Our quaking bones part 3.1: Sparks and their fires
Title: Sparks and their fires (Ch 1)
Rating: PG
Pairing: gen, hints of sam/jess and sam/dean
Characters: Sam, Dean
Word Count: ~1900
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Summary: Sam has seizures and his brother has worries. Canon-compliant for season 1.
A/N: This is the first part of a chaptered installment in the OQB verse (sorry about the confusing) Here's that h/c I was promising.
Part 2
Sam's grief is a tangible thing, terrifying in its enormity, a shadow crouched on the worn leather between them, whispering dark things into Sam's ear while he sleeps.
He wakes up screaming, sometimes, other times dragging in great, gasping breaths like he's just surfacing from too long underwater. He doesn't offer anything up about his nightmares, and for the most part, Dean doesn't press. The Winchester tradition of repression and silence runs deep.
It scares him, though, the reckless edge he sees in Sam. He's never trodden so carefully, and still he's never felt so defenseless. He feels like he's sprinting with an unbalanced load, doing everything he can to stay upright, just waiting for the inevitable wreck.
And that's to say nothing of the seizures.
The first one comes on worryingly soon. They're on the road, somewhere just off the California-Nevada border, headed east.
Sam starts fidgeting all the sudden, sits up a little straighter and kneads his hands together restlessly. Dean comes quickly to a state of alert, turning vigilant eyes on his brother. He's just about to ask if he's alright, but Sam speaks before he can, mouth shaping just barely around Dean's name, the short, harsh sound forced out on an exhale.
Dean yanks the steering wheel to the right, pulling the car sharply off the road. He's out and around to Sam's side of the car before Sam's even had a chance to open the door. He works quickly, efficient, pulling Sam to his feet with two hands fisted in his shirt, getting them over the guardrail and then several feet away from it before moving to the ground. Sam goes along with him, pliant, his gaze directed down and his breathing carefully steady.
It's actually a not a bad place for it, if Dean could choose. They're several miles out of the nearest inhabited area, which means no close hospitals, but they've done this more than a few times, and the only time they've needed medical intervention was when Sam was ten and smacked his head on the table on the way down. They're surrounded by low hills, the ground all dry, winter-brown grass, soft and even under the soles of Dean's boots. The worst thing Sam's going to get here is a couple burrs.
"You doing okay?" Dean asks, giving Sam a once-over.
Sam gives a small nod, not looking up. His hands fist in the grass next to Dean's feet, clenching briefly and then relaxing.
"Let's get you lying down," Dean says, tugging Sam's hands free of the grass and pushing him gently back. Sam makes a little noise of agitation, but goes, letting Dean guide him down. Dean pulls off his jacket and bundles it up, pillowing it under Sam's head.
Sam's very still, every muscle carefully restrained, as if he can stop the seizure coming if he tries hard enough.
"I don't want to," he says suddenly, and there's a familiar edge to his voice.
"It's okay," Dean says, keeping his voice very calm. "Just relax."
Sam presses one hand over his eyes. "What if it's just a fluke? Just anxiety?" his tone is hopeful.
"Could be," Dean allows. "We'll stay here a couple minutes anyway, though, alright? To be safe."
Sam's fingers dig into his temples, nails going white with the pressure, and he pulls in a quick, hitching breath.
Dean rubs one hand up and down over Sam's shoulder. "Look, if it happens, it happens, okay? I know, it sucks, but it'll be over in no time. You just gotta let it take its course."
Sam makes a little noise of distress, one hand flying up to clamp around Dean's wrist. Dean pulls his arm back, slipping through Sam's grasp so that he can take his hand instead, slotting their thumbs together.
"Easy," he says, in a low voice. "I'm right here."
Sam's past speaking, Dean can tell, but his hand moves against Dean's, squeezing and then relaxing a few times.
Dean takes Sam's wrist in his other hand, bracing him. "It's okay, Sammy," he says, quiet. "I got you; I'm not going anywhere."
