Sequestered
Summary: Dean wants to celebrate and pretend to forget for a little while - can you blame him?
Category: Generic character story. Oneshot.
Timeline: Thanksgiving 2007 (season 3). Mentions of happenings in All Hell Breaks Loose (2.21) and Bad Day at Black Rock(3.03)
Characters: Sam & Dean
Wordcount: 962
Rating: PG
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"What time did I go to sleep last night?"
"I dunno. About midnight, I guess."
"Hmph." Dean rubbed at the bruises on his arms and cheeks. That last job had been a doozy.
Sam threw a pillow at him. "Your alarm is still waking the dead."
Dean rolled over and kicked the scratchy sheets off his legs and shivered, grabbed the pillow and walked around to Sam's bed and smacked him full force in the legs with it before tossing it at his head. Sam gathered it in his arms and rolled over on top of it, yawning.
"Are you gonna get up, or what?"
"I was having a good dream. For once. Wild horses..."
"What?"
"No," Sam snuffled and twisted into a ball under the covers, his hair sticking up on the sides. "Go'way."
Dean paused like he thought the second pillow was just too much of a temptation, then twisted around on his heels dramatically and hit the john to take care of business and splash water on his face. When he came out again, he could tell that the kitchenette in the room they'd rented had a smell. It wasn't one they were used to, but it wasn't bad. Dean turned around and brought one of the towels with him from the bathroom and opened the oven door. The smell in the room magnified.
"Oh yeah, baby. Who da man?" Dean tossed the towel in his hands until they covered his palms and slowly pulled out a huge foil pan. When he set it on the burners and unfolded the tinfoil, the steam and savory smells of a twelve pound turkey filled the air. The apples had been a good choice for stuffing. Slow roasting for twelve hours while they slept was gonna make this nice and juicy. Dean hissed and flapped his fingers as he pulled the rest of the foil away. "Hey carpet muncher, how do we carve this?" he directed at the shape in the nearest bed.
Sam rolled over with his arm pulled low on his forehead. His voice was even-keeled with a hint of slightly amused. "I have no idea, this is your deal, Martha Stewart. And I don't know if we have a knife. And I don't know where the dark meat is or where the light meat is."
"It's Emeril, please. This was totally finessed." Dean tucked the towel into his underwear and used it to wipe his hands, then pulled open the first drawer: four forks, four spoons, and a can opener. Second drawer: one oven mitt, oh well, measuring spoons, who needs those, and aha, two steak knives. Leveling one of the knives at the turkey he tentatively steadied the bird by grabbing hold of a leg, which promptly fell off.
Stuffing his face into the mattress, Sam groaned and pulled the blankets up to his ears. Under the covers, he tapped down first one finger then the next on the top sheet, until he got through all five fingers, then started over. One. Two.
"Hey. Sammy."
Sam smiled.
"Do you want cranberry sauce? I got some. You used to like it."
"At nine thirty in the morning?"
"Yeah. Why not?"
"In a can?"
"Is there any other kind?"
Sam rolled and hitched himself up, staring at the TV. It was off. He could have sworn he heard a radio or something, maybe in the next room. "Sounds good." He fumbled for the remote and flipped through the channels, listening for the same noise, settled on Dirty Jobs and watching the host shake fire ants out his pants while harvesting alligator eggs.
Two plates appeared in his line of sight piled high with meat and sauce and green beans, then two cups of coffee. Flopping his legs off the bed, he headed for the bathroom, snatching a piece of turkey as he shuffled by to grab a hot shower. Dean threw all the pillows onto Sam's bed and flopped down with his legs crossed, grabbed his plate.
"Happy Thanksgiving two days late! Where's the remote?!"
"No way! I love that show!"
Dean clicked around the channels and landed on a scene halfway through The Elephant Man. He hauled himself up on the pillows, eating with his fingers, watching the characters shout at each other in a stairwell.
"DON'T... Don't muck me about. You've had plenty of time to fix him up, and he's leaving with me, NOW. Do you understand me? Now, Mr. Treves. We had a bargain!"
"You misunderstood. This man suffered a severe fall, if you take my meaning. He's my patient now and I must do what ..."
"Pull the other one, why don't you! We made a deal!"
"I know what you've done to him and he's never going back to that."
"He's a freak! That's how they live. We're partners, him and I, business partners. You're willfully deprivin' me..."
Dean grimaced and changed the channel back. Mike Rowe was trying to get blood out of an apparently bloodless baby gator. He glanced at his brother as he emerged a few minutes later in a cloud of steam with towels draped over his shoulders and his hips and walk past him to their bags, couldn't help but see the faint red purple traces on his spine, the pink line on his shoulder.
"You okay?" Dean said lightly around a bite of mixed food.
"Yeah, of course. Why do you ask?"
"You're limping again."
"Oh, that's just. Spending the day falling on my face kinda wrecked havoc with my knees, you know. It's just the cold. I'm fine." He dressed slowly and propped himself at the headboard next to Dean. "Thanks for leaving the channel."
