Roaming the Land While You Sleep 1/10
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Title: Roaming the Land While You Sleep 1/?
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: T
Word Count: ~1200
Characters: Sam and Dean (Gen)
Summary: For thirteen-year old Sam, puberty hits hard. When he storms out and accidentally screws up the salt lines, Dean is left to pay the price. Lots of hurt, little comfort
Warnings: None.
Disclaimer: Don't own them. Probably a good thing, too.
“Move your ass, Dean, I’m fucking freezing!“
Dean rolls his eyes at Sammy. When exactly did his sweet little brother with the giant dimples and chocolate sticky fingers start swearing at him? Oh, that’s right, around the same time he started insisting on being Sam. Sam is a teenager now, which in his world apparently means that he’s too old for nicknames or the most basic form of decent manners. Dean almost wants to throttle him, the way he’s standing there, back against their front door, all smug and not carrying a single grocery bag.
Sighing, Dean forces his heavy legs to jog the rest of the distance between the two of them and fuck, the parts of his feet that aren’t frozen numb hurt like shit. Whatever idiot cobbler decided that putting sharp edges on the inside of his boots would be a good idea deserves to die a slow and painful death. So slow and painful that he’ll come back a vengeful spirit and Dean can toast his stupid cobbler ass a second time ‘round.
Sam’s still bitching, when Dean starts working on extracting the key from his jeans pocket with stiff, uncooperative fingers.
Finally, the lock clicks and they both scramble inside. Not that it’s really any warmer in there (they’d have to come up with the money to fix the heater that, according to Dean’s professional opinion is beyond fixing anyway), but at least they don’t have to deal with the ice cold wind anymore.
Oh, the joys of spending the summer holidays in northern Alaska.
“I call first shower!” Sam announces, purposefully bumping into Dean on the way to the bathroom.
On principle, Dean tosses some vague insults in the direction of the closed door, then methodically starts putting away their purchases. Toast into the cabinet with the squeaky door, peanut butter, canned mac’n’cheese, Ramen noodles into the fridge, M&M’s and Gummy bears into the drawer that never quite closes.
Feeling is slowly returning to his feet and he’s pretty sure that he liked it better when they were numb. The sharp edges aren’t just a figment of his imagination; something really is chafing and cutting up his feet. Damn it, he’s had these boots since he was fifteen and now his feet decide to have another growth spurt? They don’t have the time or the money for this kind of crap.
With a steady stream of curses, Dean manages to get both boots off and…wow. In several places his thick, woolen socks are stuck to his skin with light red blood. Yup, definitely not wearing these boots again. Ever. He’ll shoplift something his size, if he has to. Sock number one gets pried off easily enough. The foot is cut up pretty badly, but nothing deeper than a paper cut. Sock number two is a different story entirely. The bloody blotch on his left heel seems a darker red than the rest. Dean’s pretty sure that wool stuck to a flesh wound with dried up blood is not exactly a good thing and when he moves the fabric slightly down, he has to stifle a yelp when he feels the tear on his flesh. Right, he’s gonna have to pry sock number two off under the shower.
Speaking of showers.
“Sammy, get a move on!”
No response.
“Sam!”
A sort of high pitched groan. What the..? Oh, Jesus.
“Dude, quit jerking off, you’re wasting my warm water!”
It takes ten more minutes of yelling (“Fuck off, Dean, I’m gonna be done when I’m done!”) and threats (“Dude, I swear to God I’m gonna kick in that door and drag you outa there!”) and indignant huffing before the shower is finally Dean’s.
They’ve been at each other’s throats constantly, lately. Sam’s fault obviously, because Dean remembers being thirteen and there’s no way in hell that he was anyway near this impossible to live with.
“Did you check the salt lines?” Dean asks barely five minutes after he got into the shower. Little self absorbed bitch did use up all of the warm water. Again.
Sam answers with an exaggerated eye roll that looks almost painful and wolfs down his sandwich (at least this time he didn’t insist on Dean making it for him).
“Noffin’s wrong wiff ’e shalt ‘ines!”
Oh, and the little shit has the nerve to give Dean crap about his table manners.
“Seriously” Sam continues, washing down his toast with some coppery water from the sink. “Dad did the lines last night, you didn’t touch them, I didn’t touch them, I’m not getting up to check.”
Dean growls and suddenly he isn’t so sure that he disapproves of Dad’s constant threats to kick the kid’s ass.
“Anyway, I’m going out.”
Dean almost has to laugh.
“I don’t think so, runt.”
And there it is again. The patented Sam Winchester Bitch Face. Dean is pretty sure that having that look on your face 24/7 is a surefire way to give yourself a bitch of a migraine. Which in turn probably contributes to the bitchy mood. It’s the Viscous Circle of Bitch.
“God, Dean, it’s just the arcade down the road.”
“Something could still get you.”
“Yeah, like what? We’re not even here on a hunt. Dad’s one block away at the library.”
“Something. Could still. Get you.”
Sam does that eye roll thing again that looks like it puts so much strain on his optic nerve that he’ll probably need glasses by the time he’s allowed to vote.
“Dean, other kids go out all the time and nothing bad ever happens to them.”
“You’re not other kids.”
“Because you two safety Nazis won’t let me. Nothing’s gonna happen to me. God, why are you so stupid?”
Sam can tell by the way his brother’s eyes flicker around the room that that one hurt. Good. He has Dean feeling inadequate, now all he has to do is play the kid brother card.
“Please, Dean?”
Cue, Puppy Dog Eyes.
Dean carefully limps towards their duffel bags under the couch and grabs the Glock Dad gave Sam for his birthday.
“You go to the arcade down the road.” He instructs. God, why does he always have to give in to his little brother’s whining? “You take the gun with you and you’re back by 2200.”
“Yes, sir.” Sam answers, putting as much teenage, put upon disrespect in the sarcastic reply, as humanly possible.
“Just get outa here.”
Dean’s just had it with Sam. There is no way in hell that any teenager in the history of forever has ever managed to be such an exhausting, whiney pain in the ass and if the two of them don’t get out of each other’s hair soon, there’s sure to be blood. Lots of it.
“Bitch.” Dean mutters under his breath with none of the gruff affection that usually accompanies the insult.
He is in the kitchen with his back towards the front door, staring down the old toaster, willing it to work just one more time, when Sam is getting ready to leave.
Sam puts on his padded hand-me-down boots and jacket and gives the shoes that his brother has simply dropped on the floor next to the couch a kick for good measure.
Neither of the boys notice when Dean’s boots crash into the far wall, sending a shower of salt down from the windowsill.