Fic: Bugs Versus Brothers
Title: Bugs Versus Brothers
Characters: Dean, Sam
Genre: h/c, gen
Rating: T
Word count: ~2k
Summary: Dean helps a little kid out of tight spot with some ants. Sam helps Dean out with the aftermath. Post 1x08 "Bugs."
If Sam decides to complain about Dean’s choice of lunch, he’s not gonna hear it. Dean’s the one who got stuck with interviewing possible leads all morning, and none of them were hot, or even young, despite Sam’s reassurance that yeah, Dean, there’ll be some chicks. Well, Sammy was sure wrong about that. Unless if a pair who could pass as golden girls that he has to repeat himself to every 5 seconds count as chicks.
Which, in case if Sam’s unsure, they don't.
And, on top of that, Dean’s stuck walking around in a monkey suit, in friggin' Arkansas in June, while Sam’s cruisin’ around in his baby enjoying AC. So yeah. Dean’s not having a great morning, and he’s not gonna take any crap from Sam about the cheeseburgers loaded with onions, ketchup, lettuce, and the works. Besides, Sam can’t complain cause there are vegetables in it.
He’s pulled out of his thoughts - it’s not a pity party, dammit - by the sound of a kid’s cry. He’s instantly alert, resisting the urge to creep his hand around to the Taurus tucked against his back. He’s walking through a park in the middle of a town, they’re researching a potential poltergeist, which is miles away, and kids cry a lot. So this falls under normal sort of concern. He scans past kids swinging, to soccer mom passing a ball with her kid, to a kid in ratty denim shorts who’s screaming and clawing at his legs and stomping, almost like… Exactly like.
Dean’s legs are rushing him over to the kid before his brain can catch up with the command. Hunters respond to civilians’ panic, and big brothers respond to little kids in trouble. His reflexes never stood a chance. Of course, even if his brain had been able to recognize Dean was running toward a mound of creepy crawlies, its not like he would have stopped - Sure he’s been a little jumpy since facing that swarm in Oklahoma, but they’re bugs for crying out loud.
So Dean is totally cool when he yanks the kid up, letting the boy’s feet dangling above the ant mound sporting a shoe-sized disturbance. He tries to shake the kid without turning him into a rag doll, watching a few black blots fall to earth. Switching his grip so one arm is snaked around the boys back, hugging him tight to his chest, he uses his free hand to brush off the offending little buggers.
“Easy there, you’re alright...” The kid’s a little squirmy, but he’s scrawny, so Dean’s not having any trouble keeping an arm around him. “There ya go, just getting those ants off. They’re little butts, huh?”
The kid’s finally stilling, his tear-streaked face wide-eyeing Dean. He’s pretty sure the kid’s nose is close to running all over his suit sleeve but he had a snot-nosed little brother for too long to be impressed.
The sting against his ankle startles him into swearing up a blue streak in his head.
“We’re gonna pretend I did not jump at that,” he mutters to the kid. And this is his cue to get moving. He crosses a few paces away, looking around for the kid’s mom. They’re usually not far away. There’s another bite, and another, little stabs against his skin, and he can’t focus. He’s been so damn jumpy since that bugs case. He settles for just setting the kid down on his own two feet, well out of the range of fire from the ant bed. He can find his way to his mom on his own. It’s the city park, for crying out loud.
Little crawling feet scream for attention on his leg. He swipes a hand against his slacks, trying to stop the ants' little march, cause of course he stood in the bed so long the ants marched up his calf. He’s really out of practice. He never would’ve made such a rookie mistake when Sam was a kid. Which, - oh. Was like 10 years ago. Damn. He’s old. Apparently he also can’t handle ant bites any more cause his entire skin is crawling and the fear is burning in his throat and he’s breathing like he’s a civilian who just saw a ghost.
The ants are everywhere. And they friggin' itch. Rubbing at his pants has apparently proved ineffective, cause the bites are still coming. So of course he leans over to scratch again, to try to get the ants off, looking like an idiot, hunched over cause a couple a bugs. He shudders breaths into his knees and tries not to feel like an ant-o-phobe. He straightens up, attempting to restore some dignity. Whoa. The world does a little spin, but there’s the kid, getting a hug from his mom. Awesome.
