Fic: "Stitches" (Sam/Dean, R)
Title: Stitches
Characters: Sam, Dean
Rating: R
Warnings: Language, Wincesty thoughts.
Spoilers: None really.
Word Count: 1441
Disclaimer: None of the Winchesters belong to me, alas. If they did, Sam and Dean would wear towels a whole lot more often. Cut text also not mine, from "Tristan" by Patrick Wolf.
Summary: When Dean's hurt, Sam is always the one to stitch him back together.
Gashes and bruises mapping red and ochre and blue and purple and yellowish-fading-green, marking out, delineating all the places he needed to be more careful, all the places he let his guard down, all across the canvas of his body. Sam’s making some kind of damn clucking noise, like a demented mother hen and if Dean could turn, he’s pretty sure he’d smack him a few times to make it stop. As it stands, gritting out, “Jesus, can’t a man suffer in peace?!” is the best he’s got.
Sam exhales, almost a laugh, maybe, it’s hard to tell without being able to turn and look, since Dean’s flat on his stomach. But Sam’s hands are steady, sure, probing gently at one of the larger gashes across his ribs. Dean pretends he doesn’t yelp; Sam pretends not to hear. “I’ll have to stitch it,” he says, almost to himself.
“Get on with it,” Dean grunts. He doesn’t remember when Sammy learned to do this, learned to be the family medic. It was always Dad, and then somewhere along the line, it was Sam with the iodine, the peroxide, the holy water, the salt, the needle and thread. It was Sam who murmured comfortingly as he worked, entirely unlike Dad’s precise silence, Sam who handed him whiskey in a coffee mug afterwards, sometimes during. He remembers coming home to Sam, collapsing in a kitchen chair, or sometimes getting laid out--one time across the kitchen table, because it was closest and that was as far as Dad was going to get with his knee wrenched--and Sam would fix things. The kitchen was their hospital, the motel room their mobile surgery. And Sam understood that he was the surgeon, in as much as any fourteen-year-old kid could be.
When Sam left for school, Dean wondered several things, but not the least being who will protect him followed by who will stitch us up again, but he never let either have voice.
The bed shifts as Sam moves, fetching the old ammunition box that functions as medic kit, and the creak of the protesting hinges sounds like home to Dean. “We’re getting low on gauze,” Sam mutters, but Dean doesn’t say anything, just grunts again, something vaguely like agreement. Then Sam’s hands are on his skin again, and it is one of the profound mysteries of Dean’s existence how someone so gangly and awkward and big can manage to have a delicate, gentle touch. Almost tender. If he wasn’t in pain, that thought would go further, wander into the different things those hands could do to him, if only, if only. There’s the warm towel again, wiping away blood and ash and dirt, all the things that come with the territory and turn wounds into problems, then the sudden burn of peroxide as it hisses and sputters. Dean’s doing much the same thing, but Sam’s murmuring, things that could be endearments or the periodic table, it doesn’t matter. His voice is low, soft, familiar, one hundred percent Sam. “Just hold tight, all right?” he asks, but it’s not really a question. Dean knows that.
“With your freakishly huge mitts holding me down, I’m not about to get up and leave, Sammy.”
“You know, if you were ever quiet and did as you were told, then I’d worry,” Sam replies, and Dean hears the scissor snip of the thread being cut. “Hold still, I mean it.” He sounds fourteen again and nervous, as if he might hurt Dean more with that tiny needle and thread than the werewolf did with its claws. When the needle dips into skin and pulls out, Dean hisses and Sam starts his litany of comforting sounds, all hushes and its all rights and hold still, hold on, hold tights and almost dones and God, Deans, though the last runs straight to Dean’s heart, maybe his stomach too, both clenching tightly.
“It doesn’t hurt that bad,” Dean tells him, willing his voice steady as Sam finishes with one gash, then moves to the other. “You’ve always been good at this.”
Sam makes another noise, like a laugh, and Dean just watches his shadow move on the headboard, head bent and he knows his brother is entirely intend on his hands and Dean’s flesh, laser-guided precision and focus. He’s probably frowning, too, tongue sneaking out sinfully pink at the corner of his mouth, as if testing the air for trouble. He can visualize all of this with ease, and it’s better to think about Sam’s expression and the deep rumble of his voice than what his back feels like, infinitely better.
“There’s still some whiskey in that flask in the dash,” Sam offers when he finishes, and gently, he pours the holy water across Dean’s back, just like always. Insurance, he said the first time he did it, and now, it’s ritual. It’s Sam, sealing the wounds with his hands and his care, the best way he can manage. “I can get it for you, if you want? There’s not a lot of painkillers left in here, anyway.”
Dean nods a little, trying not to shift on the wet sheets, but he’s used to that feeling by now. At least he knows the bed’s not possessed, that’s a bonus, and the door clicks open and closed as Sam slips out. With his eyes closed and ears on high alert, he thinks of it as set on stun, he can hear the Impala’s doors, Sam’s footfalls, the motel room door, all of it. He sometimes wonders if he can actually hear Sam’s heart beat like this, or if it’s just his own in his ears.
