[Fic] There's a Trick to It
Title: There’s a Trick to It
Fandom: Supernatural
Genre/Characters/Pairing: Gen - Sam, Dean (or implied Sam/Dean, depending on your perspective)
Warnings/Spoilers: none, really
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~1,400
Summary: Of course Sam and Dean have both read Neil Gaiman’s American Gods. They discuss this, among other things, while trapped under a pile of furniture, waiting for Bobby to arrive after a hunt goes sideways.
Notes: I promise this isn’t as weird as it sounds, and you don’t have to have read the book for the fic to make sense. ;)
“It's easy, there's a trick to it, you do it or you die.”
― Neil Gaiman, American Gods
**
“Well,” Dean says, “there’s a trick to it.”
They’re on a stakeout of sorts, inside a large, old farmhouse about two miles off the main road, and the trick Dean’s talking about is aim - getting the bullet lodged in just the right place. It matters, apparently, according to Dad’s notebook, depending on what exactly they’re dealing with here, but he could easily be talking about this whole gig, he figures. Do or die. That’s what it generally comes down to, after all.
“You either do it or you die, right?” Sam says. He’s got a machete slung over his shoulder, and his pistol resting on his knee.
Dean just stares at him for a second, because okay, that was just creepy. Then he grins. “You’ve read that one too?”
“Yeah,” Sam admits, looking a bit confused. “Of course I’ve read it. It’s one of my favorites.”
“Mine too,” Dean offers, a little proud, shotgun propped up over his shoulder, as he leans back against the window sill and glances out the window. He raises his eyebrows at Sam. “Guess you didn’t see that one coming.”
Sam just shrugs. Releases the safety on his gun.
“More than meets the eye, Sammy, that’s all I’m sayin’.”
And then the shit kind of hits the fan, in a pretty big way, and by the time they’re capable of conversation again, they’re pinned underneath what feels like it could be an entire room’s worth of furniture. The item most immediate pinning them against the wall and into the floor appears to be a gigantic oak bookshelf. It couldn’t be any larger or more cumbersome if it was the goddamned tree itself.
Dean groans, and then, as if on cue, Sam starts wiggling around next to him.
“Ugh,” Sam says, rubbing at the back of his head and elbowing Dean in the head in the process.
“Hey, watch it.”
“Sorry. So did we get it? Is it gone?”
Dean sighs. He tries to move his legs, again, to no avail. “Yeah, we got it, but it kind of got us, too, if you know what I mean. But don’t worry. I called Bobby.”
“Right, don’t worry,” Sam says, heavy on the sarcasm. “We’re pinned under this thing-“
“I think it’s a bookshelf.”
“Whatever. It must weigh five hundred pounds. Your legs could be broken.”
“Nah,” Dean says. “I can still feel my toes.”
**
An hour or so goes by, and they make several unsuccessful attempts to pull their weight and unpin themselves, but upper body strength only goes so far, and this shit is really heavy, as it turns out.
Dean can no longer feel his toes.
“Dude, where the hell is Bobby,” he says, and in response, Sam grunts, and shifts a little next to him.
“You okay?” Dean asks, concern almost creeping into his voice, but he’s pretty sure he’s got it under control. Bobby had to have gotten his messages by now. They were fine.
“My head feels funny,” Sam says, and Dean’s heart sinks straight into his stomach.
“Come here,” Dean says, though that’s hardly necessary, because Sam is already there, so close that it’s actually kind of hard for him to get a good read what’s going on with him. Dean squints into Sam’s face - it’s starting to get dark outside, which means it’s getting hard to see inside, too. The last strands of sunlight are bleeding through the broken window across the room. “You think you have a concussion?”|
“Dunno,” Sam says, “maybe.” |
Dean runs his hands over Sam’s head, systematically feeling for bumps, for blood, and he’s relieved when he doesn’t find much of either.
“You’re fine,” he says, and resists the urge to ruffle that ridiculous head of hair.
“I’m tired,” Sam says.
“Oh no,” Dean says quickly. “We’re not going there. I’m pretty sure you don’t have a concussion, but we’re not going down that road. We’re both staying awake until Bobby gets his ass here.”
Sam sighs. “Fine, but you need to talk to me here - I was up almost all night last night researching this thing. I can barely keep my eyes open.”
“Want me to tell you a story?”
“No.” Sam laughs; it sounds dull and muted in the large space, disappearing somewhere up into the high ceilings. “No offense, Dean, but your stories are pretty bad.”
Dean gasps in mock surprise. “I’m offended,” he says, though he’s heard this all before. Many, many times. Apparently when they were kids, his bedtime stories left a little to be desired. Whatever.
“I get it,” Sam says, “I mean, it’s not like you had a lot of normal, kid-type experiences to draw on back then, right? Of course the monsters in the closet and under the bed would turn up from time to time in your narrative.”
Dean can’t roll his eyes enough at that statement, though he makes a pretty decent effort.
“Hey, I did the best I could with the resources available,” he says, arching up for a moment and trying to stretch his back. “And it wasn’t all bad. Sometimes I read you stuff from the library.”