Sam's mouth is working, lips coming together and then parting around each heavy breath. His hold on Dean's hand loosens, and Dean lets him go, shifting back onto his knees for what's coming.
Sure enough, a couple seconds later it starts. Sam's whole body pulls taut, like a plucked cello string, static for a long instant. Then the spasms come, beginning in almost imperceptible twitching around his eyes and intensifying quickly, spreading across his body until his whole frame convulses. He rolls off of his side, bucking up and then falling back. His arms stretch rigidly out in front of him, wrists curled unnaturally in on themselves.
Dean checks his watch more times than necessary, counting seconds. There's a knot in his gut that only comes with feeling this kind of vulnerability, and it occurs to him perversely that he's more comfortable at gunpoint than he is in these unending minutes.
Gradually, the convulsions subside into rolling shudders as Sam's muscles unclench, rhythm slowing until he's more still than active. Dean checks his watch one more time: one minute, forty-three seconds since the fit started. Then he moves back towards Sam, taking him by the shoulders so he can maneuver him back onto his side.
"Just going to get you back over," he says, explaining as he works with him. "I'm gonna sit right here- give you a better pillow, whatcha think?" he says, lifting Sam's head gently into his lap.
Sam doesn't give any indication of having heard, eyes unfocused, lips still parted. His breath comes in rough, vocal drags, chest rising and falling dramatically with each. One of his feet is still going, ankle sickling as his heel lifts off the ground.
Dean pulls his shirt sleeve over the pad of his thumb so he can wipe the corner of Sam's mouth, rubbing slow circles into Sam's back with his other hand. He talks to Sam as he does, words with no real importance except to stop Sam coming to not knowing where he is.
"That wasn't such a bad one, was it? And we got a good warning, too, didn't we? I'm glad we did. Would've been messy having to do that in the car, huh?" He tucks Sam's hair behind his ears, running his fingers lightly over his scalp. "Been so long, Sammy, I was afraid I might've forgotten. I guess that's the kinda thing you don't forget though, huh?" He chuckles to himself. "Well, I guess you sorta forget, don't you? Seeing, though. It's different. I always wondered what it was like to feel it, you know?" Something occurs to him. "Say, Sammy, you ever seen someone have a seizure? Huh. I guess you haven't. Never really thought about that."
Sam makes a little sound, then, half a groan, bringing one hand up like he's going to touch his face, but doesn't quite make it. Dean straightens up a little.
"Hey, hey. You with me? Sammy? I'm right here, alright?"
Sam shifts, lifting his head like he might try to sit up. Dean catches his shoulder, ready to hold him back if he needs to.
"Take it easy, okay? Let's just sit tight for a minute."
Sam turns his head up, eyes roving over Dean's face. He seems suddenly very young, eyes wide and apprehensive, quiet except for the quick, ragged breaths he's still sucking in.
"Heya, Sammy," Dean says, smiling. "You remember me, huh? The most awesome big brother in the world?"
Sam's gaze is fixed on Dean's eyes, still just looking.
"Say my name, Sammy, can you do that? Tell me my name."
Sam doesn't reply for several seconds. Then he does, Dean ghosting out on an exhale like it's everything he has.
"That's right," Dean says, proud as if Sam's just taken down a bad guy. "Welcome back, Sammy."
"Dean," Sam says again, more clearly. His eyelids flutter.
Dean runs his fingers through Sam's hair again. "You get some rest, okay? We're not in any hurry." He picks up his jacket from where it lays still bundled beside them and drapes it over Sam's shoulders. Sam blinks at him a few more times, then closes his eyes, letting his head fall back to the side. He's out a moment later.
Sam wakes up slowly. After a few minutes of shifting around, he opens his eyes and looks up at Dean, then frowns, squinting as if he's never seen him before.
"Dean?" he asks. "What are you-" He stops, lips still parted around the last word, and Dean can practically see his mind working.
"Hey there," he says gently. "You remember what happened?"
But instead of recognition something wretched flits across Sam's features. His lips pull taught around a quick, shaky breath.
