SPN FIC: "Work Conditions and Physical Capabilities"
TITLE: Work Conditions and Physical Capabilities
AUTHOR: mad_server
PAIRING: Sam/Dean
RATING: PG13
SPOILERS: Nope
WORDS: 900
A/N: I was job hunting the other day and I came across a post advertising for an ambulance driver. The section headings, and the title, are taken verbatim from that post.
SUMMARY: Hunting's a tough job.
Fast-paced environment
"One day," Dean muses over the roar of the engine, "I'm gonna be a cook."
"A cook?" Sam looks up from the passenger seat, where he's unwrapping Dean's burger.
"Not professionally," Dean clarifies. He swipes a handful of fries from the big paper bag in Sam's lap. "I'll be that good, though. Lots of secret ingredients."
Sam passes him his quarter-pounder and brushes a dusting of salt off Dean's jaw. "I can't wait."
Work under pressure, Tight deadlines
"Everybody out of the library," Dean bellows, pointing at the exit. A book dive-bombs a woman and knocks the briefcase out of her hand. "I've got it," Dean yells, scooping it up and herding her out. "Here! Move, go go go!"
Sam's got two books pinned to his chest. "Dean," he calls, nodding toward a third that's fluttering near the ceiling. Dean locks his gaze on it as the last patron brushes past him out the door.
"All right," Dean tells the book. He picks up a chair and takes careful aim. "We can do this the easy way, or we can do this the hard way."
Something collides with his head.
Repetitive tasks, Physically demanding
"My love, my lips are bewildered, not having you to kiss."
"Good, Sam." Dean tosses another shovelful of dirt onto the growing pile. "It's working."
Sam looks up anxiously as a breeze rustles the leaves in the tall graveyard trees, then bends his head over the book. "Hurry home to me. Mrs. Periweather gave a splendid tea and all I could think was how fine your hands would look pouring from the big silver service."
Pausing, Dean touches his eyebrow, then leans dizzily against the headstone.
"Dean?"
He swallows and picks up his spade. "Just a little concussion. Keep reading to our fine-handed pal here before he sees what I'm doing to his grave."
Manual dexterity, Attention to detail
"Hold still."
Dean pinches the bridge of his nose and submits to having his shirt buttons undone for him.
"Okay," Sam murmurs, peeling the cold cloth off his brother's scalp. He prods at the bump around the wound and Dean hisses, smacks away his arm. "Ow!" Sam protests. "Violent."
"Oh, excuse me, Nurse Ratched. Did you want to give me some electroshock, too?"
"The bleeding's stopped. You don't need stitches. Congratulations." Sam packs up the first aid kit and clicks it shut.
Dean covers his eyes and exhales heavily through his nose. "Sam, I'm sorry we had to burn the book."
Sam lays two fingers against the pulse point in his brother's throat. He starts the timer on his watch. "I know."
Ability to distinguish between colors
"Hey, hey, whoa." Sam guides his patient into a kitchen chair and crouches down to eye level.
Dean blinks back at him through glassy eyes. He pants as Sam tests his red cheeks.
"You coming down with something?"
Dean tracks Sam's hand as it withdraws from his face. He reaches up suddenly and catches it between his own overheated palms. "You've returned. My love..."
Sitting
On the couch, Sam flips frantically through his notes. Dean sidles closer to him along the cushions, the blanket slipping forgotten from his shoulders, scattering pages to the floor.
"Sit right, there okay?" Sam straightens the thick white duvet and settles his brother at the far end of the sofa.
Dean sniffles forlornly. He flushes deeper.
Sam sighs and lifts an arm. Dean cuddles in.
Combination of sitting, standing, walking
"You'll be safe here," Sam tells his brother, leaning over him to lock the car door. He tucks the comforter up around him, brushes over his bangs and on impulse, leans down and kisses the hot forehead.
Dean melts in dozy contentment.
Standing for extended periods
"You're already ashes," Sam tells the urn in the chilly crypt. "Your boyfriend's gone. We even burned your love letters. It's over."
He shines his flashlight around the small, musty interior. "I don't know what you think you're doing with my brother, but it's not gonna work." He clicks off the light and crosses his arms in the pitch black of the tomb. "I'm gonna stand here, and you're gonna talk to me."
Bending, crouching, kneeling
"Dean?" Sam tugs open the door and crawls into the car, grabbing at his brother's collar. Dean's white and quiet, his skin cold to Sam's touch. "Hey!" Sam hunches down and shakes his brother, pats his cheek. "Hey. Dean."
Dean groans and drags himself away from the onslaught, turning to cough into the leather seat.
Sam rubs his back warmly. "You're awake. Dean?"
"What is your deal?" Dean's got himself mostly upright and he scowls out from a puffy, exhausted face. "You miss your weekly meeting of Huggers Anonymous?"
Sam grins and pulls the duvet up to his brother's chin. Dean watches him with raised brows.
"I didn't get hit that hard. Did I?" Dean looks warily around the car. "Is this three years later? Do I have a beard?" He reaches for his chin.
"No beard." Sam clambers over him and slides in behind the wheel. He tests Dean's forehead one more time and then, satisfied, starts the ignition. "I'm just glad you're over your syphilis."