“Thank god.” Sam’s eyes are dancing dangerously. “Otherwise I would have been scarred for life. Imagine that.”
“Ouch, Sammy,” Dean says, but he’s smiling, too. “Ouch.”
“Whatever,” Sam says, shifting again - Dean can just barely still feel Sam’s leg pressed up against his own under the wooden press of the shelf; mostly it’s pins and needles though. “I still can’t believe you, of all people, read fantasy.”
Dean shrugs. “It seemed relevant to our interests, you know? Gods coming down and wreaking havoc - the human race caught in the crossfire.”
A smile creeps across Sam’s face. “Yeah, that’s why I picked it up, too.”
They’re quiet after that, because despite Sam’s assertion that they should talk more, the combined weight of all that stuff pressing down on them, along with the adrenaline crash of having chased and then killed whatever the hell this thing was they’d been tracking, well, it kind of took a lot out of both of them.
Dean feels around on Sammy’s head one more time for good measure, and then his own, before he decides that okay, whatever. They’re sleeping. Screw concussions, and screw Bobby. He could wake them up when he finally got here.
Dean closes his eyes, and feels Sam’s head fall against his shoulder.
“Really, Sam?” he asks, but at the same time, he has to admit it’s kind of nice, and the warmth doesn’t exactly feel bad. He sighs, and throws his arm over Sam’s shoulder, and Sam presses in a little closer.
“I bet that book was right up your alley though,” Sam says into the dark and the quiet.
“Mm,” Dean says.
“All that martyr-type stuff. Getting yourself tied to a tree…” Sam says, sounding thoughtful. “You know, I think that’s actually happened.”
“Shut up, Sam,” Dean says, but his heart’s not really in it. His head aches, and he really wishes Bobby would get here before one of both of them loses a limb. Or worse. Starves to death.
“Besides,” Dean says eventually, frowning. “Shadow was a hero, dude.”
“Yeah,” Sam says. Then he shivers, and Dean rubs his hand up and down over the thin cotton of his shirt. “Doesn’t make the risks he took any less stupid. But yeah, of course he was a hero.”
Dean closes his eyes. “Remind me not to bring up books around you ever again,” he says, and when Sam laughs, deep and rich, Dean can feel it in his chest.
It lodges itself in there, right between his ribs, and sticks around even when the room has gone quiet again.
Dean’s not really worried. Bobby will come through; he always does. And honestly, this is kind of nice, this deep, middle-of-nowhere quiet, just the two of them.
“We should call Bobby again,” Sam says after a minute.
“Yeah,” Dean agrees. And after another minute, he does.
end
Fandom: Supernatural
Genre/Characters/Pairing: Gen - Sam, Dean (or implied Sam/Dean, depending on your perspective)
Warnings/Spoilers: none, really
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~1,400
Summary: Of course Sam and Dean have both read Neil Gaiman’s American Gods. They discuss this, among other things, while trapped under a pile of furniture, waiting for Bobby to arrive after a hunt goes sideways.
Notes: I promise this isn’t as weird as it sounds, and you don’t have to have read the book for the fic to make sense. ;)
“It's easy, there's a trick to it, you do it or you die.”
― Neil Gaiman, American Gods
**
“Well,” Dean says, “there’s a trick to it.”
They’re on a stakeout of sorts, inside a large, old farmhouse about two miles off the main road, and the trick Dean’s talking about is aim - getting the bullet lodged in just the right place. It matters, apparently, according to Dad’s notebook, depending on what exactly they’re dealing with here, but he could easily be talking about this whole gig, he figures. Do or die. That’s what it generally comes down to, after all.
“You either do it or you die, right?” Sam says. He’s got a machete slung over his shoulder, and his pistol resting on his knee.
Dean just stares at him for a second, because okay, that was just creepy. Then he grins. “You’ve read that one too?”
“Yeah,” Sam admits, looking a bit confused. “Of course I’ve read it. It’s one of my favorites.”
“Mine too,” Dean offers, a little proud, shotgun propped up over his shoulder, as he leans back against the window sill and glances out the window. He raises his eyebrows at Sam. “Guess you didn’t see that one coming.”
Sam just shrugs. Releases the safety on his gun.
“More than meets the eye, Sammy, that’s all I’m sayin’.”
And then the shit kind of hits the fan, in a pretty big way, and by the time they’re capable of conversation again, they’re pinned underneath what feels like it could be an entire room’s worth of furniture. The item most immediate pinning them against the wall and into the floor appears to be a gigantic oak bookshelf. It couldn’t be any larger or more cumbersome if it was the goddamned tree itself.
Dean groans, and then, as if on cue, Sam starts wiggling around next to him.
“Ugh,” Sam says, rubbing at the back of his head and elbowing Dean in the head in the process.
“Hey, watch it.”
“Sorry. So did we get it? Is it gone?”
Dean sighs. He tries to move his legs, again, to no avail. “Yeah, we got it, but it kind of got us, too, if you know what I mean. But don’t worry. I called Bobby.”
“Right, don’t worry,” Sam says, heavy on the sarcasm. “We’re pinned under this thing-“
“I think it’s a bookshelf.”