“Here, drink,” urges Sam softly, the open flask held to his lips. The metal’s wet and warm, and he knows Sam has had his own swig of medicine for the evening. Dean licks the ridge, then lets Sam tip the whiskey in his mouth. It’s a delayed kiss, split by the piece of silver, but right now, it’s enough. It’s the little things that get a guy through, after all.
“Don’t take it back outside,” Dean says once he swallows. “Let’s just fucking sleep, huh?” His voice has that rough edge from the alcohol burn, from exhaustion and pain and a million other things.
“Your bed’s wet, that was a lot of holy water,” Sam says, and Dean feels his hands, urging him up.
He groans, makes a face. “Jesus, Sammy, c’mon...” His head’s up, though, and he sees Sam shake his head, face still smeared with blood, eyes standing out brilliantly in the two great bruises that surround them. Dean didn’t know exhaustion could look like that on his brother, his little brother, his Sammy, and he feels his gut twist uncomfortably. He can protect him from a lot of things, from anything that moves, anything that comes out of the night. He trusts in his ability to hit a target, to fight and win, to exorcise, but he can’t send the demons in Sam’s own mind back to hell. It is, Dean supposes, one of his greater failings in life. But that doesn’t matter. He’ll figure out how to do it, that’s the important thing. He’ll figure it out. They’ll figure it out.
“No, move, don’t make me drag your ass.” Sam’s holding him mostly upright, Dean trying to help but exhausted, battered muscles don’t always want to be team players, and he ends up collapsing on the other bed, face pressed into the kiss of clean sheets, and he feels Sam’s warmth almost surrounding him. And then he’s being moved, adjusted, made comfortable. It takes some will to force his face out of the smothering embrace of the pillow, but he does when Sam pulls away, listening to the rustle of clothes being shed, a few hisses of wounds being cleaned, and then the infinitely familiar sound of running water. He tries not to visualize Sam getting into the shower, and that also takes some will. Finally, the mattress dips again, and there’s Sam, shower hot and somewhat damp and comfortingly, solidly real pressing against him, careful around wounds and bruises. “Sorry,” he apologizes, “but I don’t sleep in the wet spot for anybody.”
“Freak,” Dean mutters.
Sam laughs softly. “Jerk.”
“Bitch.”
The insults trade like I love you, and there’s Sam, his Sammy, his baby brother, the centre of his orbit in this world, cuddling up against him, fingers reaching up to stroke his hair soothingly. “Just sleep,” Sam murmurs. “Just sleep.” Dean hears the unspoken I’m here and this, he knows, this is enough.
Characters: Sam, Dean
Rating: R
Warnings: Language, Wincesty thoughts.
Spoilers: None really.
Word Count: 1441
Disclaimer: None of the Winchesters belong to me, alas. If they did, Sam and Dean would wear towels a whole lot more often. Cut text also not mine, from "Tristan" by Patrick Wolf.
Summary: When Dean's hurt, Sam is always the one to stitch him back together.
Gashes and bruises mapping red and ochre and blue and purple and yellowish-fading-green, marking out, delineating all the places he needed to be more careful, all the places he let his guard down, all across the canvas of his body. Sam’s making some kind of damn clucking noise, like a demented mother hen and if Dean could turn, he’s pretty sure he’d smack him a few times to make it stop. As it stands, gritting out, “Jesus, can’t a man suffer in peace?!” is the best he’s got.
Sam exhales, almost a laugh, maybe, it’s hard to tell without being able to turn and look, since Dean’s flat on his stomach. But Sam’s hands are steady, sure, probing gently at one of the larger gashes across his ribs. Dean pretends he doesn’t yelp; Sam pretends not to hear. “I’ll have to stitch it,” he says, almost to himself.
“Get on with it,” Dean grunts. He doesn’t remember when Sammy learned to do this, learned to be the family medic. It was always Dad, and then somewhere along the line, it was Sam with the iodine, the peroxide, the holy water, the salt, the needle and thread. It was Sam who murmured comfortingly as he worked, entirely unlike Dad’s precise silence, Sam who handed him whiskey in a coffee mug afterwards, sometimes during. He remembers coming home to Sam, collapsing in a kitchen chair, or sometimes getting laid out--one time across the kitchen table, because it was closest and that was as far as Dad was going to get with his knee wrenched--and Sam would fix things. The kitchen was their hospital, the motel room their mobile surgery. And Sam understood that he was the surgeon, in as much as any fourteen-year-old kid could be.
When Sam left for school, Dean wondered several things, but not the least being who will protect him followed by who will stitch us up again, but he never let either have voice.
