Fic - Reindeer Games
Title: Reindeer Games
Fandom: SPN
Genre: gen, H/C
Summary: written for the Winter/Holiday comment fic meme at hoodie_time for the prompt - Gen. Dean, Sam. It wasn't Grandma who got run over by a reindeer; it was Dean.
Word Count: 1600ish.
He must be some kind of cock-eyed goddammed optimist or the most fucking naive person alive, Dean thinks.
He always has to tempt fate by thinking well, it can’t get any worse.
And then it does. It gets much fucking worse.
Bleeding out in a barn kind of worse.
It’s not like he can really blame the animal. It’s just a dumb thing with its fucking Bambi eyes. Dean’s job was to search the barn for any personal keepsakes that might need to be salted and burned along with the bones, while Sam tackled the grave in the cemetery. It’s too bad that the animals in the barn got spooked by the spirit, becoming fearful and aggressive.
He’s been making reindeer jokes for days. Asking Sammy which ones he thought were in the barn. If it was Dasher or Dancer. Alluding to the fact that Prancer was probably a gay reindeer (name like Prancer? C’mon, it’s a given), ribbing that Vixen was totally the naughtiest reindeer of all, flirting shamelessly. He reminded Sammy of the time when he was 8 and Dean took him to see some reindeer at the local zoo and Sammy’s eyes had teared up when he saw the sign that said Rudolph was unavailable - storing up his energy for a foggy night. It had been one of the more enjoyable hunts they’d been on.
Right up to the point where the one Dean was calling Blitzen got completely spooked by the well, spook, and charged wildly. Blitzen tossed his head to and fro and kicked his hoofed feet. Dean stupidly held up his hands in a placating gesture, trying to make calming ‘whoa‘ sounds. Blitzen charged; his sharp, strong antlers piercing into Dean’s chest. It had been so surprising and surreal that it didn’t hurt at first.
And then Blitzen shook his head again and Dean was tossed from his antlers like rag doll, slamming into the ground.
But he can’t blame the animal, Dean thinks. Not his fault. If Dean isn’t mistaken, it’s staring at him with those dark, sad eyes right now.
Sammy must have finished off the bones because right after Dean hit the ground with a painfully, vomit inducing thud, a spark of flames went up in the corner and the reindeer settled down immediately.
Blitzen stands off to one side, staring at Dean, stamping his feet occasionally.
Dean knows he should get up or at least try to get his phone out of his pocket.
But he’s cold. And it hurts, Jesus fuck, it hurts.
He’s half on his side, upper body tipped slightly forward, legs akimbo. He can hear a faint gurgling sound coming from his own lips as he breathes and he can feel the rumbling lungs filling with blood. Some of it drips out of his mouth onto the dirt floor and fuck this is going to be the worst Christmas ever, even worse than the time Dad left him and Sammy alone in the hotel room and didn’t come back and Sammy kept looking at Dean and Dean just didn’t have any answers.
He twitches his fingers, or at least, he thinks he does. It’s so cold and he’s completely unprepared for the weather. He’s just got his leather jacket on and a flannel shirt that’s quickly getting colder as it gets soaked with blood and then cools in the night air. Sam had tossed a pair of gloves at him and a hat and Dean had scoffed that they were hardly going to be out for that long and then he tucked his hands into the sleeves of his coat. High-school gloves, he called it.
Sam had rolled his eyes.
Dean manages to get a hand into his pocket and pulls out his phone, dropping it on the ground. He slides it forward and gets it on, presses redial.
“Dean? I’m heading back to you now,” Sam says by way of answer.
“Need some help, Sammy,” Dean says. Or at least, that’s the general idea but what what comes out is more like, “nee s’melp, -smmy.”
He hears the Impala engine, already rumbling in the background, roar louder as Sam floors it.
Dean only realizes his eyes are closed when he hears something he can’t identify and can’t see for shit. He blearily cracks them open and sees hoofed feet in front of him. He tilts his head and feels a shock of fear when the reindeer’s face is inches from his. Fuck, this is it. Going down by a reindeer. He’s gotta say, he never saw that one coming. He hopes it doesn’t get out to other hunters. He hopes that they hear he died by poltergeist or rawhead. Shrtiga. Werewolf. Fuck anything but reindeer.