Dean looks out the window at the graveyard. He turns back to Sam. "Did you say...?"
end
AUTHOR: mad_server
PAIRING: Sam/Dean
RATING: PG13
SPOILERS: Nope
WORDS: 900
A/N: I was job hunting the other day and I came across a post advertising for an ambulance driver. The section headings, and the title, are taken verbatim from that post.
SUMMARY: Hunting's a tough job.
Fast-paced environment
"One day," Dean muses over the roar of the engine, "I'm gonna be a cook."
"A cook?" Sam looks up from the passenger seat, where he's unwrapping Dean's burger.
"Not professionally," Dean clarifies. He swipes a handful of fries from the big paper bag in Sam's lap. "I'll be that good, though. Lots of secret ingredients."
Sam passes him his quarter-pounder and brushes a dusting of salt off Dean's jaw. "I can't wait."
Work under pressure, Tight deadlines
"Everybody out of the library," Dean bellows, pointing at the exit. A book dive-bombs a woman and knocks the briefcase out of her hand. "I've got it," Dean yells, scooping it up and herding her out. "Here! Move, go go go!"
Sam's got two books pinned to his chest. "Dean," he calls, nodding toward a third that's fluttering near the ceiling. Dean locks his gaze on it as the last patron brushes past him out the door.
"All right," Dean tells the book. He picks up a chair and takes careful aim. "We can do this the easy way, or we can do this the hard way."
Something collides with his head.
Repetitive tasks, Physically demanding
"My love, my lips are bewildered, not having you to kiss."
"Good, Sam." Dean tosses another shovelful of dirt onto the growing pile. "It's working."
Sam looks up anxiously as a breeze rustles the leaves in the tall graveyard trees, then bends his head over the book. "Hurry home to me. Mrs. Periweather gave a splendid tea and all I could think was how fine your hands would look pouring from the big silver service."
Pausing, Dean touches his eyebrow, then leans dizzily against the headstone.
"Dean?"
He swallows and picks up his spade. "Just a little concussion. Keep reading to our fine-handed pal here before he sees what I'm doing to his grave."
Manual dexterity, Attention to detail
"Hold still."
Dean pinches the bridge of his nose and submits to having his shirt buttons undone for him.
"Okay," Sam murmurs, peeling the cold cloth off his brother's scalp. He prods at the bump around the wound and Dean hisses, smacks away his arm. "Ow!" Sam protests. "Violent."
"Oh, excuse me, Nurse Ratched. Did you want to give me some electroshock, too?"
"The bleeding's stopped. You don't need stitches. Congratulations." Sam packs up the first aid kit and clicks it shut.
Dean covers his eyes and exhales heavily through his nose. "Sam, I'm sorry we had to burn the book."
Sam lays two fingers against the pulse point in his brother's throat. He starts the timer on his watch. "I know."
Ability to distinguish between colors
"Hey, hey, whoa." Sam guides his patient into a kitchen chair and crouches down to eye level.
Dean blinks back at him through glassy eyes. He pants as Sam tests his red cheeks.
"You coming down with something?"
Dean tracks Sam's hand as it withdraws from his face. He reaches up suddenly and catches it between his own overheated palms. "You've returned. My love..."
Sitting
On the couch, Sam flips frantically through his notes. Dean sidles closer to him along the cushions, the blanket slipping forgotten from his shoulders, scattering pages to the floor.
"Sit right, there okay?" Sam straightens the thick white duvet and settles his brother at the far end of the sofa.
Dean sniffles forlornly. He flushes deeper.
Sam sighs and lifts an arm. Dean cuddles in.
Combination of sitting, standing, walking
"You'll be safe here," Sam tells his brother, leaning over him to lock the car door. He tucks the comforter up around him, brushes over his bangs and on impulse, leans down and kisses the hot forehead.
Dean melts in dozy contentment.
Standing for extended periods
"You're already ashes," Sam tells the urn in the chilly crypt. "Your boyfriend's gone. We even burned your love letters. It's over."
He shines his flashlight around the small, musty interior. "I don't know what you think you're doing with my brother, but it's not gonna work." He clicks off the light and crosses his arms in the pitch black of the tomb. "I'm gonna stand here, and you're gonna talk to me."
Bending, crouching, kneeling
"Dean?" Sam tugs open the door and crawls into the car, grabbing at his brother's collar. Dean's white and quiet, his skin cold to Sam's touch. "Hey!" Sam hunches down and shakes his brother, pats his cheek. "Hey. Dean."
Dean groans and drags himself away from the onslaught, turning to cough into the leather seat.
Sam rubs his back warmly. "You're awake. Dean?"
"What is your deal?" Dean's got himself mostly upright and he scowls out from a puffy, exhausted face. "You miss your weekly meeting of Huggers Anonymous?"
Sam grins and pulls the duvet up to his brother's chin. Dean watches him with raised brows.
"I didn't get hit that hard. Did I?" Dean looks warily around the car. "Is this three years later? Do I have a beard?" He reaches for his chin.
"No beard." Sam clambers over him and slides in behind the wheel. He tests Dean's forehead one more time and then, satisfied, starts the ignition. "I'm just glad you're over your syphilis."
Dean looks out the window at the graveyard. He turns back to Sam. "Did you say...?"
end