Of Age and Wisdom, [PG-13] 5/10, 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
__________________________
Things had been getting better, and Sam was nearly over his fear. He still felt a bit shaky and undone around wrinkles, but he'd taken to recalling rare and happy memories from his childhood to keep himself calm. He let the images of fireworks and cake-baking blur away the terror as he talked to the old cashier in the Moto-Mart and the ticket lady when Dean insisted on watching a movie. Both of these interactions had been rather awkward and forced, but Sam had considered them a success.
Dean, as always, was by his side. Now that it seemed as if Sam was making progress, Dean had taken to teasing him about his phobia. "Just wait 'til I tell Bobby," he said, and, "You're a pitiful example of an adult, Sammy." These words hurt, but Sam brushed them aside with a swat to Dean's arm or a gentle punch to his side. He knew it was a stupid thing to be afraid of, but the memory of the old non-lady on the hunt still clung to the corners of his brain.
It had been a slow recovery, but Sam woke up two months after the dreaded hunt with determination and hunger clawing in his stomach. Today would be the day. If I decide I'm cured, Sam thought, I am be cured. He'd prove it. Somehow.
Dean was still snoring in the next bed, so Sam slapped at his brother's arm until he blinked, eyes fuzzy and dull from sleep. Sam heard a warbled "What?" and cleared his throat.
"I'm going to go get us breakfast," he said, already fingering the keys in his pocket. "You want anything in particular?"
Dean buried his face in the pillow, stretching his arms up and crossing them above his head. Sam could count six holes in his shirt and knew there were plenty more. Maybe he'd find a thrift store somewhere, too.
"Dean?" he said again. "Breakfast. What do you want?"
Dean turned his head just enough to say, "Food," before burying his face again. Sam poked him once more for good measure, but Dean just lowered a hand to grab the comforter, flinging it up and over his body.
"Be that way," Sam said childishly, but he should have known better than to expect Dean to be fully functioning after a night out at the bar. Dean had spent quite a long time flirting with a busty redhead with a hamburger tattoo on her left forearm. Sam wasn't sure if Dean was more enamored with Sally's plunging neckline or her choice of body art.
He sighed as he left the room, walking slowly to the Impala and welcoming the familiar squeak of the door and rumble of the engine. He hoped Dean would be happy when he got him something without grease. It would be for his own good.
Driving, Sam realized he had no idea where to stop for breakfast. The diner they'd eaten at the night before was closed, the parking lot empty and in need of serious repair. He couldn't remember any other possible breakfast-selling venues, so he drove until there were fewer businesses and more houses.
Just as he was getting ready to turn the Impala around, Sam spotted a small neighborhood grocery store. That might have to do.
Shopping went well, Sam thought. He happily grabbed a few pieces of fruit and a box full of granola bars he thought would be smart to keep for snacks. He hated himself a little for picking up a bag of Starbursts (the kind filled with liquid sugar), but it was hard not to smile when Dean gleefully popped the candy in his mouth. Perhaps Sam would hold onto the bag and distribute the small candies as rewards for good eating behavior.
Armed with the fruit, granola, Starbursts, two small bottles of orange juice, and a few other breakfast-type items, Sam checked out and wandered back to the Impala. It was later now, but still early: only a few cars were on the road, all of the drivers caffeinated or half-asleep.
"Excuse me, young man?"
Sam whirled around, nearly squashing his hand as he slammed the trunk shut. His heart skipped a few beats when he saw an old lady hobbling closer, a sweet smile in place. "Yes?" he managed to say. "Can I help you?"
"Already so kind," the woman said, cocking her head in such a fashion that suggested Sam's question was nothing less than pure sunshine to the ears. "Kind boys like you are so hard to find, you know."
"Right." Sam spoke as politely as he could, but even with all the progress he'd made, it was a bit of struggle to keep a small smile on his face.
