Of Age and Wisdom, [PG-13] 2/10, Sam, Dean
Title: Of Age and Wisdom
Author:deanie_mcqueen
Rating:PG-13
Genre: Humor, Hurt/Comfort
Characters: Sam, Dean
Total Word Count: 11, 551
Spoilers/Warnings: N/A
Summary: Sam suddenly finds himself afraid of little old ladies. Dean does his best to see his baby brother through this odd phobia.
Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10
_______________________
Sam tried his very best to be brave the next day, but it seemed as if his nightmare lingered in every shadow and corner they passed. He walked closer to Dean than strictly necessary, somehow comforted by his big brother's confident stride and the smell of whatever he used in his hair. Sam tried to convince himself that he was ready to move on to the next hunt, but he felt small as they walked into Hank's Diner the next day, newspapers in hand.
He wrinkled his nose as he always did when he spotted unclean tables, and barely resisted swiping a finger over the Formica counter-tops. Eying anything too closely would only get him in trouble, so Sam concentrated on the feel of the plastic menu in his hands and fervently hoped they would get a waitress without wrinkles.
He wasn't sure he could handle wrinkles, at the moment.
A sharp stab in his ankle made Sam yelp and look up at Dean, who had claimed the seat across from him. "Please don't kick me," Sam said. "I'd appreciate it if you'd do something more reasonable. Like call my name."
"I have been calling your name," Dean said, and somehow Sam knew he wasn't lying. "I just-you okay, dude? You're breathing kind of weird."
"I am?" Knowing that he might be have been breathing weird definitely made Sam start breathing weird. His chest suddenly seemed tighter, bones pressing in on his lungs, and his mind flashed back to the night before: the unnatural length of her arm, the very unfair and cruel things she'd said to him in his dream, her wrinkles that would surely expand and grow and swallow him whole until there would be more no Sam, no more him, and-
"Sam!" Dean was suddenly out of the booth, crouching down on the floor next to Sam's side. He reached up a hand to rub strong circles into his baby brother's shoulder, comforting. "What's going on with you, man?" he asked quietly.
"I don't…" Sam swallowed, suddenly unwilling to share his fears. They seemed rather silly in the bright light and greasy smell of the diner. "I'm not sure," he lied, and kept his eyes on the table. "Not feeling well, I guess."
"Huh." Dean rocked back on his heels, looking only mildly convinced. "This isn't about last night, is it?"
"No," Sam said, too quickly, and he knew the conversation wasn't over, but their waitress arrived just then. Dean got up and went back to his seat while Sam's eyes slowly crept up her pasty-pink uniform, past the ketchup stain near the third buttonhole, catching on the glint of her gaudy necklace with the (obviously fake) amethyst, and finally stopping where they should: on her brown eyes.
On her brown and most assuredly old eyes.
Sam's hands immediately curled into weak fists. He tried to bite back the fearful noise that clung to the back of his throat, but a small squeak escaped. It didn't matter that he was a hunter. It didn't matter that his muscles were well-developed or that he was quick and agile on his feet. His heart raced in his chest and a white noise buzzed in his ears, blocking out the murmur of Dean's order. He felt stressed and trapped, stuck in the booth as he was, and tried to think of other things. Squeezing his eyes, Sam conjured an image of Mindy Jones, his kindergarten crush, and the way her red hair seemed to float in the breeze on the playground.
"Sir?" A voice jerked him out of his head. An old voice, and Sam shuddered. Why couldn't they have gotten the bodacious waitress he had spied on the way in? She would have been wrinkle-free. "Sir, what would you like to order?"
A trembling hand covered his eyes, and Sam felt shamed. Why did this matter? Why was he acting like this when he was a grown man? "Just coffee," he made himself say, and was proud of the way his voice barely trembled.
He couldn't make himself say more, and didn't even bother to stop his brother from ordering him a coffee and an omelet. He could only hope that they cooked it properly, and that Dean knew better than to get his something with sausage. Sam was not a fan of sausage.
"Sam, seriously." Dean's voice rang out from across the table; the waitress had apparently left, and Sam immediately felt better. More relaxed with the absence of wrinkles. "What is going on with you?"
Sam shrugged, trying to convince himself he felt better than he actually did. He could definitely breathe easier while their waitress was away, but his heart continued to smack against his ribcage, intent on escape. "I'm just…a little scared, Dean," he said, and tried to sound brave. It was hard, though, knowing their waitress would return.
"Of our waitress?" Dean guessed correctly.
Sam shifted in his seat. "I know how stupid it sounds, Dean. I just don't like her. She reminds me of…" Clearing his throat, Sam tried to keep the memories at bay. "Of my dreams," he finished, and closed his eyes because there she was, coming back with drinks, and he just didn't know if he could do it. He itched to move, to plug his ears and go somewhere safer until he could figure all this out. Acting like this wasn't normal, and Sam knew it. It'd only been one nightmare, one hunt out of thousands.
"Here you go, baby." Sam tensed as the waitress dropped off their coffees, and nearly screamed when he felt a non-Dean hand on his shoulder. It was her. "You're looking a little pale there, sugar," she said, mockingly sweet. "Gotta take care of yourself."
It sounded too much like a scolding. Embarrassingly and unwillingly, Sam's head felt full of cotton. The darkness on the edges of his vision crept in, blanking out the brightness of the world. All he saw was black.
