*waves tentatively, bringing fic*
First, I'd like to thank everyone for their good wishes concerning my mum. We're still waiting for test results and hoping for the best. The new pain medication is working quite well, and the physiotherapy gives her some temporary relief.
The computer might finally be virus-free. I'm keeping my fingers crossed and running daily scans, and so far so good.
And I've managed to write fic. Not very long, and not what I was planning to write, but at least I've managed to write something.
TITLE: Under Control
RATING: PG13 gen
CHARACTERS: teen Sam, teen Dean and John
DISCLAIMER: Not my boys
NOTES: 3 x 500 word ficlets, 3 POVS. Sam sleepwalks.
The bedroom door is closed, as if to feign some semblance of privacy. Not that it works. Even with his temper reigned in; Dad’s voice carries, his harsh whispers sharply defined through the flimsy plywood.
Sam can picture him easily; the vein in his temple throbbing lightly with the effort of not yelling. Lips thin, flecked with fine specks of spittle; teeth so tightly clamped that his sibilants hiss and whistle as they escape. Eyes dark, the pupils huge and round and black, anger angling his brows and creasing the laughter lines at the corners to something deeper, more dangerous.
Scary. In all the nightmares he’s ever not been able to remember, Sam’s pretty sure nothing was quite as terrifying as John Winchester in restrained fury mode.
He’s guiltily glad it’s not him behind the door facing their father’s wrath, though by all rights it should be.
It’s not like it’s even Dean’s fault.
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me about this?”
“Because we didn’t know where the hell you were.” Sam whispers under his breath, wills Dean to say it, but Dean’s actual response is the slightly more guarded “I figured I had it under control.” He doesn’t actually say 'Relax, dude,' but Sam can hear it implied in his soothing tone.
“Under control?” Dad’s voice slides up in pitch and Sam takes an involuntary step back from the door. He misses the next part of Dad’s whispered tirade, catching only the tail-end as he presses his ear back against the worn wood. “-Christ Almighty, Dean!”
Sam remembers waking up in their dad’s room, Dean’s hand resting lightly on his arm. He’d let himself be led, only half-aware of the rough floorboards under his bare feet, guided by Dean’s voice, a soft reassuring tone he vaguely remembers from early childhood. “S’okay, Sammy, back to bed. Easy, now.”
It’s not the first time. First time, he woke in the kitchen, blinking in a sudden flash of fluorescent lightning, Dean’s bleary “what the fuck” morphing instantly to a quietly concerned “Sammy?”
It’s happened a couple of times since then, waking up once in the hallway, once at the door of their bedroom, with Dean beside him, ready to lead him back to bed. Both times, Dad had been away.
And somehow, now, that makes Dean responsible for the whole sleepwalking deal.
“I told you to watch out for your brother.”
Second verse, same as the first. Doesn’t Dean ever get sick of hearing that order? If he was Dean, he’d tell Dad that his brother was plenty old enough to watch out for himself. And what was Dean supposed to do, anyway-stay awake all night on the off-chance that Sam might decide on some nocturnal wandering?
But Dean doesn’t argue. He never does, not when it comes to looking out for Sam. The quiet apology that Dean offers to their father makes Sam curl his fist in frustrated despair, fingernails digging into the soft meat of his palm.
It’s his fault.
Dean has always thrived on rigidly defined rules of behaviour; set out by his father before he was old enough to understand their true importance.
Watch out for Sammy.
He understands the importance of that order. The terrible things that can happen if he relaxes his guard, neglects his duty. So when Sam started sleepwalking, Dean simply incorporated it into his ‘watching out for Sammy’ duties.
He’s always slept lightly, even before. Dad told him that once, when Dean was sick and Dad had to sit up with him all night. Dad let him eat popsicles in bed and told Dean stories about when he was little and wouldn’t sleep for more than an hour at a time. Dad had stayed close by, dozed in the chair next to Dean’s bed until his fever finally broke. The next night, in quiet quarantine, Dean had cried himself to sleep.