The itchiness is starting to get really hot and - what the hell? How did the ants get all the friggin’ way up his back and arms? There are ants crawling under his skin and his heart is actually thudding and dammit he’s not getting PTSD from friggin' ants. His fingers decide his legs are too itchy to let be before his brain catches up and he’s bending down again, except he just keeps going, and then it’s grass and dirt, and green and blue spinning.
Uh.
That’s not normal.
He coughs a little, air wheezing out and that’s when he realizes his throat is getting tight. He’s not under an illusion that he’s handling this well, but he knows he isn’t handling the ants that badly.
Sir? The voice is kinda floaty, but if he rolls to his back and waits a sec… the world rights itself. Soccer mom, phone in hand. Probably ready to call 911. For once, he’d take her up on it.
“Fire ants...” he wheezes. “‘llergic.” He doesn’t know how since this is definitely a new development, but this is clearly more than some ant bites and fear response. He vaguely hears his words being repeated more eloquently, but he’s currently more focused on dragging air through his tight throat. Every breath comes with gaspy noises that definitely sound unpleasant. Apparently soccer mom thinks so too, cause she’s looking pretty freaked. Way to save the kid. Not scare civilians. Not get taken down by friggin' ants. Three strikes for Dean. He closes his eyes, tries not to feel the hundreds of little tiny feet, and tracks his breaths - In. Out. In. Out. - pushing down the bubble of hysterical laughter that he really can’t afford, on any counts.
Taken down by ants. Sam’s gonna kill him.
- - -
As crappy as anaphylaxis is (what? Dean knows big words too), once the ambulance arrives and they shoot him up with some drugs, he’s feeling a lot better. Kinda tired, but not like he’s about to crawl out of his skin, and not like he’s about to keel over from choking, so that’s a win. All the questions and answers scraped through a sore throat and all the sticks with needles are not his idea of good time though. Plus the getting carted around in a gurney because this-hotshot-got-a-few-ant-bites is kinda uncool. He saw a cute chick in the waiting area while they were wheeling him in to the emergency room and he tried to flash her a winning a smile. She just looked concerned. But the kind of concern that’s all pity-filled looks and does not equal scoring later. So that’s a wash.
The nurse - it’s an old guy, so not his type, so another wash - is taking down some measurements, and he's trying to ignore how the blood pressure cuff is closing around his arm like his throat closing in like the swarm of bugs everywhere, black blurs and humming-
“Sir?” Old nurse is asking questions, which no thanks, Dean’s trying to not meltdown in peace-
“Dean!” A very gangly little brother bursts through the doorway, making full use of his long limbs. “I just got the call.”
Nurse guy is pulling the blood pressure cuff off and Sam’s staring down Dean’s bedside. “Dude,” his brother sounds breathless, like he ran the whole way here. “You got taken down by ants.” He thinks Sam’s gonna rub it in, but instead he says "Not cool" in a not quite steady voice like it’s not cool that Dean went down and is now laying in a hospital bed. Like he doesn’t really care if it was cause of some stupid tiny ants.
“Yeah, no more ants for you, young man,” the old guy buts in, like Dean’s got a nut allergy and decided to just pop a handful of peanuts into his mouth, cause why the hell not? The nurse turns to Sam. “He’s lucky that we were able to counter the allergic reaction in time. He’ll still be feeling the medication and…”
Dude, seriously? Dean groans internally. Who’s the little brother in this picture? But Dean lets the old guy pretend like he’s not an adult capable of handling his own medical stuff. His mind doesn’t mind tuning out, watching the little heartbeat monitor stutter up and down instead. He wonders what would happen if it had stopped, nothing but flatlines ahead. He wouldn’t get to find his dad, find that bastard that killed their mom. Sam would-Sam would be a mess. He managed just fine without Dean at Stanford though, so maybe he could be okay, settle down, maybe not spend everyday feeling that empty space like it’s a hole in his gut, threatening to swallow him whole. Dad would… show up for the funeral right? He’d care enough to make an appearance for that, not just send some coordinates for the burial-what the hell. Of course his dad cares. Friggin' meds.
He flops his head back toward Sam, who’s nodding seriously at all his caretaker duties.
“…have to carry an EpiPen at all times, and always wear closed-toed shoes and pants when he’s outside.”