"The fire." He pushes the words out like dull bullets, face crumpling. Realization hits Dean like a physical blow, all the air pressed out of his lungs as if he's absorbing Sam's shock. Not just the seizure. He'd forgotten everything.
"Sammy-" he starts helplessly, but he can't think of a thing to say.
Sam turns his head away, pressing his face into Dean's knee like he's trying to hide in the folds of his jeans. His shoulders shake.
Dean takes a few long breaths, trying to ease the aching knot beneath his ribcage. He can't offer any words, not really. Nothing that could fix this. He reaches for Sam's hand instead, finds it fisted against Sam's chest. Sam lets him work his fingers through his and squeezes Dean's hand briefly. Dean holds on tight.
It's a long time before Sam sits up, and when he does, he moves like an old man, bracing himself against the dry ground like it's all he can do to support his weight. Dean helps him to his feet, one hand fisted in the back of his shirt and the other wrapped around his shoulder. They walk slowly back to the car. Sam won't meet Dean's eyes, head dropped so that his hair hides his face, and Dean doesn't push it, just goes quietly along with him.
When they get there, Dean opens the back door and Sam comes to an abrupt stop.
"Come on, you can catch a nap while we're on the road," Dean says, nudging him forward. Sam doesn't look up.
"I don't want to sleep," he says, so low Dean almost misses it. He looks up, then, and his eyes are frighteningly hollow.
And hell if Dean can argue with him. He squeezes Sam's shoulder.
"Okay," he says, closing the door and opening the front one instead. "Okay, sit up with me, then."
Sam falls asleep all the same, a mile or so out, head dropping down onto Dean's shoulder like they're little kids curled up in the back seat again. He comes half awake, once, lets out a sharp, bitten off cry and grabs Dean's arm so sudden that he startles and jerks the car half off the road. When he regains control of the wheel and leans forward to get a look at Sam's face, his eyes are closed and his breathing even again, though he hasn't loosed his grip on Dean's arm.
Dean shifts with his left hand all the way to Reno.
Chapter 2 ~ Masterpost
Rating: PG
Pairing: gen, hints of sam/jess and sam/dean
Characters: Sam, Dean
Word Count: ~1900
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Summary: Sam has seizures and his brother has worries. Canon-compliant for season 1.
A/N: This is the first part of a chaptered installment in the OQB verse (sorry about the confusing) Here's that h/c I was promising.
Part 2
Sam's grief is a tangible thing, terrifying in its enormity, a shadow crouched on the worn leather between them, whispering dark things into Sam's ear while he sleeps.
He wakes up screaming, sometimes, other times dragging in great, gasping breaths like he's just surfacing from too long underwater. He doesn't offer anything up about his nightmares, and for the most part, Dean doesn't press. The Winchester tradition of repression and silence runs deep.
It scares him, though, the reckless edge he sees in Sam. He's never trodden so carefully, and still he's never felt so defenseless. He feels like he's sprinting with an unbalanced load, doing everything he can to stay upright, just waiting for the inevitable wreck.
And that's to say nothing of the seizures.
The first one comes on worryingly soon. They're on the road, somewhere just off the California-Nevada border, headed east.
Sam starts fidgeting all the sudden, sits up a little straighter and kneads his hands together restlessly. Dean comes quickly to a state of alert, turning vigilant eyes on his brother. He's just about to ask if he's alright, but Sam speaks before he can, mouth shaping just barely around Dean's name, the short, harsh sound forced out on an exhale.
Dean yanks the steering wheel to the right, pulling the car sharply off the road. He's out and around to Sam's side of the car before Sam's even had a chance to open the door. He works quickly, efficient, pulling Sam to his feet with two hands fisted in his shirt, getting them over the guardrail and then several feet away from it before moving to the ground. Sam goes along with him, pliant, his gaze directed down and his breathing carefully steady.