The whole light-sleeping thing turned out to be pretty convenient. He’d been woken by Sam getting out of bed the first time; figured he was headed for the bathroom. Dean heard him stumbling about in the kitchen, and found him standing in front of the open refrigerator, looking for his Boy Scout merit badge. The one which had been presented to him by Miss Piggy, Sam announced with wide-eyed sincerity.
It happened a few more times, and usually Dean got him back to bed before Sam ever woke up. A couple of times, though, Sam came to in the hallway, dazed and muttering crazy shit about muppets, which he steadfastly denied all knowledge of the next morning.
Dean’s gotten used to it; going to sleep with the expectation of waking unexpectedly. It’s become part of his routine, his body moving effortlessly into quickly established patterns.
Dad’s right to be mad at him, though. Dean should have told him when it first started, when Dad came back from the hunt.
But Dad had come home so tired, the lines on his face etched deep with exhaustion, and Dean knew he didn’t need to be freaking out about Sammy. And anyway, they had it under control; Dean was handling it. It wasn’t like they ever planned to hide it from Dad, it just didn’t come up.
Until tonight.
Dean sits on the bed, his hand resting on his thigh, wrist turned awkwardly to expose his palm. Dad swabs it roughly, pressing down hard. It hurts now, suddenly alive with the sharp bite of antiseptic, the skin pulling tight along the whip-thin line. Dean bites down on his bottom lip, sealing a silent hiss of pain.
Dad’s breath whistles through his teeth, anger instead of pain. “Jesus, Dean.” He shakes his head, and lapses into horrified silence.
Dean knows that silence. The one his father reserves for Dean’s most spectacular fuck-ups, when there are no words to describe how badly he has failed.
A sin of omission is still a sin.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers and offers his palm up in contrition.
John pulls Dean’s hand forward, swiping the antiseptic over his whole palm. He’s rougher than he means to be, pressing against the taut skin, looking for evidence of infection. It seems to be pretty clean, though. All it needs now is a dressing and some time to heal.
He lets out the breath he’s been holding in a soft profanity, then shakes his head in dismayed wonder. He’s still not completely sure what exactly happened, and Dean’s far too shaken up to give any kind of coherent debrief.
John had finished the hunt earlier than anticipated. He could have spent the night at a motel, but he figured he’d get a jump on the traffic, be home just after midnight. Surprise the boys in the morning. Well, he’d certainly got the surprise part right.
The hunt had gone pretty much according to plan, but the drive home was a bitch. It started raining an hour into the journey, just too late to turn back. A river of water running down the windshield, wipers worse than useless. Then the car in front, the only other car on the whole goddamn highway, drifted onto the shoulder. Mom and two kids in the car. John couldn’t drive by and leave them.
It was a slow puncture, and John had changed the wheel as fast as he could while kneeling in liquid mud. The wind whipped at his coat, drove the rain down the back of his neck, numbed his fingers to unfamiliar clumsiness. Mom and the kids had proclaimed him a hero. Some hero.
He finally got in around two, and both boys were asleep in bed. Sometimes Dean would wait up for him, especially if he knew John was going to be back late. He was glad, then, that he hadn’t called ahead; kept Dean up for no good reason.
John had crashed, post-hunt euphoria and highway heroism draining away in heavy slumber. He has no memories of dreams, only of waking too suddenly, abruptly aware of a presence in the room. Instinct drove his hand under his pillow, searching out the knife he kept there.
Dean had stopped him, of course.
“I figured I had it under control.”
“Under control? Goddamnit, son, I could have killed him.” Could have killed you. “Christ Almighty, Dean!”
“I’m sorry,” Dean whispers, and John’s chest constricts painfully at the remorse in Dean’s apology. The kid has nothing to be sorry for. None of this is Dean’s fault.
John knows who fucked up tonight, and it wasn’t Dean. He looks at the thin line sliced across Dean’s palm, his smeared stigmata. Evidence of his sacrifice, of what Dean will do to defend his brother.
How many times has he told Dean to watch out for Sammy? Relied on Dean to do whatever was necessary to keep Sam safe. Trained it into him to protect his brother, no matter what the cost.