Warm air, blissfully warm air, wafts over his face. Christ is it sniffing him? Gonna make a meal out of him? Please let Sammy not walk in and see Blitzen going all Animal Planet on him.
He flinches at the first touch of muzzle, velvet soft and a little damp. It bizarrely nuzzles his face a bit and Dean flinches again when its hooves move, soft clomps on the ground as it walks, moves around Dean, behind him. There's a loud thump and then something hard and warm presses up against Dean’s back. It hurts to be jostled but it’s warm.
He’s not sure if time passes or Sam was quick or if he was unconscious for a bit, but the next thing he knows, he hears Sam calling his name. The warm, solid weight at his back disappears and he hears the foot stomps of hoofed feet skitter away and then Sam’s shoes are in front of him.
He blinks a few times confused by the shoes, but if Sam’s shoes are here, Sam must be here too.
“Fuck, Dean!”
Sam pushes him over onto his back and he can just make out Sam’s floppy hair and worries eyes.
“What the fuck, Dean?” Sam says and although it’s pretty clear he doesn’t really expect an answer, Dean feels obliged to give one anyway.
“Got run over by a reindeer,” he rasps, curling his lips in a bit of a smile. He feels the blood that was trickling out of his mouth start to slide down his throat. He swallows reflexively and gags a bit at the taste. The gagging makes his chest heave with pain and his face screws up with it.
“Don’t even,” Sam warns, getting his hands under Dean’s shoulders to haul him to the car.
“S’true,” Dean gasps. He gags with the pain when Sam lurches to his feet and starts dragging him to the Impala, turning his head a little bit and vomiting to the side. “But she feels bad ‘bout it,” he mumbles.
“Don’t talk, Dean, Jesus,” Sam says, tension clear in his voice as he manhandles Dean to the Impala. Dean vomits bile again when Sam hefts him a little to get him in the back seat. Sam covers him with the emergency blanket and slams the door hard.
Everything goes dark.
***
It’s all fuzzy and warm except for his left shoulder which is cold and chilly. There’s music playing and he can just barely make out the song.
Have a holly jolly Christmas, it's the best time of the year
Well I don't know if there'll be snow, but have a cup of cheer
He opens his eyes and it’s all red and green and he blinks a few times until he realizes he staring at some garland hung across the wall.
Have a holly jolly Christmas, And when you walk down the street
Say hello to friends you know, And everyone you meet.
He blinks a few more times and recognizes the universal look and feel of a hospital. He’s in a bed, in a gown (which is gaping on one side, hence the cold shoulder). He raises his hands, checking for IVs. He’s got one lead and two bags. Probably fluids and painkillers if he’s gaging his brain fog correctly.
He aches all over.
“You’re awake!”
He turns his head to see Sam coming in the room with two cups, one in each hand.
“‘s coffee?” Dean slurs.
Sam gives him a fond look. “Yeah, good idea for the guy with the chest wound. It’s apple juice. About as festive as you’re going to get for a couple of days unless you count red and green jello.”
“‘s going on?” he mumbles.
He knows obviously he’s in a hospital, and he must be doing okay because he’s awake and Sam looks okay. But as usual when he wakes up hurt, it’s a little fuzzy.
Sam’s lips quirk. “You don’t remember?”
Dean takes a small sip of apple juice and goddamn does it taste good. “Hunt?” he asks.
Sam nods, pulling up a chair. “You were supposed to be searching the barn while I salted and burned the bones.”
Dean nods a bit as he closes his eyes. The memories always come back, they just sometimes take a few minutes. He thinks about it.
“Motherfuck!” he exclaims, wincing as pain shoots through his chest.
“Yeah. You were totally run over by a reindeer.”
“S’not as fucking funny as that song implies.”
“I’ll say. You almost bled out,” Sam replies. “You’re gonna be fine, but it’s Christmas in the hospital for you this year.”
“Fuck,” Dean breathes, letting his head fall back on the pillow. “You’re gonna bring this up every year, aren’t you?”