“I don’t do shorts,” Dean grumbles, earning a bark of laughter from Sam.
The old guy finally finishes with his prattling instructions and his poking and prodding, but turns out they’re not home free yet, cause the doc wants Dean to hang around for observation for a couple hours. He hates being laid up in hospitals, but Sam insists, and Dean gives in. They’ve got time before the insurance bounces and yeah, his body’s pretty wiped, so he can get on board.
He’s flipping through crappy daytime TV while Sam goes for coffee, trying to ignore the fire in his legs now that the meds are wearing off. He’s been told explicitly not to scratch, but with Sam gone he’s free to catch a little relief. It just makes the itch worse though. Ants friggin suck. He’s hanging on the 12 inch screen above him, trying to get very lost in the very fascinating shows. He flips channels again and catches a telenovela. Oh, he can get on board with this. Ricardo is putting on the moves for Elena, who is definitely not his wife, as Dean recalls. “Oh you son of a bitch.”
A light brush against his arm.
He jumps and the fly’s buzzing off, across the room. His hand loses the remote to fly up to scratch his arm and he thickly swallows down the fear, but his breath is coming in fast. The crawling under his skin is back, and even though he knows it’s futile, knows it’s not even there, he can’t stop his hand from scrabbling to get it out. Sam reappears in the doorway with his coffee hand like he’s got a beacon honed in to Dean’s distress. “Dean, you good, man?” he asks, crossing the room. His brother’s gonna get permanent wrinkles from scrunching his eyebrows.
“Friggin' fly,” he manages, trying to sound annoyed and not as freaked as he feels.
Sam’s hand goes to rub slow circles where Dean’s been furiously scratching, effectively halting his efforts. “You’re alright,” Sam’s saying and the monitor to his side is stopping it’s yapping and settling back to the steady up-down rhythm.
“Dude, bugs can be killer,” Dean forces a snort that comes out more as an exaggerated exhale, but Sam doesn’t call him on it.
Sam smirks. “We can take 'em.” And damn if that stupid sentiment and the arm against his doesn’t ease the nerves and the bugs under his skin.
Huh. Maybe it’s not just a big brother thing.
Characters: Dean, Sam
Genre: h/c, gen
Rating: T
Word count: ~2k
Summary: Dean helps a little kid out of tight spot with some ants. Sam helps Dean out with the aftermath. Post 1x08 "Bugs."
If Sam decides to complain about Dean’s choice of lunch, he’s not gonna hear it. Dean’s the one who got stuck with interviewing possible leads all morning, and none of them were hot, or even young, despite Sam’s reassurance that yeah, Dean, there’ll be some chicks. Well, Sammy was sure wrong about that. Unless if a pair who could pass as golden girls that he has to repeat himself to every 5 seconds count as chicks.
Which, in case if Sam’s unsure, they don't.
And, on top of that, Dean’s stuck walking around in a monkey suit, in friggin' Arkansas in June, while Sam’s cruisin’ around in his baby enjoying AC. So yeah. Dean’s not having a great morning, and he’s not gonna take any crap from Sam about the cheeseburgers loaded with onions, ketchup, lettuce, and the works. Besides, Sam can’t complain cause there are vegetables in it.
He’s pulled out of his thoughts - it’s not a pity party, dammit - by the sound of a kid’s cry. He’s instantly alert, resisting the urge to creep his hand around to the Taurus tucked against his back. He’s walking through a park in the middle of a town, they’re researching a potential poltergeist, which is miles away, and kids cry a lot. So this falls under normal sort of concern. He scans past kids swinging, to soccer mom passing a ball with her kid, to a kid in ratty denim shorts who’s screaming and clawing at his legs and stomping, almost like… Exactly like.
Dean’s legs are rushing him over to the kid before his brain can catch up with the command. Hunters respond to civilians’ panic, and big brothers respond to little kids in trouble. His reflexes never stood a chance. Of course, even if his brain had been able to recognize Dean was running toward a mound of creepy crawlies, its not like he would have stopped - Sure he’s been a little jumpy since facing that swarm in Oklahoma, but they’re bugs for crying out loud.