And underneath the horror and shame he’s feeling, John swallows down a guilty sense of pride.
The computer might finally be virus-free. I'm keeping my fingers crossed and running daily scans, and so far so good.
And I've managed to write fic. Not very long, and not what I was planning to write, but at least I've managed to write something.
TITLE: Under Control
RATING: PG13 gen
CHARACTERS: teen Sam, teen Dean and John
DISCLAIMER: Not my boys
NOTES: 3 x 500 word ficlets, 3 POVS. Sam sleepwalks.
The bedroom door is closed, as if to feign some semblance of privacy. Not that it works. Even with his temper reigned in; Dad’s voice carries, his harsh whispers sharply defined through the flimsy plywood.
Sam can picture him easily; the vein in his temple throbbing lightly with the effort of not yelling. Lips thin, flecked with fine specks of spittle; teeth so tightly clamped that his sibilants hiss and whistle as they escape. Eyes dark, the pupils huge and round and black, anger angling his brows and creasing the laughter lines at the corners to something deeper, more dangerous.
Scary. In all the nightmares he’s ever not been able to remember, Sam’s pretty sure nothing was quite as terrifying as John Winchester in restrained fury mode.
He’s guiltily glad it’s not him behind the door facing their father’s wrath, though by all rights it should be.
It’s not like it’s even Dean’s fault.
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me about this?”
“Because we didn’t know where the hell you were.” Sam whispers under his breath, wills Dean to say it, but Dean’s actual response is the slightly more guarded “I figured I had it under control.” He doesn’t actually say 'Relax, dude,' but Sam can hear it implied in his soothing tone.
“Under control?” Dad’s voice slides up in pitch and Sam takes an involuntary step back from the door. He misses the next part of Dad’s whispered tirade, catching only the tail-end as he presses his ear back against the worn wood. “-Christ Almighty, Dean!”
Sam remembers waking up in their dad’s room, Dean’s hand resting lightly on his arm. He’d let himself be led, only half-aware of the rough floorboards under his bare feet, guided by Dean’s voice, a soft reassuring tone he vaguely remembers from early childhood. “S’okay, Sammy, back to bed. Easy, now.”
It’s not the first time. First time, he woke in the kitchen, blinking in a sudden flash of fluorescent lightning, Dean’s bleary “what the fuck” morphing instantly to a quietly concerned “Sammy?”
It’s happened a couple of times since then, waking up once in the hallway, once at the door of their bedroom, with Dean beside him, ready to lead him back to bed. Both times, Dad had been away.
And somehow, now, that makes Dean responsible for the whole sleepwalking deal.
“I told you to watch out for your brother.”
Second verse, same as the first. Doesn’t Dean ever get sick of hearing that order? If he was Dean, he’d tell Dad that his brother was plenty old enough to watch out for himself. And what was Dean supposed to do, anyway-stay awake all night on the off-chance that Sam might decide on some nocturnal wandering?
But Dean doesn’t argue. He never does, not when it comes to looking out for Sam. The quiet apology that Dean offers to their father makes Sam curl his fist in frustrated despair, fingernails digging into the soft meat of his palm.
It’s his fault.
Dean has always thrived on rigidly defined rules of behaviour; set out by his father before he was old enough to understand their true importance.
Watch out for Sammy.
He understands the importance of that order. The terrible things that can happen if he relaxes his guard, neglects his duty. So when Sam started sleepwalking, Dean simply incorporated it into his ‘watching out for Sammy’ duties.
He’s always slept lightly, even before. Dad told him that once, when Dean was sick and Dad had to sit up with him all night. Dad let him eat popsicles in bed and told Dean stories about when he was little and wouldn’t sleep for more than an hour at a time. Dad had stayed close by, dozed in the chair next to Dean’s bed until his fever finally broke. The next night, in quiet quarantine, Dean had cried himself to sleep.