Dean handed him his plate and his coffee. "Uh huh, sure."
Category: Generic character story. Oneshot.
Timeline: Thanksgiving 2007 (season 3). Mentions of happenings in All Hell Breaks Loose (2.21) and Bad Day at Black Rock(3.03)
Characters: Sam & Dean
Wordcount: 962
Rating: PG
-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-
"What time did I go to sleep last night?"
"I dunno. About midnight, I guess."
"Hmph." Dean rubbed at the bruises on his arms and cheeks. That last job had been a doozy.
Sam threw a pillow at him. "Your alarm is still waking the dead."
Dean rolled over and kicked the scratchy sheets off his legs and shivered, grabbed the pillow and walked around to Sam's bed and smacked him full force in the legs with it before tossing it at his head. Sam gathered it in his arms and rolled over on top of it, yawning.
"Are you gonna get up, or what?"
"I was having a good dream. For once. Wild horses..."
"What?"
"No," Sam snuffled and twisted into a ball under the covers, his hair sticking up on the sides. "Go'way."
Dean paused like he thought the second pillow was just too much of a temptation, then twisted around on his heels dramatically and hit the john to take care of business and splash water on his face. When he came out again, he could tell that the kitchenette in the room they'd rented had a smell. It wasn't one they were used to, but it wasn't bad. Dean turned around and brought one of the towels with him from the bathroom and opened the oven door. The smell in the room magnified.
"Oh yeah, baby. Who da man?" Dean tossed the towel in his hands until they covered his palms and slowly pulled out a huge foil pan. When he set it on the burners and unfolded the tinfoil, the steam and savory smells of a twelve pound turkey filled the air. The apples had been a good choice for stuffing. Slow roasting for twelve hours while they slept was gonna make this nice and juicy. Dean hissed and flapped his fingers as he pulled the rest of the foil away. "Hey carpet muncher, how do we carve this?" he directed at the shape in the nearest bed.
Sam rolled over with his arm pulled low on his forehead. His voice was even-keeled with a hint of slightly amused. "I have no idea, this is your deal, Martha Stewart. And I don't know if we have a knife. And I don't know where the dark meat is or where the light meat is."
"It's Emeril, please. This was totally finessed." Dean tucked the towel into his underwear and used it to wipe his hands, then pulled open the first drawer: four forks, four spoons, and a can opener. Second drawer: one oven mitt, oh well, measuring spoons, who needs those, and aha, two steak knives. Leveling one of the knives at the turkey he tentatively steadied the bird by grabbing hold of a leg, which promptly fell off.
Stuffing his face into the mattress, Sam groaned and pulled the blankets up to his ears. Under the covers, he tapped down first one finger then the next on the top sheet, until he got through all five fingers, then started over. One. Two.
"Hey. Sammy."
Sam smiled.
"Do you want cranberry sauce? I got some. You used to like it."
"At nine thirty in the morning?"
"Yeah. Why not?"
"In a can?"
"Is there any other kind?"
Sam rolled and hitched himself up, staring at the TV. It was off. He could have sworn he heard a radio or something, maybe in the next room. "Sounds good." He fumbled for the remote and flipped through the channels, listening for the same noise, settled on Dirty Jobs and watching the host shake fire ants out his pants while harvesting alligator eggs.
Two plates appeared in his line of sight piled high with meat and sauce and green beans, then two cups of coffee. Flopping his legs off the bed, he headed for the bathroom, snatching a piece of turkey as he shuffled by to grab a hot shower. Dean threw all the pillows onto Sam's bed and flopped down with his legs crossed, grabbed his plate.
"Happy Thanksgiving two days late! Where's the remote?!"
"No way! I love that show!"
Dean clicked around the channels and landed on a scene halfway through The Elephant Man. He hauled himself up on the pillows, eating with his fingers, watching the characters shout at each other in a stairwell.
"DON'T... Don't muck me about. You've had plenty of time to fix him up, and he's leaving with me, NOW. Do you understand me? Now, Mr. Treves. We had a bargain!"
"You misunderstood. This man suffered a severe fall, if you take my meaning. He's my patient now and I must do what ..."
"Pull the other one, why don't you! We made a deal!"
"I know what you've done to him and he's never going back to that."
"He's a freak! That's how they live. We're partners, him and I, business partners. You're willfully deprivin' me..."
Dean grimaced and changed the channel back. Mike Rowe was trying to get blood out of an apparently bloodless baby gator. He glanced at his brother as he emerged a few minutes later in a cloud of steam with towels draped over his shoulders and his hips and walk past him to their bags, couldn't help but see the faint red purple traces on his spine, the pink line on his shoulder.
"You okay?" Dean said lightly around a bite of mixed food.
"Yeah, of course. Why do you ask?"
"You're limping again."
"Oh, that's just. Spending the day falling on my face kinda wrecked havoc with my knees, you know. It's just the cold. I'm fine." He dressed slowly and propped himself at the headboard next to Dean. "Thanks for leaving the channel."
Dean handed him his plate and his coffee. "Uh huh, sure."