SPN gen fic - Irritation
I think I have finally settled on a fic for the fanzine - I'm about a quarter of the way into it, with a bundle of research done to back it up. Unfortunately being back at work puts a bit of a crimp in the writing time. *sighs*
But still managed to take time out to write a little snark.
TITLE: Irritation
PG13: PG13 (gen)
CHARACTERS: Sam and Dean
DISCLAIMER: Even Kripke doesn't do this to Dean.
SPOILERS: Set Season 1, no particular spoilers
NOTES: 1270 words. Sam POV. The boys are feeling irritated.
Dean is crap at being sick.
Not being hurt.
He’s cool at being hurt. Hurt; Dean’s a poster child for stoicism. Sometimes Sam wonders if Dad persuaded Mom to leave Dean out all night on a hill after he was born, just to make sure he’d be tough enough to survive being a Winchester.
He guesses not, though. Dean says from what he remembers Mom had Dad totally whipped. Sam tries to imagine Dad like that, and fails.
But anyway, Dean. And being hurt. One time, when Dean was maybe fifteen, a werewolf ripped a gash bone-deep in his arm, and Dean sucked it up, took six stitches without making a freaking sound. Sam remembers being fifteen, and getting knocked in the head by a flying lamp, courtesy of a particularly bad-tempered poltergeist. He’d howled louder than Dean’s werewolf when Dad cleaned the cut on his forehead, and it hadn’t even needed stitches.
Dean sat next to him on the bed, and squeezed his hand, while Dad frowned sternly as he swabbed and lectured - Settle down, Sammy, it’s not that bad.
Dean was always a soldier when it came to battle scars. But, Jesus, he’s worse than a baby when it comes to being sick. Sam doesn’t remember him being sick that much when they were little. Neither of them were, he thinks, too busy getting banged up from hunting to leave any time for measles or strep throat or shit like that. Plus Dad was big into fresh air and physical activity, and however much he hated it when he was younger; he guesses he should thank the man for instilling the habits that have kept him in good shape.
He surveys the stand. Dean said soup. No, he whined soup. And crackers. He picks chicken noodle, the packet kind, and those dumb chicken in a biskit crackers. Guaranteed not to contain any traces of actual chicken. Huh. Dean’ll probably love them. He gets grape popsicles too, and finally some lotion, because if he has to listen to Dean bitch any more he might just have to kill him.
The cashier is clearly a mom, and she smiles sympathetically when she sees his stash, asks after his little one, offers advice on how to deal with the grouchiness. Sam takes her up on her suggestions and picks up a few extra items. He’s not sure how Dean’s going to react to all of this, but for once in his life, he’ll just have to do as he’s told. Not like he can actually resist, shape he’s in.
When he gets back, Dean’s mood hasn’t improved.
“Took you long enough.” He’s stretched out under the thin sheet, the blanket thrown on the floor because it’s too scratchy, apparently. Sweet Jesus.
“There was a line at the store.” Sam dumps the groceries on the tiny counter, boils up the kettle.
“I’m hungry,” Dean gripes, about three seconds after he’s torn open the packet of soup.
“You’re whiny.” Sam empties the powder into a mug and adds water. The packet soup doesn’t smell too gross, and the little dried bits of noodle soften up as he pokes them with a spoon. He opens the crackers, dumps a handful on the plate.
“Here you go. Knock yourself out.”
Dean sniffs the soup. Sniffs the crackers. “Chicken? Oh, you’re freaking hilarious.” He attempts to throw a cracker at Sam, and it barely reaches the end of the bed. He’s about to launch another when he stops suddenly, slaps his hand over his shoulder and scratches furiously.
Sam tries, he really does, but he can’t contain his laughter.
“You’re so going to regret this.” Dean’s bottom lip is sticking out; pouting like a five year old, and Sam wipes tears off his cheeks, struggles to get the giggles under control.
“Stop scratching. You’ll scar.”
Dean snorts. “Yeah, because that’s what’s bothering me.”
Sam takes a breath. “Eat your soup. I’m going to run you an oatmeal bath.”
“What!” Dean’s face is flaming, almost as red as the spots that cover every inch of his upper body. “You can’t make me - Ow!” Dean’s hand flies to his groin, and Sam guesses there might be a few spots on his lower body too.
“Dean, eat your soup,” Sam repeats calmly, then finishes unpacking the bag. He puts the calamine lotion on the nightstand, then opens the oatmeal.
Dean glares at him, but he starts to eat, pausing every few moments to pick at his spots. “Freaking haunted daycare centre. And what thanks do I get? Two weeks of hell.”
“Don’t exaggerate,” Sam reprimands. “It’s only chicken pox.”
“Only, he says.” Dean eyes him mutinously. “How come you aren’t all scabby and gross?” He sounds a little jealous. Okay, a lot jealous.