The whole light-sleeping thing turned out to be pretty convenient. He’d been woken by Sam getting out of bed the first time; figured he was headed for the bathroom. Dean heard him stumbling about in the kitchen, and found him standing in front of the open refrigerator, looking for his Boy Scout merit badge. The one which had been presented to him by Miss Piggy, Sam announced with wide-eyed sincerity.
It happened a few more times, and usually Dean got him back to bed before Sam ever woke up. A couple of times, though, Sam came to in the hallway, dazed and muttering crazy shit about muppets, which he steadfastly denied all knowledge of the next morning.
Dean’s gotten used to it; going to sleep with the expectation of waking unexpectedly. It’s become part of his routine, his body moving effortlessly into quickly established patterns.
Dad’s right to be mad at him, though. Dean should have told him when it first started, when Dad came back from the hunt.
But Dad had come home so tired, the lines on his face etched deep with exhaustion, and Dean knew he didn’t need to be freaking out about Sammy. And anyway, they had it under control; Dean was handling it. It wasn’t like they ever planned to hide it from Dad, it just didn’t come up.
Until tonight.
Dean sits on the bed, his hand resting on his thigh, wrist turned awkwardly to expose his palm. Dad swabs it roughly, pressing down hard. It hurts now, suddenly alive with the sharp bite of antiseptic, the skin pulling tight along the whip-thin line. Dean bites down on his bottom lip, sealing a silent hiss of pain.
Dad’s breath whistles through his teeth, anger instead of pain. “Jesus, Dean.” He shakes his head, and lapses into horrified silence.
Dean knows that silence. The one his father reserves for Dean’s most spectacular fuck-ups, when there are no words to describe how badly he has failed.
A sin of omission is still a sin.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers and offers his palm up in contrition.
John pulls Dean’s hand forward, swiping the antiseptic over his whole palm. He’s rougher than he means to be, pressing against the taut skin, looking for evidence of infection. It seems to be pretty clean, though. All it needs now is a dressing and some time to heal.
He lets out the breath he’s been holding in a soft profanity, then shakes his head in dismayed wonder. He’s still not completely sure what exactly happened, and Dean’s far too shaken up to give any kind of coherent debrief.
John had finished the hunt earlier than anticipated. He could have spent the night at a motel, but he figured he’d get a jump on the traffic, be home just after midnight. Surprise the boys in the morning. Well, he’d certainly got the surprise part right.
The hunt had gone pretty much according to plan, but the drive home was a bitch. It started raining an hour into the journey, just too late to turn back. A river of water running down the windshield, wipers worse than useless. Then the car in front, the only other car on the whole goddamn highway, drifted onto the shoulder. Mom and two kids in the car. John couldn’t drive by and leave them.
It was a slow puncture, and John had changed the wheel as fast as he could while kneeling in liquid mud. The wind whipped at his coat, drove the rain down the back of his neck, numbed his fingers to unfamiliar clumsiness. Mom and the kids had proclaimed him a hero. Some hero.
He finally got in around two, and both boys were asleep in bed. Sometimes Dean would wait up for him, especially if he knew John was going to be back late. He was glad, then, that he hadn’t called ahead; kept Dean up for no good reason.
John had crashed, post-hunt euphoria and highway heroism draining away in heavy slumber. He has no memories of dreams, only of waking too suddenly, abruptly aware of a presence in the room. Instinct drove his hand under his pillow, searching out the knife he kept there.
Dean had stopped him, of course.
“I figured I had it under control.”
“Under control? Goddamnit, son, I could have killed him.” Could have killed you. “Christ Almighty, Dean!”
“I’m sorry,” Dean whispers, and John’s chest constricts painfully at the remorse in Dean’s apology. The kid has nothing to be sorry for. None of this is Dean’s fault.
John knows who fucked up tonight, and it wasn’t Dean. He looks at the thin line sliced across Dean’s palm, his smeared stigmata. Evidence of his sacrifice, of what Dean will do to defend his brother.
How many times has he told Dean to watch out for Sammy? Relied on Dean to do whatever was necessary to keep Sam safe. Trained it into him to protect his brother, no matter what the cost.
And underneath the horror and shame he’s feeling, John swallows down a guilty sense of pride.