Author:deanie_mcqueen
Rating:PG-13
Genre: Humor, Hurt/Comfort
Characters: Sam, Dean
Total Word Count: 11, 551
Spoilers/Warnings: N/A
Summary: Sam suddenly finds himself afraid of little old ladies. Dean does his best to see his baby brother through this odd phobia.
Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10
_______________________
Sam tried his very best to be brave the next day, but it seemed as if his nightmare lingered in every shadow and corner they passed. He walked closer to Dean than strictly necessary, somehow comforted by his big brother's confident stride and the smell of whatever he used in his hair. Sam tried to convince himself that he was ready to move on to the next hunt, but he felt small as they walked into Hank's Diner the next day, newspapers in hand.
He wrinkled his nose as he always did when he spotted unclean tables, and barely resisted swiping a finger over the Formica counter-tops. Eying anything too closely would only get him in trouble, so Sam concentrated on the feel of the plastic menu in his hands and fervently hoped they would get a waitress without wrinkles.
He wasn't sure he could handle wrinkles, at the moment.
A sharp stab in his ankle made Sam yelp and look up at Dean, who had claimed the seat across from him. "Please don't kick me," Sam said. "I'd appreciate it if you'd do something more reasonable. Like call my name."
"I have been calling your name," Dean said, and somehow Sam knew he wasn't lying. "I just-you okay, dude? You're breathing kind of weird."
"I am?" Knowing that he might be have been breathing weird definitely made Sam start breathing weird. His chest suddenly seemed tighter, bones pressing in on his lungs, and his mind flashed back to the night before: the unnatural length of her arm, the very unfair and cruel things she'd said to him in his dream, her wrinkles that would surely expand and grow and swallow him whole until there would be more no Sam, no more him, and-
"Sam!" Dean was suddenly out of the booth, crouching down on the floor next to Sam's side. He reached up a hand to rub strong circles into his baby brother's shoulder, comforting. "What's going on with you, man?" he asked quietly.
"I don't…" Sam swallowed, suddenly unwilling to share his fears. They seemed rather silly in the bright light and greasy smell of the diner. "I'm not sure," he lied, and kept his eyes on the table. "Not feeling well, I guess."
"Huh." Dean rocked back on his heels, looking only mildly convinced. "This isn't about last night, is it?"
"No," Sam said, too quickly, and he knew the conversation wasn't over, but their waitress arrived just then. Dean got up and went back to his seat while Sam's eyes slowly crept up her pasty-pink uniform, past the ketchup stain near the third buttonhole, catching on the glint of her gaudy necklace with the (obviously fake) amethyst, and finally stopping where they should: on her brown eyes.
On her brown and most assuredly old eyes.
Sam's hands immediately curled into weak fists. He tried to bite back the fearful noise that clung to the back of his throat, but a small squeak escaped. It didn't matter that he was a hunter. It didn't matter that his muscles were well-developed or that he was quick and agile on his feet. His heart raced in his chest and a white noise buzzed in his ears, blocking out the murmur of Dean's order. He felt stressed and trapped, stuck in the booth as he was, and tried to think of other things. Squeezing his eyes, Sam conjured an image of Mindy Jones, his kindergarten crush, and the way her red hair seemed to float in the breeze on the playground.
"Sir?" A voice jerked him out of his head. An old voice, and Sam shuddered. Why couldn't they have gotten the bodacious waitress he had spied on the way in? She would have been wrinkle-free. "Sir, what would you like to order?"
A trembling hand covered his eyes, and Sam felt shamed. Why did this matter? Why was he acting like this when he was a grown man? "Just coffee," he made himself say, and was proud of the way his voice barely trembled.
He couldn't make himself say more, and didn't even bother to stop his brother from ordering him a coffee and an omelet. He could only hope that they cooked it properly, and that Dean knew better than to get his something with sausage. Sam was not a fan of sausage.
"Sam, seriously." Dean's voice rang out from across the table; the waitress had apparently left, and Sam immediately felt better. More relaxed with the absence of wrinkles. "What is going on with you?"
Sam shrugged, trying to convince himself he felt better than he actually did. He could definitely breathe easier while their waitress was away, but his heart continued to smack against his ribcage, intent on escape. "I'm just…a little scared, Dean," he said, and tried to sound brave. It was hard, though, knowing their waitress would return.
"Of our waitress?" Dean guessed correctly.
Sam shifted in his seat. "I know how stupid it sounds, Dean. I just don't like her. She reminds me of…" Clearing his throat, Sam tried to keep the memories at bay. "Of my dreams," he finished, and closed his eyes because there she was, coming back with drinks, and he just didn't know if he could do it. He itched to move, to plug his ears and go somewhere safer until he could figure all this out. Acting like this wasn't normal, and Sam knew it. It'd only been one nightmare, one hunt out of thousands.
"Here you go, baby." Sam tensed as the waitress dropped off their coffees, and nearly screamed when he felt a non-Dean hand on his shoulder. It was her. "You're looking a little pale there, sugar," she said, mockingly sweet. "Gotta take care of yourself."
It sounded too much like a scolding. Embarrassingly and unwillingly, Sam's head felt full of cotton. The darkness on the edges of his vision crept in, blanking out the brightness of the world. All he saw was black.