So Dean is totally cool when he yanks the kid up, letting the boy’s feet dangling above the ant mound sporting a shoe-sized disturbance. He tries to shake the kid without turning him into a rag doll, watching a few black blots fall to earth. Switching his grip so one arm is snaked around the boys back, hugging him tight to his chest, he uses his free hand to brush off the offending little buggers.
“Easy there, you’re alright...” The kid’s a little squirmy, but he’s scrawny, so Dean’s not having any trouble keeping an arm around him. “There ya go, just getting those ants off. They’re little butts, huh?”
The kid’s finally stilling, his tear-streaked face wide-eyeing Dean. He’s pretty sure the kid’s nose is close to running all over his suit sleeve but he had a snot-nosed little brother for too long to be impressed.
The sting against his ankle startles him into swearing up a blue streak in his head.
“We’re gonna pretend I did not jump at that,” he mutters to the kid. And this is his cue to get moving. He crosses a few paces away, looking around for the kid’s mom. They’re usually not far away. There’s another bite, and another, little stabs against his skin, and he can’t focus. He’s been so damn jumpy since that bugs case. He settles for just setting the kid down on his own two feet, well out of the range of fire from the ant bed. He can find his way to his mom on his own. It’s the city park, for crying out loud.
Little crawling feet scream for attention on his leg. He swipes a hand against his slacks, trying to stop the ants' little march, cause of course he stood in the bed so long the ants marched up his calf. He’s really out of practice. He never would’ve made such a rookie mistake when Sam was a kid. Which, - oh. Was like 10 years ago. Damn. He’s old. Apparently he also can’t handle ant bites any more cause his entire skin is crawling and the fear is burning in his throat and he’s breathing like he’s a civilian who just saw a ghost.
The ants are everywhere. And they friggin' itch. Rubbing at his pants has apparently proved ineffective, cause the bites are still coming. So of course he leans over to scratch again, to try to get the ants off, looking like an idiot, hunched over cause a couple a bugs. He shudders breaths into his knees and tries not to feel like an ant-o-phobe. He straightens up, attempting to restore some dignity. Whoa. The world does a little spin, but there’s the kid, getting a hug from his mom. Awesome.
The itchiness is starting to get really hot and - what the hell? How did the ants get all the friggin’ way up his back and arms? There are ants crawling under his skin and his heart is actually thudding and dammit he’s not getting PTSD from friggin' ants. His fingers decide his legs are too itchy to let be before his brain catches up and he’s bending down again, except he just keeps going, and then it’s grass and dirt, and green and blue spinning.
Uh.
That’s not normal.
He coughs a little, air wheezing out and that’s when he realizes his throat is getting tight. He’s not under an illusion that he’s handling this well, but he knows he isn’t handling the ants that badly.
Sir? The voice is kinda floaty, but if he rolls to his back and waits a sec… the world rights itself. Soccer mom, phone in hand. Probably ready to call 911. For once, he’d take her up on it.
“Fire ants...” he wheezes. “‘llergic.” He doesn’t know how since this is definitely a new development, but this is clearly more than some ant bites and fear response. He vaguely hears his words being repeated more eloquently, but he’s currently more focused on dragging air through his tight throat. Every breath comes with gaspy noises that definitely sound unpleasant. Apparently soccer mom thinks so too, cause she’s looking pretty freaked. Way to save the kid. Not scare civilians. Not get taken down by friggin' ants. Three strikes for Dean. He closes his eyes, tries not to feel the hundreds of little tiny feet, and tracks his breaths - In. Out. In. Out. - pushing down the bubble of hysterical laughter that he really can’t afford, on any counts.
Taken down by ants. Sam’s gonna kill him.
- - -
As crappy as anaphylaxis is (what? Dean knows big words too), once the ambulance arrives and they shoot him up with some drugs, he’s feeling a lot better. Kinda tired, but not like he’s about to crawl out of his skin, and not like he’s about to keel over from choking, so that’s a win. All the questions and answers scraped through a sore throat and all the sticks with needles are not his idea of good time though. Plus the getting carted around in a gurney because this-hotshot-got-a-few-ant-bites is kinda uncool. He saw a cute chick in the waiting area while they were wheeling him in to the emergency room and he tried to flash her a winning a smile. She just looked concerned. But the kind of concern that’s all pity-filled looks and does not equal scoring later. So that’s a wash.
