Wagon Wheel
Title: Wagon Wheel
Author: hopeintheashes
Rating: PG-13
Genre/pairing: Hurt/Comfort, Gen
Characters: Sam, Dean
Word count: 800
Summary: They're up north in the winter, and it's unendingly cold. It's getting to Sam.
Warnings: Language, brief mention of self-harm
Disclaimer: These boys? Definitely not mine.
A/N: I've been writing for a good long time, but this is my first foray into fanfiction. The title is from the Old Crow Medicine Show song of the same name. Many thanks to kat_of_rafters for her encouragement and beta skills, and for introducing me to this show and its wonderful fandom.
Also available on AO3.
. . .
. . .
Blood spooling away down motel drains-it’s so familiar, it’s almost comforting. Trembling hands bracing hard against stained sinks and shower walls. Trails of blood on colorless tile, leading back out bathroom doors. How many filthy carpets hold pieces of them? Jesus. Too many to count.
“Hey!” Dean’s voice snaps Sam back, and he knows what’s coming next. “If you take all the hot water again, I swear on my baby’s original leather-”
Sam doesn’t bother waiting to hear what Dean’s going to threaten him with this time, just buries his head under the spray and lets the water fill his ears. White noise is good-makes it harder to think. Unfocused, he watches his feet through the steam and the blood, his blood, that’s swelling, spilling, sliding away.
They’re up north in the winter, and it’s unendingly cold. It’s getting to Sam. Every day, he stands under the hottest water the tired motel taps can muster until Dean’s voice comes barreling through the paper-thin walls, yelling at him to get out of there, to leave some water for the rest of creation, to quit being such a girl. Some days, when the water’s burning, it can almost push back the chill.
Sam’s been colder than this before. He’s been so cold he could’ve died, and once or twice, he almost did. This isn’t that. This is an ache that flares and fades but never quite abates. Jacket on flannel on t-shirt on skin, thin motel blankets on thin motel sheets, every layer as ineffectual as the last. Last week, he put a lighter to the skin on his wrist, but the growl of the Impala announced Dean’s early return, and he hasn’t tried again.
“Sam! Come on!”
Dean’s getting impatient, and really, he has every right. After weeks of research and more than a few dead ends, they’d finally found the necklace to salt and burn, stray blonde hairs still stuck in the clasp. There’d been a fight, but in spite of the blood flowing down the shower drain, their injuries were superficial. The worst part had been searching the abandoned house. There’d been snow coming in through broken windows, the cold numbing their hands and frosting their breath.
“We should just burn it down,” Sam had said. “Burn the whole fucking thing down and be done with it.”
Dean had raised his eyebrows and kept on searching. “Town this small, arson’s big news. Most excitement those cops’ll have their whole career.” They were upstairs by then, skirting holes in the rotting floorboards of what used to be a bedroom. “And out-of-towners? They’re big news too.” He pulled open a dresser drawer. “Gotcha.”
They burned the necklace in the bathroom sink, fighting off its ghostly owner until she, too, disappeared in flames. They were back in the car before Sam realized, at Dean’s muttered threats, that there was blood soaking through his jeans and onto the leather seat.
Sam’s not sure how the Impala fared. He hopes it looks better than the bathroom floor. But the water is running clear now, and its heat is starting to fade. Sam turns off the tap and reaches for a towel, then takes a deep breath and opens the door.
Dean’s got his eyebrows raised again, an accusing finger pointed at Sam’s face as he stands up from the rickety table. “Next time, I’m going first.” There’s a sharp edge to his voice, but Sam knows it’ll never happen. Take care of Sammy is, he’s quite sure, hardwired into his brother’s brain.
Dean emerges five minutes later, and he looks refreshed rather than pissed, so the hot water must’ve held. Sam’s sitting up in bed, laptop out, and Dean glances his way as he pulls clean boxers out of his duffel. “Looking for another hunt already?” Sam shrugs, noncommittal. Dean shakes his head, tells him, “It can wait,” and turns off the light.
When Sam opens his eyes, Dean is sitting at the table, Sam’s laptop open in front of him. “Found something. Pack up.”
Sam tries not to move too slow, not to let Dean see him struggling. It’s not until they’re back in the Impala that Sam realizes that-of course-Dean’s known all along.
Sam’s got his long arms wrapped around his ribs, absently wondering whether he’s trying to hold himself together, and whether it’ll work.
“Dude, relax.” Sam looks up. “We’re getting the hell out of Dodge. Screw winter. The case I found? It’s in North Carolina.”
Sam half wants to hug him. Instead, he lets his arms relax and offers something like a smile. Dean turns the heat to high, turns the music up, and turns the Impala south.