It's actually a not a bad place for it, if Dean could choose. They're several miles out of the nearest inhabited area, which means no close hospitals, but they've done this more than a few times, and the only time they've needed medical intervention was when Sam was ten and smacked his head on the table on the way down. They're surrounded by low hills, the ground all dry, winter-brown grass, soft and even under the soles of Dean's boots. The worst thing Sam's going to get here is a couple burrs.
"You doing okay?" Dean asks, giving Sam a once-over.
Sam gives a small nod, not looking up. His hands fist in the grass next to Dean's feet, clenching briefly and then relaxing.
"Let's get you lying down," Dean says, tugging Sam's hands free of the grass and pushing him gently back. Sam makes a little noise of agitation, but goes, letting Dean guide him down. Dean pulls off his jacket and bundles it up, pillowing it under Sam's head.
Sam's very still, every muscle carefully restrained, as if he can stop the seizure coming if he tries hard enough.
"I don't want to," he says suddenly, and there's a familiar edge to his voice.
"It's okay," Dean says, keeping his voice very calm. "Just relax."
Sam presses one hand over his eyes. "What if it's just a fluke? Just anxiety?" his tone is hopeful.
"Could be," Dean allows. "We'll stay here a couple minutes anyway, though, alright? To be safe."
Sam's fingers dig into his temples, nails going white with the pressure, and he pulls in a quick, hitching breath.
Dean rubs one hand up and down over Sam's shoulder. "Look, if it happens, it happens, okay? I know, it sucks, but it'll be over in no time. You just gotta let it take its course."
Sam makes a little noise of distress, one hand flying up to clamp around Dean's wrist. Dean pulls his arm back, slipping through Sam's grasp so that he can take his hand instead, slotting their thumbs together.
"Easy," he says, in a low voice. "I'm right here."
Sam's past speaking, Dean can tell, but his hand moves against Dean's, squeezing and then relaxing a few times.
Dean takes Sam's wrist in his other hand, bracing him. "It's okay, Sammy," he says, quiet. "I got you; I'm not going anywhere."
Sam's mouth is working, lips coming together and then parting around each heavy breath. His hold on Dean's hand loosens, and Dean lets him go, shifting back onto his knees for what's coming.
Sure enough, a couple seconds later it starts. Sam's whole body pulls taut, like a plucked cello string, static for a long instant. Then the spasms come, beginning in almost imperceptible twitching around his eyes and intensifying quickly, spreading across his body until his whole frame convulses. He rolls off of his side, bucking up and then falling back. His arms stretch rigidly out in front of him, wrists curled unnaturally in on themselves.
Dean checks his watch more times than necessary, counting seconds. There's a knot in his gut that only comes with feeling this kind of vulnerability, and it occurs to him perversely that he's more comfortable at gunpoint than he is in these unending minutes.
Gradually, the convulsions subside into rolling shudders as Sam's muscles unclench, rhythm slowing until he's more still than active. Dean checks his watch one more time: one minute, forty-three seconds since the fit started. Then he moves back towards Sam, taking him by the shoulders so he can maneuver him back onto his side.
"Just going to get you back over," he says, explaining as he works with him. "I'm gonna sit right here- give you a better pillow, whatcha think?" he says, lifting Sam's head gently into his lap.
Sam doesn't give any indication of having heard, eyes unfocused, lips still parted. His breath comes in rough, vocal drags, chest rising and falling dramatically with each. One of his feet is still going, ankle sickling as his heel lifts off the ground.
Dean pulls his shirt sleeve over the pad of his thumb so he can wipe the corner of Sam's mouth, rubbing slow circles into Sam's back with his other hand. He talks to Sam as he does, words with no real importance except to stop Sam coming to not knowing where he is.
"That wasn't such a bad one, was it? And we got a good warning, too, didn't we? I'm glad we did. Would've been messy having to do that in the car, huh?" He tucks Sam's hair behind his ears, running his fingers lightly over his scalp. "Been so long, Sammy, I was afraid I might've forgotten. I guess that's the kinda thing you don't forget though, huh?" He chuckles to himself. "Well, I guess you sorta forget, don't you? Seeing, though. It's different. I always wondered what it was like to feel it, you know?" Something occurs to him. "Say, Sammy, you ever seen someone have a seizure? Huh. I guess you haven't. Never really thought about that."
