SPN Fic: Daisies Running Riot
Title: Daisies Running Riot
Characters: Sam Dean
Genre: Gen
Rating: G
Word-count: 826
Spoilers: Not a one.
Summary: After a hunt gone sideways, Dean turns into a begonia enthusiast. Sam copes.
Disclaimer: Title and cut-tex snagged from the song “Lazy Afternoon,” from the Broadway musical The Golden Apple (music by Jerome Moross and lyrics by John Treville Latouche).
It's week two, and the flowers are taking over.
Sam doesn't even know the names of most of them: he shorts out after daisies and chrysanthemums, but that still leaves a good dozen pots he can't put a name to unless he digs the little white plastic strips out of the chunky black dirt. Asters, zinnias, a geranium in a frog-shaped pot, peonies and petunias and begonias in every shade of pink and purple Sam can imagine. In a tiny green pot next to Dean's plaster-sheathed ankle sits a little African violet with thick, downy leaves; Sam's caught Dean stroking them rapturously a few times, but he's decided not to mention it.
There's a knock at the door, and he hurries from the kitchen - nothing but empty cupboards and a canister of salt on the counter, but the sink's still working, and Dean has had him filling water bottles all morning (“Unless you wanna get me a watering can, Godzilla”). He can't help feeling he could be putting his time to more productive use - tracking down another case, for instance, to keep him busy while Dean's holed up here in Red Oak. But apparently the geranium's wilting, and Sam's willing to take a little time out for water bottle duty if it means keeping Dean in his chair and not hopping one-footed around the hundred-year-old, rickety-stepped house.
When he gets to the door, he sees the telltale shape through the screen: wide terra-cotta pot and big floppy petals, yellow this time. Sam can't tell what kind it is (begonia, maybe? He's getting better), but he's got to admit it's kind of pretty. The girl behind the pot's even prettier, but Sam doesn't need to look around the corner of the house to know the blushing smile's not for him, so he just nods and smiles and refrains from mentioning that Dean wasn't the only one who cleared those dead parishioners out of the church and saved the minister's life, just the only one stupid enough to break his leg doing it.
“Thanks,” he tells the girl, and takes the plant inside. He doesn't care to hang around and watch her leave, sneaking peeks at his brother all the way down the dusty driveway.
Dean's bent over a leafy pot when Sam emerges from the cool of the house into the blinking sunlight of the back porch. He's got his leg propped on a duffel bag in front of him, one hand scratching absentmindedly at the heavily autographed cast (Sam counts at least four different names with pronounced hearts and kisses, and wonders if any of them are the cute girl with the yellow mystery flowers). He's so caught up in drizzling rusty warm tap water into the damp potting soil that he doesn't look up until Sam clips him lightly on the shoulder.
“More fan mail,” he tells Dean, and his brother's eyes light up at the sight of the huge yellow blossoms.
“Give it here,” he says, beckoning, but Sam holds back for a minute, eyeing his brother's sweaty, flushed face critically. The skin's already peeling off his nose and cheeks where they burnt bright red last week after Dean sat out in the sun all day. Sam bought aloe but he's pretty sure Dean hasn't touched the bottle. He doesn't seem to have touched the lemonade perched on the porch railing, either; the pitcher's streaming with condensation, leaving a dark, wet patch on the splintered wood. Even after a couple of minutes in the sun, Sam can feel himself starting to sweat, the weight of the sunshine pressing down on him, hot and heavy and breathless.
“You're gonna get heatstroke,” he tells Dean.
“Dude, just hand over the damn begonia,” Dean demands, ignoring the medical advice and waving his hand impatiently.
Sam steps forward, and puts the begonia into Dean's lap. He should really, really, put a stop to this: drag Dean inside and round up all the flowers and throw them away, because it's not like they're going to settle down here or anything, and at some point Dean's going to have to say goodbye. But the sun-baked wood feels deliriously silky under his bare feet, and there's something about the combined scents of all Dean's flowers that's making him feel sleepy and lazy and not much like ordering anybody around right at the moment.
“Fifteen minutes,” he tells Dean, and Dean nods, nose bending to brush the petals as he examines the newest addition to his porch garden minutely, the way a jeweler studies a rare topaz.
Sam sets his watch, pulls up a battered plastic lawn chair, and leans back, closing his eyes. The sun envelopes him from above, and all he can smell is flowers and dirt and Dean.
He's going to have to take charge and tame the invasion - but not quite yet.
Not for another fifteen minutes, at least.