. . .
. . .
Author: hopeintheashes
Rating: PG-13
Genre/pairing: Hurt/Comfort, Gen
Characters: Sam, Dean
Word count: 800
Summary: They're up north in the winter, and it's unendingly cold. It's getting to Sam.
Warnings: Language, brief mention of self-harm
Disclaimer: These boys? Definitely not mine.
A/N: I've been writing for a good long time, but this is my first foray into fanfiction. The title is from the Old Crow Medicine Show song of the same name. Many thanks to kat_of_rafters for her encouragement and beta skills, and for introducing me to this show and its wonderful fandom.
Also available on AO3.
. . .
. . .
Blood spooling away down motel drains-it’s so familiar, it’s almost comforting. Trembling hands bracing hard against stained sinks and shower walls. Trails of blood on colorless tile, leading back out bathroom doors. How many filthy carpets hold pieces of them? Jesus. Too many to count.
“Hey!” Dean’s voice snaps Sam back, and he knows what’s coming next. “If you take all the hot water again, I swear on my baby’s original leather-”
Sam doesn’t bother waiting to hear what Dean’s going to threaten him with this time, just buries his head under the spray and lets the water fill his ears. White noise is good-makes it harder to think. Unfocused, he watches his feet through the steam and the blood, his blood, that’s swelling, spilling, sliding away.
They’re up north in the winter, and it’s unendingly cold. It’s getting to Sam. Every day, he stands under the hottest water the tired motel taps can muster until Dean’s voice comes barreling through the paper-thin walls, yelling at him to get out of there, to leave some water for the rest of creation, to quit being such a girl. Some days, when the water’s burning, it can almost push back the chill.
Sam’s been colder than this before. He’s been so cold he could’ve died, and once or twice, he almost did. This isn’t that. This is an ache that flares and fades but never quite abates. Jacket on flannel on t-shirt on skin, thin motel blankets on thin motel sheets, every layer as ineffectual as the last. Last week, he put a lighter to the skin on his wrist, but the growl of the Impala announced Dean’s early return, and he hasn’t tried again.
“Sam! Come on!”
Dean’s getting impatient, and really, he has every right. After weeks of research and more than a few dead ends, they’d finally found the necklace to salt and burn, stray blonde hairs still stuck in the clasp. There’d been a fight, but in spite of the blood flowing down the shower drain, their injuries were superficial. The worst part had been searching the abandoned house. There’d been snow coming in through broken windows, the cold numbing their hands and frosting their breath.
“We should just burn it down,” Sam had said. “Burn the whole fucking thing down and be done with it.”
Dean had raised his eyebrows and kept on searching. “Town this small, arson’s big news. Most excitement those cops’ll have their whole career.” They were upstairs by then, skirting holes in the rotting floorboards of what used to be a bedroom. “And out-of-towners? They’re big news too.” He pulled open a dresser drawer. “Gotcha.”
They burned the necklace in the bathroom sink, fighting off its ghostly owner until she, too, disappeared in flames. They were back in the car before Sam realized, at Dean’s muttered threats, that there was blood soaking through his jeans and onto the leather seat.
Sam’s not sure how the Impala fared. He hopes it looks better than the bathroom floor. But the water is running clear now, and its heat is starting to fade. Sam turns off the tap and reaches for a towel, then takes a deep breath and opens the door.
Dean’s got his eyebrows raised again, an accusing finger pointed at Sam’s face as he stands up from the rickety table. “Next time, I’m going first.” There’s a sharp edge to his voice, but Sam knows it’ll never happen. Take care of Sammy is, he’s quite sure, hardwired into his brother’s brain.
Dean emerges five minutes later, and he looks refreshed rather than pissed, so the hot water must’ve held. Sam’s sitting up in bed, laptop out, and Dean glances his way as he pulls clean boxers out of his duffel. “Looking for another hunt already?” Sam shrugs, noncommittal. Dean shakes his head, tells him, “It can wait,” and turns off the light.
When Sam opens his eyes, Dean is sitting at the table, Sam’s laptop open in front of him. “Found something. Pack up.”
Sam tries not to move too slow, not to let Dean see him struggling. It’s not until they’re back in the Impala that Sam realizes that-of course-Dean’s known all along.
Sam’s got his long arms wrapped around his ribs, absently wondering whether he’s trying to hold himself together, and whether it’ll work.
“Dude, relax.” Sam looks up. “We’re getting the hell out of Dodge. Screw winter. The case I found? It’s in North Carolina.”
Sam half wants to hug him. Instead, he lets his arms relax and offers something like a smile. Dean turns the heat to high, turns the music up, and turns the Impala south.
. . .
. . .