“I’m immune.” Now Sam feels slightly guilty. “Remember, you made Dad take me for my shots, after the time we had the flu.”
He thinks back to the doctor’s office, vaguely remembers squirming on Dad’s knee, screaming bloody murder, then Dean crouched in front of him, with candy.
Dean remembers too. “You were such a whiny little brat. Gave up two weeks' rations of M&Ms to get you shut your yap.” He snaps a cracker between his fingers. “And this is the thanks I get for being an awesome big brother.”
“Shut your yap.” Sam goes into the bathroom, starts filling the tub. He can still hear Dean bitching under his breath, and he tips the oatmeal into the water, swishing it gently. It feels weird, but when he takes his hand out, there’s a thin milky oil coating his fingers, oddly cool and soothing. The cashier told him it would ease the itch, and that his little boy would sleep a lot more comfortably afterwards.
He grins and goes back into the bedroom, where Dean’s finished his soup and is working on scratching his skin down to the bone.
“Dean!”
Dean freezes, initially guilty, then continues to rake his nails across his chest, angry red stripes intersecting the rash of spots.
Sam bites his lip, and silently thanks the cashier for her advice. Although he’s had to improvise, as Dean’s a little bigger than he’d led her to believe. He checks the weapons bag, and they’re still there, the ones Dad used to make them practice with. Dean’s too busy scratching off another layer of skin to notice Sam slip them into his pocket.
Sam keeps it casual. Strolls over to Dean’s bed. “You finished?”
Dean hands him the tray, and Sam snaps the handcuffs round his wrists in a surprisingly smooth move.
“Dude! What the fuck-?” Dean tries to jerk his wrists apart, instantly furious, and Sam catches the tray deftly, sets it on the nightstand.
“Told you to stop scratching.” Sam goes back to the counter, lifts out the last of his purchases.
“You think I won’t pick this lock in, like, two minutes?” Dean crows, but he’s mad as hell. “You are sad and deluded and so getting your sorry ass kicked, little brother.”
Sam nods, slips an oven mitt neatly over each hand, and Dean makes a strangled squawking sound in the back of his throat.
“I’ll take them off if you promise to stop scratching.” Sam eyes him as sternly as he can without collapsing into hysterics. “I’d hate to have to keep them on while you’re in the tub.” He jerks his head toward the bathroom, and there’s sheer raw terror in Dean’s eyes.
Sam can’t resist. “Hey, I remember Dad saying it was your job to give me a bath when I was little. Maybe it’s time I returned the favour.”
But still managed to take time out to write a little snark.
TITLE: Irritation
PG13: PG13 (gen)
CHARACTERS: Sam and Dean
DISCLAIMER: Even Kripke doesn't do this to Dean.
SPOILERS: Set Season 1, no particular spoilers
NOTES: 1270 words. Sam POV. The boys are feeling irritated.
Dean is crap at being sick.
Not being hurt.
He’s cool at being hurt. Hurt; Dean’s a poster child for stoicism. Sometimes Sam wonders if Dad persuaded Mom to leave Dean out all night on a hill after he was born, just to make sure he’d be tough enough to survive being a Winchester.
He guesses not, though. Dean says from what he remembers Mom had Dad totally whipped. Sam tries to imagine Dad like that, and fails.
But anyway, Dean. And being hurt. One time, when Dean was maybe fifteen, a werewolf ripped a gash bone-deep in his arm, and Dean sucked it up, took six stitches without making a freaking sound. Sam remembers being fifteen, and getting knocked in the head by a flying lamp, courtesy of a particularly bad-tempered poltergeist. He’d howled louder than Dean’s werewolf when Dad cleaned the cut on his forehead, and it hadn’t even needed stitches.
Dean sat next to him on the bed, and squeezed his hand, while Dad frowned sternly as he swabbed and lectured - Settle down, Sammy, it’s not that bad.
Dean was always a soldier when it came to battle scars. But, Jesus, he’s worse than a baby when it comes to being sick. Sam doesn’t remember him being sick that much when they were little. Neither of them were, he thinks, too busy getting banged up from hunting to leave any time for measles or strep throat or shit like that. Plus Dad was big into fresh air and physical activity, and however much he hated it when he was younger; he guesses he should thank the man for instilling the habits that have kept him in good shape.
He surveys the stand. Dean said soup. No, he whined soup. And crackers. He picks chicken noodle, the packet kind, and those dumb chicken in a biskit crackers. Guaranteed not to contain any traces of actual chicken. Huh. Dean’ll probably love them. He gets grape popsicles too, and finally some lotion, because if he has to listen to Dean bitch any more he might just have to kill him.