“Whatever. It must weigh five hundred pounds. Your legs could be broken.”
“Nah,” Dean says. “I can still feel my toes.”
**
An hour or so goes by, and they make several unsuccessful attempts to pull their weight and unpin themselves, but upper body strength only goes so far, and this shit is really heavy, as it turns out.
Dean can no longer feel his toes.
“Dude, where the hell is Bobby,” he says, and in response, Sam grunts, and shifts a little next to him.
“You okay?” Dean asks, concern almost creeping into his voice, but he’s pretty sure he’s got it under control. Bobby had to have gotten his messages by now. They were fine.
“My head feels funny,” Sam says, and Dean’s heart sinks straight into his stomach.
“Come here,” Dean says, though that’s hardly necessary, because Sam is already there, so close that it’s actually kind of hard for him to get a good read what’s going on with him. Dean squints into Sam’s face - it’s starting to get dark outside, which means it’s getting hard to see inside, too. The last strands of sunlight are bleeding through the broken window across the room. “You think you have a concussion?”|
“Dunno,” Sam says, “maybe.” |
Dean runs his hands over Sam’s head, systematically feeling for bumps, for blood, and he’s relieved when he doesn’t find much of either.
“You’re fine,” he says, and resists the urge to ruffle that ridiculous head of hair.
“I’m tired,” Sam says.
“Oh no,” Dean says quickly. “We’re not going there. I’m pretty sure you don’t have a concussion, but we’re not going down that road. We’re both staying awake until Bobby gets his ass here.”
Sam sighs. “Fine, but you need to talk to me here - I was up almost all night last night researching this thing. I can barely keep my eyes open.”
“Want me to tell you a story?”
“No.” Sam laughs; it sounds dull and muted in the large space, disappearing somewhere up into the high ceilings. “No offense, Dean, but your stories are pretty bad.”
Dean gasps in mock surprise. “I’m offended,” he says, though he’s heard this all before. Many, many times. Apparently when they were kids, his bedtime stories left a little to be desired. Whatever.
“I get it,” Sam says, “I mean, it’s not like you had a lot of normal, kid-type experiences to draw on back then, right? Of course the monsters in the closet and under the bed would turn up from time to time in your narrative.”
Dean can’t roll his eyes enough at that statement, though he makes a pretty decent effort.
“Hey, I did the best I could with the resources available,” he says, arching up for a moment and trying to stretch his back. “And it wasn’t all bad. Sometimes I read you stuff from the library.”
“Thank god.” Sam’s eyes are dancing dangerously. “Otherwise I would have been scarred for life. Imagine that.”
“Ouch, Sammy,” Dean says, but he’s smiling, too. “Ouch.”
“Whatever,” Sam says, shifting again - Dean can just barely still feel Sam’s leg pressed up against his own under the wooden press of the shelf; mostly it’s pins and needles though. “I still can’t believe you, of all people, read fantasy.”
Dean shrugs. “It seemed relevant to our interests, you know? Gods coming down and wreaking havoc - the human race caught in the crossfire.”
A smile creeps across Sam’s face. “Yeah, that’s why I picked it up, too.”
They’re quiet after that, because despite Sam’s assertion that they should talk more, the combined weight of all that stuff pressing down on them, along with the adrenaline crash of having chased and then killed whatever the hell this thing was they’d been tracking, well, it kind of took a lot out of both of them.
Dean feels around on Sammy’s head one more time for good measure, and then his own, before he decides that okay, whatever. They’re sleeping. Screw concussions, and screw Bobby. He could wake them up when he finally got here.
Dean closes his eyes, and feels Sam’s head fall against his shoulder.
“Really, Sam?” he asks, but at the same time, he has to admit it’s kind of nice, and the warmth doesn’t exactly feel bad. He sighs, and throws his arm over Sam’s shoulder, and Sam presses in a little closer.
“I bet that book was right up your alley though,” Sam says into the dark and the quiet.
“Mm,” Dean says.
“All that martyr-type stuff. Getting yourself tied to a tree…” Sam says, sounding thoughtful. “You know, I think that’s actually happened.”
“Shut up, Sam,” Dean says, but his heart’s not really in it. His head aches, and he really wishes Bobby would get here before one of both of them loses a limb. Or worse. Starves to death.
“Besides,” Dean says eventually, frowning. “Shadow was a hero, dude.”
“Yeah,” Sam says. Then he shivers, and Dean rubs his hand up and down over the thin cotton of his shirt. “Doesn’t make the risks he took any less stupid. But yeah, of course he was a hero.”
Dean closes his eyes. “Remind me not to bring up books around you ever again,” he says, and when Sam laughs, deep and rich, Dean can feel it in his chest.
It lodges itself in there, right between his ribs, and sticks around even when the room has gone quiet again.
Dean’s not really worried. Bobby will come through; he always does. And honestly, this is kind of nice, this deep, middle-of-nowhere quiet, just the two of them.
“We should call Bobby again,” Sam says after a minute.
“Yeah,” Dean agrees. And after another minute, he does.
end