“Fuck yeah.”
Fandom: SPN
Genre: gen, H/C
Summary: written for the Winter/Holiday comment fic meme at hoodie_time for the prompt - Gen. Dean, Sam. It wasn't Grandma who got run over by a reindeer; it was Dean.
Word Count: 1600ish.
He must be some kind of cock-eyed goddammed optimist or the most fucking naive person alive, Dean thinks.
He always has to tempt fate by thinking well, it can’t get any worse.
And then it does. It gets much fucking worse.
Bleeding out in a barn kind of worse.
It’s not like he can really blame the animal. It’s just a dumb thing with its fucking Bambi eyes. Dean’s job was to search the barn for any personal keepsakes that might need to be salted and burned along with the bones, while Sam tackled the grave in the cemetery. It’s too bad that the animals in the barn got spooked by the spirit, becoming fearful and aggressive.
He’s been making reindeer jokes for days. Asking Sammy which ones he thought were in the barn. If it was Dasher or Dancer. Alluding to the fact that Prancer was probably a gay reindeer (name like Prancer? C’mon, it’s a given), ribbing that Vixen was totally the naughtiest reindeer of all, flirting shamelessly. He reminded Sammy of the time when he was 8 and Dean took him to see some reindeer at the local zoo and Sammy’s eyes had teared up when he saw the sign that said Rudolph was unavailable - storing up his energy for a foggy night. It had been one of the more enjoyable hunts they’d been on.
Right up to the point where the one Dean was calling Blitzen got completely spooked by the well, spook, and charged wildly. Blitzen tossed his head to and fro and kicked his hoofed feet. Dean stupidly held up his hands in a placating gesture, trying to make calming ‘whoa‘ sounds. Blitzen charged; his sharp, strong antlers piercing into Dean’s chest. It had been so surprising and surreal that it didn’t hurt at first.
And then Blitzen shook his head again and Dean was tossed from his antlers like rag doll, slamming into the ground.
But he can’t blame the animal, Dean thinks. Not his fault. If Dean isn’t mistaken, it’s staring at him with those dark, sad eyes right now.
Sammy must have finished off the bones because right after Dean hit the ground with a painfully, vomit inducing thud, a spark of flames went up in the corner and the reindeer settled down immediately.
Blitzen stands off to one side, staring at Dean, stamping his feet occasionally.
Dean knows he should get up or at least try to get his phone out of his pocket.
But he’s cold. And it hurts, Jesus fuck, it hurts.
He’s half on his side, upper body tipped slightly forward, legs akimbo. He can hear a faint gurgling sound coming from his own lips as he breathes and he can feel the rumbling lungs filling with blood. Some of it drips out of his mouth onto the dirt floor and fuck this is going to be the worst Christmas ever, even worse than the time Dad left him and Sammy alone in the hotel room and didn’t come back and Sammy kept looking at Dean and Dean just didn’t have any answers.
He twitches his fingers, or at least, he thinks he does. It’s so cold and he’s completely unprepared for the weather. He’s just got his leather jacket on and a flannel shirt that’s quickly getting colder as it gets soaked with blood and then cools in the night air. Sam had tossed a pair of gloves at him and a hat and Dean had scoffed that they were hardly going to be out for that long and then he tucked his hands into the sleeves of his coat. High-school gloves, he called it.
Sam had rolled his eyes.
Dean manages to get a hand into his pocket and pulls out his phone, dropping it on the ground. He slides it forward and gets it on, presses redial.
“Dean? I’m heading back to you now,” Sam says by way of answer.
“Need some help, Sammy,” Dean says. Or at least, that’s the general idea but what what comes out is more like, “nee s’melp, -smmy.”
He hears the Impala engine, already rumbling in the background, roar louder as Sam floors it.
Dean only realizes his eyes are closed when he hears something he can’t identify and can’t see for shit. He blearily cracks them open and sees hoofed feet in front of him. He tilts his head and feels a shock of fear when the reindeer’s face is inches from his. Fuck, this is it. Going down by a reindeer. He’s gotta say, he never saw that one coming. He hopes it doesn’t get out to other hunters. He hopes that they hear he died by poltergeist or rawhead. Shrtiga. Werewolf. Fuck anything but reindeer.