"Kind boys like you help when they're asked, don't they?" The woman stepped closer still, and Sam could smell the faintest hint of staleness. Her gray dress looked homemade and worn; fat buttons lined from the lace collar down to her knees, shining like pearls. Impossibly small feet moved around in clunky heels, her steps short and shuffling. "Kind boys always know what's right."
Sam backed into the bulk of the Impala before he could stop himself. Who talked like that? It seemed awfully suspicious and devious to his ears. Old ladies gave out candy and baked their grandchildren too many cookies; they didn't accost muscular men in neighborhood grocery stores. Sam eyed her black purse, obviously full and heavy with something deadly, something that could cut or burn or maul him to-
What the hell was his problem?
Remembering his vow that very morning (If I decide I'm cured, I'm cured), Sam shook away his fear and made a very brave step forward. Old ladies talked oddly because they were old and lacked access to social circles that employed modern language. It wasn't her fault she sounded so bizarre.
"Do you need help?" Sam asked, and got his answer when her face lit up.
"Oh, yes." One final step brought the woman close enough to grab Sam's hand in a very soft and loose grip. "I would love your help. Would you mind walking my groceries to my house?" She let go and pointed to a solitary paper bag still waiting by the grocery store entrance. "I live just there."
Sam turned his head to follow the nod of her head and saw a perfectly ordinary house not three minutes walk from the store. Try as he might, Sam really couldn't see anything suspicious about it: the house looked well-maintained and inviting, lawn full of green grass and a porch with a swing. He chanced a quick look at his watch; he had enough time, surely, to help her out before Dean got worried. It shouldn't take long at all.
"I've got carrots and celery sticks," the woman said, like it was the best enticement anyone could ever hope to hear. "I'll fix you up a plate if you'll bring the bag to my kitchen. Big boys like you need to eat smart."
"We do," Sam agreed. "I'll help you."
And he did. It didn't take long to pick up the bag and head towards her house. Every step felt like a victory. Too long ago, Sam could barely sit in a diner. Now he was helping an old lady all by himself, and he couldn't help but look forward to his vegetable reward.
"Just let me get my keys," the woman said, and started digging through her purse. "Always lose them, you know."
Sam nodded, feeling more at ease. Bad and evil people didn't lose their keys. Bad and evil people didn't have welcome mats or birdhouses painted in eggshell blue. These things reassured him, and he hefted up the surprisingly heavy bag on his hip as he waited.
"There we are," she said when the door popped open. She stopped in the foyer before Sam could move past, looking up at him. "Oh, my! And I never did give you my name, did I? Here we are, nearly in my home, and I haven't given you the smallest of courtesies. I'm Marcia, dear."
"Sam," Sam said, and followed her when she finally moved forward. "You know, never mind about the celery." The more he thought about it, he had wasted quite a bit of time looking for somewhere to find food. His big brother would be worried about him. "Thank you, but I should just go."
"Nonsense!" cried Marcia, already hobbling towards the fridge. "You deserve your thanks."
Sam pasted on a smile, but started backing up. Now that he was inside, he didn't much care for the rooster wallpaper or the overturned sugar canister. There was only a single chair at the dining room table, and it was obviously his imagination, but the keys on the old wooden piano looked rather red. "Thanks," he said again, "but my brother will worry, and I should really go."
"Stay." It was no trick of his ears: Marcia's voice sounded stern and deep. "You'll stay, won't you? I have to give you my thanks."
"It's-it's no problem," Sam said, all his bravado slipping away. Her wrinkles stood out like canyons, deep and dangerous. "I don't need your vegetables."
Marcia frowned. "It's rude to deny your elders, Samuel. Have you forgotten your manners? I was so very certain you were a kind boy. Thought you were such a kind, tall boy."
That was enough. Sam couldn't bring himself to think away her odd language now; he left her where she was and hurried back through the small hallway to the front door. He could hear the shuffling drag of her feet following and the smell of the dusty carpets was almost too much, but Sam tried to keep calm. "I can run fast, I can run fast," he told himself, and jiggled the front door.
