything, Sammy.”
“Yeah, but what if - ”
“I’ll talk you through it. You’ll be fine. Now get the needle and thread.”
Sam does as told, albeit with fidgeting hands and stubby fingers that can’t seem to thread a needle to save either of their lives.
Dean talks him through knotting the end of the thread then pulls the towel away to give proper directions of where to start, how much force to use to get through the skin, and how close to keep each line so it pulls the wound closed and heals well.
Or well enough, with a 10-year-old bucket of nerves trying to close Dean up.
“You ready then?” Dean asks, eyes right on Sam.
Sam doesn’t answer; maybe he can’t. Like he’s torn between being honest and letting his big brother down.
“I trust you, Sam,” Dean swears, shoving his whole heart into it. “You can do this.”
There’s a tiny, nearly imperceptible nod, except Dean is always watching out for Sam and his soft shell, which probably isn’t meant for any of the things they do. But here they are, alone in a motel room with Dean bleeding and Sam prepping for his first surgery.
Dean clears his throat, nods at Sam. “Okay then. Whiskey first.”
Sam’s watched Dad and Dean patch and clean each other up enough times that he knows to pour some over the wound. He moves slow under Dean’s instructions, the soft assured guidance that Sam is doing exactly what he needs to, and Dean focuses more on that than the increasing pain of fussing with the wound or the pounding of his worried heartbeat in his ears.
Three stitches in, Dean thinks he may pass out from the pain. He takes steadying, deep breaths and asks, “Whiskey?”
Sam pauses and gets the bottle from the floor with the other. “Pour it again?”
Dean shakes his head and grabs the bottle, drinking from it without another word.
“Dean.”.
“You’re doing great, Sammy,” he insists through the burn of his arm and now the alcohol in his chest.
Sam sighs, but continues working, and Dean sees how closely Sam is watching his own work with his tongue peeking out between his teeth, even as his hands continue to shake.
To relieve his brother, and himself, of the tense quiet, Dean speaks up. “That old lady came at me from nowhere.”
Pursing his lips, Sam’s eyes remain on the needle’s movements, while his edgy voice is aimed right at Dean. “Told you not to go alone.”
“Yeah, well …” Dean takes another swig of whiskey. “Didn’t have much choice, did I?”
“I could’ve gone,” Sam offers.
“And you could’ve been the one with a hole in his arm.” Dean’s stomach turns at the thought of one day seeing his little brother in this position, knocked down and tore up. “Not an option,” he decides for the both of them.
“But I want to help.”
“You are helping,” Dean tells him with a reassuring bump of the bottle to Sam’s knee.
“I hate staying behind by myself,” he mumbles.
Dean nods a bit and hangs his head. “Yeah, I know.” After a moment, he bumps Sam’s knee again, puts on a curling smile and spirited tone. “But you gotta stay behind so you can clean up my messes, right?”
“How’d this mess happen?” Sam asks with a quick glance at Dean.
Another pull from the whiskey and Dean sighs through the heat running in his system. There’s a whole new haze softening the edges as the alcohol gets to work, taking over the dark smog weighing him down since he got hurt. “She threw me across the room and I got caught on a bolt.”
“Was it rusty?”
“Yeah, it looked pretty ugly.”
“Uglier than your face?” Sam asks with a small, taunting smile.
Dean huffs a laugh and lets the joke slide, so long as Sam is no longer tense and scared.
“What about a tetanus shot? If it was that rusty …”
“That’s tomorrow’s problem,” he declares. Then he shouts in pain at a harsh tug on his skin, the shoulder flaring to life again with a new round of throbbing anguish.
Before he can complain, Sam wipes a wet towel across Dean’s arm then sits back with a nervous look. “All done.”
“What? Already?” Dean looks at his shoulder and most of the blood is gone. Upon inspection, he sees that while the lines are a mess of tangled back and forth string, Sam has done his job to close the wound and tie off the ends.
“Is it okay?” Sam asks, voice quiet, a little shaky.
Dean breaths deep. “Well, it’s uglier than your face.”
Sam punches him in the gut, but he’s laughing when Dean pulls him back in.
Dean finds that the adrenaline coursing through his body since the injury is dissipating, leaving room for him to recognize that he’d been flying high on pain and fear since leaving the cottage. His firm control held tight to keep Sam level, but Dean was always moments away from breaking down over the agony of the injury along with the amount of blood he knew he’d lost, or the worry for how much more he would lose if they didn’t stitch it up quick.
“Good job, Sam,” Dean mumbles at the top of Sam’s head, then scruffs a hand through Sam’s hair. With a small, proud smile, he adds, “Knew you could do it.”
Sam slides out of reach, elbowing Dean to get away, and runs fingers in his hair to right it. “God, you’re annoying.”
But Dean spots the smile as Sam stands and walks to the door. “Did you just call me God?” he smarts.
Sam opens the door and turns long enough to theatrically roll his eyes. “You wish.”
“Where you going?” Dean asks, worried for Sam’s quick exit.
“Just want some fresh air,” he replies as he steps outside, the door quickly swinging shut between them.
Something settles heavy in his gut and Dean marches to the door, yanks it open, and frantically searches the area for the brown mop-top.
Sam isn’t in the parking lot. He’s not running off into the night, either. He’s squatting down against the faded shingles of the old motel wall, head in his hands, shoulders rising and falling with each heavy breath.
“I’m fine,” Sam complains. It’s obvious he’s anything but.
Dean goes inside for the whiskey before heading out again to join Sam on the sidewalk, remaining quiet until Sam’s ready to talk. Surely, the kid’s experiencing his own adrenaline crash now that Dean is okay. And for all that Dean had worried for himself, Lord only knows how frantic Sam was about holding that needle, to be responsible for how and if the gash will heal.
Sam sniffs through a breath and Dean looks for tears; there are none on the kid’s cheeks, but maybe he’s holding them in for now with his big brother beside him.
After a quick drink, Dean opens his mouth in hopes of easing Sam’s worries. “You know, the first time I had to stitch up Dad, it was this big hole at his side.” He gestures at the spot when Sam picks his head up to look, offers his brother a smile as he continues. “It was all wet and nasty. I swear I could see a rib.”
“Are you serious?”
Dean chuckles and shrugs, bumping their shoulders together, even when it hurts his bad one. “It seemed that way, at least. I was younger than you. Scared as hell, just kept crying through the whole thing.”
“I didn’t cry,” Sam grumbles.
“Yeah, I know,” Dean agrees with a crooked smile. “You were brave as hell.”
Sam is slow to meet Dean’s eyes, but when he does, his lips turn up in a shy smile.
Holding the look, Dean offers the whiskey bottle and Sam immediately flinches.
“But Dad - ”
“Would say you earned it,” Dean finishes and tips the bottle closer with a cheeky grin. “Baby’s first stitches.”
His hands are shaking worse than when he held the needle, but Sam takes the bottle and tries a sip. He coughs immediately and wipes his mouth, all while Dean’s laughing and taking the bottle for a quick drink before handing it back.
“It tastes like butt,” Sam complains.
“Yeah, it kinda does.”
Sam tries it again, coughing a little less, though he still winces through the taste. “You know what butt tastes like.”
Dean elbows him with a dirty look. “Shut up, runt.”
“I’m not a runt,” Sam mumbles as he takes the bottle for another sip. He doesn’t cough this time, and seems a bit emboldened to say, “One of these days, I’ll be big enough to kick your ass.”
He thinks about harping on Sam for his language, but figures this is their moment. Just two brothers with one bottle and the quiet night keeping them company.
So, Dean just says, “Yeah, I know you will,” and happily returns Sam’s smile.