Warm air, blissfully warm air, wafts over his face. Christ is it sniffing him? Gonna make a meal out of him? Please let Sammy not walk in and see Blitzen going all Animal Planet on him.
He flinches at the first touch of muzzle, velvet soft and a little damp. It bizarrely nuzzles his face a bit and Dean flinches again when its hooves move, soft clomps on the ground as it walks, moves around Dean, behind him. There's a loud thump and then something hard and warm presses up against Dean’s back. It hurts to be jostled but it’s warm.
He’s not sure if time passes or Sam was quick or if he was unconscious for a bit, but the next thing he knows, he hears Sam calling his name. The warm, solid weight at his back disappears and he hears the foot stomps of hoofed feet skitter away and then Sam’s shoes are in front of him.
He blinks a few times confused by the shoes, but if Sam’s shoes are here, Sam must be here too.
“Fuck, Dean!”
Sam pushes him over onto his back and he can just make out Sam’s floppy hair and worries eyes.
“What the fuck, Dean?” Sam says and although it’s pretty clear he doesn’t really expect an answer, Dean feels obliged to give one anyway.
“Got run over by a reindeer,” he rasps, curling his lips in a bit of a smile. He feels the blood that was trickling out of his mouth start to slide down his throat. He swallows reflexively and gags a bit at the taste. The gagging makes his chest heave with pain and his face screws up with it.
“Don’t even,” Sam warns, getting his hands under Dean’s shoulders to haul him to the car.
“S’true,” Dean gasps. He gags with the pain when Sam lurches to his feet and starts dragging him to the Impala, turning his head a little bit and vomiting to the side. “But she feels bad ‘bout it,” he mumbles.
“Don’t talk, Dean, Jesus,” Sam says, tension clear in his voice as he manhandles Dean to the Impala. Dean vomits bile again when Sam hefts him a little to get him in the back seat. Sam covers him with the emergency blanket and slams the door hard.
Everything goes dark.
***
It’s all fuzzy and warm except for his left shoulder which is cold and chilly. There’s music playing and he can just barely make out the song.
Have a holly jolly Christmas, it's the best time of the year
Well I don't know if there'll be snow, but have a cup of cheer
He opens his eyes and it’s all red and green and he blinks a few times until he realizes he staring at some garland hung across the wall.
Have a holly jolly Christmas, And when you walk down the street
Say hello to friends you know, And everyone you meet.
He blinks a few more times and recognizes the universal look and feel of a hospital. He’s in a bed, in a gown (which is gaping on one side, hence the cold shoulder). He raises his hands, checking for IVs. He’s got one lead and two bags. Probably fluids and painkillers if he’s gaging his brain fog correctly.
He aches all over.
“You’re awake!”
He turns his head to see Sam coming in the room with two cups, one in each hand.
“‘s coffee?” Dean slurs.
Sam gives him a fond look. “Yeah, good idea for the guy with the chest wound. It’s apple juice. About as festive as you’re going to get for a couple of days unless you count red and green jello.”
“‘s going on?” he mumbles.
He knows obviously he’s in a hospital, and he must be doing okay because he’s awake and Sam looks okay. But as usual when he wakes up hurt, it’s a little fuzzy.
Sam’s lips quirk. “You don’t remember?”
Dean takes a small sip of apple juice and goddamn does it taste good. “Hunt?” he asks.
Sam nods, pulling up a chair. “You were supposed to be searching the barn while I salted and burned the bones.”
Dean nods a bit as he closes his eyes. The memories always come back, they just sometimes take a few minutes. He thinks about it.
“Motherfuck!” he exclaims, wincing as pain shoots through his chest.
“Yeah. You were totally run over by a reindeer.”
“S’not as fucking funny as that song implies.”
“I’ll say. You almost bled out,” Sam replies. “You’re gonna be fine, but it’s Christmas in the hospital for you this year.”
“Fuck,” Dean breathes, letting his head fall back on the pillow. “You’re gonna bring this up every year, aren’t you?”
“Fuck yeah.”