It was locked.
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
__________________________
Things had been getting better, and Sam was nearly over his fear. He still felt a bit shaky and undone around wrinkles, but he'd taken to recalling rare and happy memories from his childhood to keep himself calm. He let the images of fireworks and cake-baking blur away the terror as he talked to the old cashier in the Moto-Mart and the ticket lady when Dean insisted on watching a movie. Both of these interactions had been rather awkward and forced, but Sam had considered them a success.
Dean, as always, was by his side. Now that it seemed as if Sam was making progress, Dean had taken to teasing him about his phobia. "Just wait 'til I tell Bobby," he said, and, "You're a pitiful example of an adult, Sammy." These words hurt, but Sam brushed them aside with a swat to Dean's arm or a gentle punch to his side. He knew it was a stupid thing to be afraid of, but the memory of the old non-lady on the hunt still clung to the corners of his brain.
It had been a slow recovery, but Sam woke up two months after the dreaded hunt with determination and hunger clawing in his stomach. Today would be the day. If I decide I'm cured, Sam thought, I am be cured. He'd prove it. Somehow.
Dean was still snoring in the next bed, so Sam slapped at his brother's arm until he blinked, eyes fuzzy and dull from sleep. Sam heard a warbled "What?" and cleared his throat.
"I'm going to go get us breakfast," he said, already fingering the keys in his pocket. "You want anything in particular?"
Dean buried his face in the pillow, stretching his arms up and crossing them above his head. Sam could count six holes in his shirt and knew there were plenty more. Maybe he'd find a thrift store somewhere, too.
"Dean?" he said again. "Breakfast. What do you want?"
Dean turned his head just enough to say, "Food," before burying his face again. Sam poked him once more for good measure, but Dean just lowered a hand to grab the comforter, flinging it up and over his body.
"Be that way," Sam said childishly, but he should have known better than to expect Dean to be fully functioning after a night out at the bar. Dean had spent quite a long time flirting with a busty redhead with a hamburger tattoo on her left forearm. Sam wasn't sure if Dean was more enamored with Sally's plunging neckline or her choice of body art.
He sighed as he left the room, walking slowly to the Impala and welcoming the familiar squeak of the door and rumble of the engine. He hoped Dean would be happy when he got him something without grease. It would be for his own good.
Driving, Sam realized he had no idea where to stop for breakfast. The diner they'd eaten at the night before was closed, the parking lot empty and in need of serious repair. He couldn't remember any other possible breakfast-selling venues, so he drove until there were fewer businesses and more houses.
Just as he was getting ready to turn the Impala around, Sam spotted a small neighborhood grocery store. That might have to do.
Shopping went well, Sam thought. He happily grabbed a few pieces of fruit and a box full of granola bars he thought would be smart to keep for snacks. He hated himself a little for picking up a bag of Starbursts (the kind filled with liquid sugar), but it was hard not to smile when Dean gleefully popped the candy in his mouth. Perhaps Sam would hold onto the bag and distribute the small candies as rewards for good eating behavior.
Armed with the fruit, granola, Starbursts, two small bottles of orange juice, and a few other breakfast-type items, Sam checked out and wandered back to the Impala. It was later now, but still early: only a few cars were on the road, all of the drivers caffeinated or half-asleep.
"Excuse me, young man?"
Sam whirled around, nearly squashing his hand as he slammed the trunk shut. His heart skipped a few beats when he saw an old lady hobbling closer, a sweet smile in place. "Yes?" he managed to say. "Can I help you?"
"Already so kind," the woman said, cocking her head in such a fashion that suggested Sam's question was nothing less than pure sunshine to the ears. "Kind boys like you are so hard to find, you know."
"Right." Sam spoke as politely as he could, but even with all the progress he'd made, it was a bit of struggle to keep a small smile on his face.