Sam makes a little sound, then, half a groan, bringing one hand up like he's going to touch his face, but doesn't quite make it. Dean straightens up a little.
"Hey, hey. You with me? Sammy? I'm right here, alright?"
Sam shifts, lifting his head like he might try to sit up. Dean catches his shoulder, ready to hold him back if he needs to.
"Take it easy, okay? Let's just sit tight for a minute."
Sam turns his head up, eyes roving over Dean's face. He seems suddenly very young, eyes wide and apprehensive, quiet except for the quick, ragged breaths he's still sucking in.
"Heya, Sammy," Dean says, smiling. "You remember me, huh? The most awesome big brother in the world?"
Sam's gaze is fixed on Dean's eyes, still just looking.
"Say my name, Sammy, can you do that? Tell me my name."
Sam doesn't reply for several seconds. Then he does, Dean ghosting out on an exhale like it's everything he has.
"That's right," Dean says, proud as if Sam's just taken down a bad guy. "Welcome back, Sammy."
"Dean," Sam says again, more clearly. His eyelids flutter.
Dean runs his fingers through Sam's hair again. "You get some rest, okay? We're not in any hurry." He picks up his jacket from where it lays still bundled beside them and drapes it over Sam's shoulders. Sam blinks at him a few more times, then closes his eyes, letting his head fall back to the side. He's out a moment later.
Sam wakes up slowly. After a few minutes of shifting around, he opens his eyes and looks up at Dean, then frowns, squinting as if he's never seen him before.
"Dean?" he asks. "What are you-" He stops, lips still parted around the last word, and Dean can practically see his mind working.
"Hey there," he says gently. "You remember what happened?"
But instead of recognition something wretched flits across Sam's features. His lips pull taught around a quick, shaky breath.
"The fire." He pushes the words out like dull bullets, face crumpling. Realization hits Dean like a physical blow, all the air pressed out of his lungs as if he's absorbing Sam's shock. Not just the seizure. He'd forgotten everything.
"Sammy-" he starts helplessly, but he can't think of a thing to say.
Sam turns his head away, pressing his face into Dean's knee like he's trying to hide in the folds of his jeans. His shoulders shake.
Dean takes a few long breaths, trying to ease the aching knot beneath his ribcage. He can't offer any words, not really. Nothing that could fix this. He reaches for Sam's hand instead, finds it fisted against Sam's chest. Sam lets him work his fingers through his and squeezes Dean's hand briefly. Dean holds on tight.
It's a long time before Sam sits up, and when he does, he moves like an old man, bracing himself against the dry ground like it's all he can do to support his weight. Dean helps him to his feet, one hand fisted in the back of his shirt and the other wrapped around his shoulder. They walk slowly back to the car. Sam won't meet Dean's eyes, head dropped so that his hair hides his face, and Dean doesn't push it, just goes quietly along with him.
When they get there, Dean opens the back door and Sam comes to an abrupt stop.
"Come on, you can catch a nap while we're on the road," Dean says, nudging him forward. Sam doesn't look up.
"I don't want to sleep," he says, so low Dean almost misses it. He looks up, then, and his eyes are frighteningly hollow.
And hell if Dean can argue with him. He squeezes Sam's shoulder.
"Okay," he says, closing the door and opening the front one instead. "Okay, sit up with me, then."
Sam falls asleep all the same, a mile or so out, head dropping down onto Dean's shoulder like they're little kids curled up in the back seat again. He comes half awake, once, lets out a sharp, bitten off cry and grabs Dean's arm so sudden that he startles and jerks the car half off the road. When he regains control of the wheel and leans forward to get a look at Sam's face, his eyes are closed and his breathing even again, though he hasn't loosed his grip on Dean's arm.
Dean shifts with his left hand all the way to Reno.
Chapter 2 ~ Masterpost