The bed shifts as Sam moves, fetching the old ammunition box that functions as medic kit, and the creak of the protesting hinges sounds like home to Dean. “We’re getting low on gauze,” Sam mutters, but Dean doesn’t say anything, just grunts again, something vaguely like agreement. Then Sam’s hands are on his skin again, and it is one of the profound mysteries of Dean’s existence how someone so gangly and awkward and big can manage to have a delicate, gentle touch. Almost tender. If he wasn’t in pain, that thought would go further, wander into the different things those hands could do to him, if only, if only. There’s the warm towel again, wiping away blood and ash and dirt, all the things that come with the territory and turn wounds into problems, then the sudden burn of peroxide as it hisses and sputters. Dean’s doing much the same thing, but Sam’s murmuring, things that could be endearments or the periodic table, it doesn’t matter. His voice is low, soft, familiar, one hundred percent Sam. “Just hold tight, all right?” he asks, but it’s not really a question. Dean knows that.
“With your freakishly huge mitts holding me down, I’m not about to get up and leave, Sammy.”
“You know, if you were ever quiet and did as you were told, then I’d worry,” Sam replies, and Dean hears the scissor snip of the thread being cut. “Hold still, I mean it.” He sounds fourteen again and nervous, as if he might hurt Dean more with that tiny needle and thread than the werewolf did with its claws. When the needle dips into skin and pulls out, Dean hisses and Sam starts his litany of comforting sounds, all hushes and its all rights and hold still, hold on, hold tights and almost dones and God, Deans, though the last runs straight to Dean’s heart, maybe his stomach too, both clenching tightly.
“It doesn’t hurt that bad,” Dean tells him, willing his voice steady as Sam finishes with one gash, then moves to the other. “You’ve always been good at this.”
Sam makes another noise, like a laugh, and Dean just watches his shadow move on the headboard, head bent and he knows his brother is entirely intend on his hands and Dean’s flesh, laser-guided precision and focus. He’s probably frowning, too, tongue sneaking out sinfully pink at the corner of his mouth, as if testing the air for trouble. He can visualize all of this with ease, and it’s better to think about Sam’s expression and the deep rumble of his voice than what his back feels like, infinitely better.
“There’s still some whiskey in that flask in the dash,” Sam offers when he finishes, and gently, he pours the holy water across Dean’s back, just like always. Insurance, he said the first time he did it, and now, it’s ritual. It’s Sam, sealing the wounds with his hands and his care, the best way he can manage. “I can get it for you, if you want? There’s not a lot of painkillers left in here, anyway.”
Dean nods a little, trying not to shift on the wet sheets, but he’s used to that feeling by now. At least he knows the bed’s not possessed, that’s a bonus, and the door clicks open and closed as Sam slips out. With his eyes closed and ears on high alert, he thinks of it as set on stun, he can hear the Impala’s doors, Sam’s footfalls, the motel room door, all of it. He sometimes wonders if he can actually hear Sam’s heart beat like this, or if it’s just his own in his ears.
“Here, drink,” urges Sam softly, the open flask held to his lips. The metal’s wet and warm, and he knows Sam has had his own swig of medicine for the evening. Dean licks the ridge, then lets Sam tip the whiskey in his mouth. It’s a delayed kiss, split by the piece of silver, but right now, it’s enough. It’s the little things that get a guy through, after all.
“Don’t take it back outside,” Dean says once he swallows. “Let’s just fucking sleep, huh?” His voice has that rough edge from the alcohol burn, from exhaustion and pain and a million other things.
“Your bed’s wet, that was a lot of holy water,” Sam says, and Dean feels his hands, urging him up.
He groans, makes a face. “Jesus, Sammy, c’mon...” His head’s up, though, and he sees Sam shake his head, face still smeared with blood, eyes standing out brilliantly in the two great bruises that surround them. Dean didn’t know exhaustion could look like that on his brother, his little brother, his Sammy, and he feels his gut twist uncomfortably. He can protect him from a lot of things, from anything that moves, anything that comes out of the night. He trusts in his ability to hit a target, to fight and win, to exorcise, but he can’t send the demons in Sam’s own mind back to hell. It is, Dean supposes, one of his greater failings in life. But that doesn’t matter. He’ll figure out how to do it, that’s the important thing. He’ll figure it out. They’ll figure it out.
“No, move, don’t make me drag your ass.” Sam’s holding him mostly upright, Dean trying to help but exhausted, battered muscles don’t always want to be team players, and he ends up collapsing on the other bed, face pressed into the kiss of clean sheets, and he feels Sam’s warmth almost surrounding him. And then he’s being moved, adjusted, made comfortable. It takes some will to force his face out of the smothering embrace of the pillow, but he does when Sam pulls away, listening to the rustle of clothes being shed, a few hisses of wounds being cleaned, and then the infinitely familiar sound of running water. He tries not to visualize Sam getting into the shower, and that also takes some will. Finally, the mattress dips again, and there’s Sam, shower hot and somewhat damp and comfortingly, solidly real pressing against him, careful around wounds and bruises. “Sorry,” he apologizes, “but I don’t sleep in the wet spot for anybody.”
“Freak,” Dean mutters.
Sam laughs softly. “Jerk.”
“Bitch.”
The insults trade like I love you, and there’s Sam, his Sammy, his baby brother, the centre of his orbit in this world, cuddling up against him, fingers reaching up to stroke his hair soothingly. “Just sleep,” Sam murmurs. “Just sleep.” Dean hears the unspoken I’m here and this, he knows, this is enough.