The nurse - it’s an old guy, so not his type, so another wash - is taking down some measurements, and he's trying to ignore how the blood pressure cuff is closing around his arm like his throat closing in like the swarm of bugs everywhere, black blurs and humming-
“Sir?” Old nurse is asking questions, which no thanks, Dean’s trying to not meltdown in peace-
“Dean!” A very gangly little brother bursts through the doorway, making full use of his long limbs. “I just got the call.”
Nurse guy is pulling the blood pressure cuff off and Sam’s staring down Dean’s bedside. “Dude,” his brother sounds breathless, like he ran the whole way here. “You got taken down by ants.” He thinks Sam’s gonna rub it in, but instead he says "Not cool" in a not quite steady voice like it’s not cool that Dean went down and is now laying in a hospital bed. Like he doesn’t really care if it was cause of some stupid tiny ants.
“Yeah, no more ants for you, young man,” the old guy buts in, like Dean’s got a nut allergy and decided to just pop a handful of peanuts into his mouth, cause why the hell not? The nurse turns to Sam. “He’s lucky that we were able to counter the allergic reaction in time. He’ll still be feeling the medication and…”
Dude, seriously? Dean groans internally. Who’s the little brother in this picture? But Dean lets the old guy pretend like he’s not an adult capable of handling his own medical stuff. His mind doesn’t mind tuning out, watching the little heartbeat monitor stutter up and down instead. He wonders what would happen if it had stopped, nothing but flatlines ahead. He wouldn’t get to find his dad, find that bastard that killed their mom. Sam would-Sam would be a mess. He managed just fine without Dean at Stanford though, so maybe he could be okay, settle down, maybe not spend everyday feeling that empty space like it’s a hole in his gut, threatening to swallow him whole. Dad would… show up for the funeral right? He’d care enough to make an appearance for that, not just send some coordinates for the burial-what the hell. Of course his dad cares. Friggin' meds.
He flops his head back toward Sam, who’s nodding seriously at all his caretaker duties.
“…have to carry an EpiPen at all times, and always wear closed-toed shoes and pants when he’s outside.”
“I don’t do shorts,” Dean grumbles, earning a bark of laughter from Sam.
The old guy finally finishes with his prattling instructions and his poking and prodding, but turns out they’re not home free yet, cause the doc wants Dean to hang around for observation for a couple hours. He hates being laid up in hospitals, but Sam insists, and Dean gives in. They’ve got time before the insurance bounces and yeah, his body’s pretty wiped, so he can get on board.
He’s flipping through crappy daytime TV while Sam goes for coffee, trying to ignore the fire in his legs now that the meds are wearing off. He’s been told explicitly not to scratch, but with Sam gone he’s free to catch a little relief. It just makes the itch worse though. Ants friggin suck. He’s hanging on the 12 inch screen above him, trying to get very lost in the very fascinating shows. He flips channels again and catches a telenovela. Oh, he can get on board with this. Ricardo is putting on the moves for Elena, who is definitely not his wife, as Dean recalls. “Oh you son of a bitch.”
A light brush against his arm.
He jumps and the fly’s buzzing off, across the room. His hand loses the remote to fly up to scratch his arm and he thickly swallows down the fear, but his breath is coming in fast. The crawling under his skin is back, and even though he knows it’s futile, knows it’s not even there, he can’t stop his hand from scrabbling to get it out. Sam reappears in the doorway with his coffee hand like he’s got a beacon honed in to Dean’s distress. “Dean, you good, man?” he asks, crossing the room. His brother’s gonna get permanent wrinkles from scrunching his eyebrows.
“Friggin' fly,” he manages, trying to sound annoyed and not as freaked as he feels.
Sam’s hand goes to rub slow circles where Dean’s been furiously scratching, effectively halting his efforts. “You’re alright,” Sam’s saying and the monitor to his side is stopping it’s yapping and settling back to the steady up-down rhythm.
“Dude, bugs can be killer,” Dean forces a snort that comes out more as an exaggerated exhale, but Sam doesn’t call him on it.
Sam smirks. “We can take 'em.” And damn if that stupid sentiment and the arm against his doesn’t ease the nerves and the bugs under his skin.
Huh. Maybe it’s not just a big brother thing.