The cashier is clearly a mom, and she smiles sympathetically when she sees his stash, asks after his little one, offers advice on how to deal with the grouchiness. Sam takes her up on her suggestions and picks up a few extra items. He’s not sure how Dean’s going to react to all of this, but for once in his life, he’ll just have to do as he’s told. Not like he can actually resist, shape he’s in.
When he gets back, Dean’s mood hasn’t improved.
“Took you long enough.” He’s stretched out under the thin sheet, the blanket thrown on the floor because it’s too scratchy, apparently. Sweet Jesus.
“There was a line at the store.” Sam dumps the groceries on the tiny counter, boils up the kettle.
“I’m hungry,” Dean gripes, about three seconds after he’s torn open the packet of soup.
“You’re whiny.” Sam empties the powder into a mug and adds water. The packet soup doesn’t smell too gross, and the little dried bits of noodle soften up as he pokes them with a spoon. He opens the crackers, dumps a handful on the plate.
“Here you go. Knock yourself out.”
Dean sniffs the soup. Sniffs the crackers. “Chicken? Oh, you’re freaking hilarious.” He attempts to throw a cracker at Sam, and it barely reaches the end of the bed. He’s about to launch another when he stops suddenly, slaps his hand over his shoulder and scratches furiously.
Sam tries, he really does, but he can’t contain his laughter.
“You’re so going to regret this.” Dean’s bottom lip is sticking out; pouting like a five year old, and Sam wipes tears off his cheeks, struggles to get the giggles under control.
“Stop scratching. You’ll scar.”
Dean snorts. “Yeah, because that’s what’s bothering me.”
Sam takes a breath. “Eat your soup. I’m going to run you an oatmeal bath.”
“What!” Dean’s face is flaming, almost as red as the spots that cover every inch of his upper body. “You can’t make me - Ow!” Dean’s hand flies to his groin, and Sam guesses there might be a few spots on his lower body too.
“Dean, eat your soup,” Sam repeats calmly, then finishes unpacking the bag. He puts the calamine lotion on the nightstand, then opens the oatmeal.
Dean glares at him, but he starts to eat, pausing every few moments to pick at his spots. “Freaking haunted daycare centre. And what thanks do I get? Two weeks of hell.”
“Don’t exaggerate,” Sam reprimands. “It’s only chicken pox.”
“Only, he says.” Dean eyes him mutinously. “How come you aren’t all scabby and gross?” He sounds a little jealous. Okay, a lot jealous.
“I’m immune.” Now Sam feels slightly guilty. “Remember, you made Dad take me for my shots, after the time we had the flu.”
He thinks back to the doctor’s office, vaguely remembers squirming on Dad’s knee, screaming bloody murder, then Dean crouched in front of him, with candy.
Dean remembers too. “You were such a whiny little brat. Gave up two weeks' rations of M&Ms to get you shut your yap.” He snaps a cracker between his fingers. “And this is the thanks I get for being an awesome big brother.”
“Shut your yap.” Sam goes into the bathroom, starts filling the tub. He can still hear Dean bitching under his breath, and he tips the oatmeal into the water, swishing it gently. It feels weird, but when he takes his hand out, there’s a thin milky oil coating his fingers, oddly cool and soothing. The cashier told him it would ease the itch, and that his little boy would sleep a lot more comfortably afterwards.
He grins and goes back into the bedroom, where Dean’s finished his soup and is working on scratching his skin down to the bone.
“Dean!”
Dean freezes, initially guilty, then continues to rake his nails across his chest, angry red stripes intersecting the rash of spots.
Sam bites his lip, and silently thanks the cashier for her advice. Although he’s had to improvise, as Dean’s a little bigger than he’d led her to believe. He checks the weapons bag, and they’re still there, the ones Dad used to make them practice with. Dean’s too busy scratching off another layer of skin to notice Sam slip them into his pocket.
Sam keeps it casual. Strolls over to Dean’s bed. “You finished?”
Dean hands him the tray, and Sam snaps the handcuffs round his wrists in a surprisingly smooth move.
“Dude! What the fuck-?” Dean tries to jerk his wrists apart, instantly furious, and Sam catches the tray deftly, sets it on the nightstand.
“Told you to stop scratching.” Sam goes back to the counter, lifts out the last of his purchases.
“You think I won’t pick this lock in, like, two minutes?” Dean crows, but he’s mad as hell. “You are sad and deluded and so getting your sorry ass kicked, little brother.”
Sam nods, slips an oven mitt neatly over each hand, and Dean makes a strangled squawking sound in the back of his throat.
“I’ll take them off if you promise to stop scratching.” Sam eyes him as sternly as he can without collapsing into hysterics. “I’d hate to have to keep them on while you’re in the tub.” He jerks his head toward the bathroom, and there’s sheer raw terror in Dean’s eyes.
Sam can’t resist. “Hey, I remember Dad saying it was your job to give me a bath when I was little. Maybe it’s time I returned the favour.”