"Kind boys like you help when they're asked, don't they?" The woman stepped closer still, and Sam could smell the faintest hint of staleness. Her gray dress looked homemade and worn; fat buttons lined from the lace collar down to her knees, shining like pearls. Impossibly small feet moved around in clunky heels, her steps short and shuffling. "Kind boys always know what's right."
Sam backed into the bulk of the Impala before he could stop himself. Who talked like that? It seemed awfully suspicious and devious to his ears. Old ladies gave out candy and baked their grandchildren too many cookies; they didn't accost muscular men in neighborhood grocery stores. Sam eyed her black purse, obviously full and heavy with something deadly, something that could cut or burn or maul him to-
What the hell was his problem?
Remembering his vow that very morning (If I decide I'm cured, I'm cured), Sam shook away his fear and made a very brave step forward. Old ladies talked oddly because they were old and lacked access to social circles that employed modern language. It wasn't her fault she sounded so bizarre.
"Do you need help?" Sam asked, and got his answer when her face lit up.
"Oh, yes." One final step brought the woman close enough to grab Sam's hand in a very soft and loose grip. "I would love your help. Would you mind walking my groceries to my house?" She let go and pointed to a solitary paper bag still waiting by the grocery store entrance. "I live just there."
Sam turned his head to follow the nod of her head and saw a perfectly ordinary house not three minutes walk from the store. Try as he might, Sam really couldn't see anything suspicious about it: the house looked well-maintained and inviting, lawn full of green grass and a porch with a swing. He chanced a quick look at his watch; he had enough time, surely, to help her out before Dean got worried. It shouldn't take long at all.
"I've got carrots and celery sticks," the woman said, like it was the best enticement anyone could ever hope to hear. "I'll fix you up a plate if you'll bring the bag to my kitchen. Big boys like you need to eat smart."
"We do," Sam agreed. "I'll help you."
And he did. It didn't take long to pick up the bag and head towards her house. Every step felt like a victory. Too long ago, Sam could barely sit in a diner. Now he was helping an old lady all by himself, and he couldn't help but look forward to his vegetable reward.
"Just let me get my keys," the woman said, and started digging through her purse. "Always lose them, you know."
Sam nodded, feeling more at ease. Bad and evil people didn't lose their keys. Bad and evil people didn't have welcome mats or birdhouses painted in eggshell blue. These things reassured him, and he hefted up the surprisingly heavy bag on his hip as he waited.
"There we are," she said when the door popped open. She stopped in the foyer before Sam could move past, looking up at him. "Oh, my! And I never did give you my name, did I? Here we are, nearly in my home, and I haven't given you the smallest of courtesies. I'm Marcia, dear."
"Sam," Sam said, and followed her when she finally moved forward. "You know, never mind about the celery." The more he thought about it, he had wasted quite a bit of time looking for somewhere to find food. His big brother would be worried about him. "Thank you, but I should just go."
"Nonsense!" cried Marcia, already hobbling towards the fridge. "You deserve your thanks."
Sam pasted on a smile, but started backing up. Now that he was inside, he didn't much care for the rooster wallpaper or the overturned sugar canister. There was only a single chair at the dining room table, and it was obviously his imagination, but the keys on the old wooden piano looked rather red. "Thanks," he said again, "but my brother will worry, and I should really go."
"Stay." It was no trick of his ears: Marcia's voice sounded stern and deep. "You'll stay, won't you? I have to give you my thanks."
"It's-it's no problem," Sam said, all his bravado slipping away. Her wrinkles stood out like canyons, deep and dangerous. "I don't need your vegetables."
Marcia frowned. "It's rude to deny your elders, Samuel. Have you forgotten your manners? I was so very certain you were a kind boy. Thought you were such a kind, tall boy."
That was enough. Sam couldn't bring himself to think away her odd language now; he left her where she was and hurried back through the small hallway to the front door. He could hear the shuffling drag of her feet following and the smell of the dusty carpets was almost too much, but Sam tried to keep calm. "I can run fast, I can run fast," he told himself, and jiggled the front door.
It was locked.