Consult the book of armaments; a ficlet and a birthday wish
Today is a very important and special day.
geminigrl11's birthday! Gem, you are one of the first people I met in the Supernatural fandom and I have valued our friendship since day one. You are an amazing writer and an even better friend. I hope your day is as fantastic as it should be!
As per our discussion a few days ago, here is a little ficlet just for you! It's not much, but I've been busy with work (how dare they? do they think that a paycheck entitles them to my time?) but I wanted to have something to give to you!
Consult the book of armaments | spn gen | 1238 words
Sam is sick, but the stubborn bastard won’t admit it. Instead, he torments Dean with his incessant whining.
“Bench seats are fucking stupid,” he says after a half hour spent trying to pretzel himself into a comfortable position. “Why can’t we have a normal car with a passenger seat that can recline on its own?”
Dean’s right hand twitches, reflex when his baby’s honour is at stake, but he hears what Sam isn’t saying, knows that every muscle and joint is probably aching with the flu he swears he doesn’t have, knows that the back of Sam’s t-shirt is stuck to the leather upholstery from the fever he won’t admit to. Dean sighs, wonders if Sam really thinks though Dean is blind and can’t see the spots of colour smeared across his cheekbones contrasted against the absolute pallor of the rest of his face.
Trouble is, Dean is a stubborn bastard, too. They come by it honestly enough, but it doesn’t change the fact that they’ve spent more than half their lives engaged in a game of chicken, always wondering who’s gonna blink first. So they’re both stubborn bastards and Sam won’t admit that he’s sick and Dean refuses to acknowledge the obvious until Sam acknowledges it first.
“Stop yer moaning,” Dean says, “Another three hours and we’ll stop in Greenville.”
There’s no reason to push on to Greenville, no job on the go, they’re headed to Bobby’s, more for something to do than anything else, and Dean could stop anywhere, they’ve passed a couple of motels already.
Sam’s mouth tightens and he hunches down further against the door.
“Whatever,” he says, and Dean shrugs.
Still, Dean is not a heartless so after an hour or so when Sam’s face is taking a decidedly green tinge he finds the next off ramp with a little roof sign attached to it and pulls into the Seasons Motor Inn. Sam doesn’t say anything about the change in plans which just reaffirms for Dean that he made the right call. He can outstubborn Sam some other day, when it won’t end in vomit on the Impala’s upholstery.
There aren’t any rooms on the ground level but the mattresses don’t squeak and the room smells a little sterile and not at all musty and Sam promptly crawls across one of the bed’s to slump facedown on the comforter and Dean counts it all as a win. There’s a tiny kitchenette with a mini fridge, sink and hot plate on the left of the door and a bathroom on the right. Dean twitches the beige curtains aside and finds himself looking down into someone’s fenced off backyard.
There’s no cable, which is expected, but there is an old VCR, which is not. A handwritten card taped on the corner of the black casing states that the convenience store down the street rents videos to guests. Dean glances over at Sam, who isn’t moving but clearly isn’t sleeping, and wipes his hands across his thighs.
“I’m gonna head to the store, get some food and some movies, okay?”
Sam doesn’t lift his face from the pillows but he lifts his hand off the bed and makes some kind of weird waving motion which Dean takes to mean thanks Dean for once again handling everything while I act like an ass pretending that I’m not about to start projectile vomiting the moment your back is turned.
The convenience store is actually pretty well appointed and maybe Dean is actually a complete freaking sap because he buys what must be the most expensive oranges on the North American continent, the special low sodium beef barley soup Sam loves, and rents a Monty Python flick even though he knows Sam will be quoting the entire Swamp Castle scene for weeks and that he’ll mimic every damn thing Sir Bedevere says. Because he’s an awesome, if totally underappreciated, brother.
Sam is pretty much in same position Dean left him in, and the solitude seems to have flipped some internal switch because as soon as Dean crosses the threshold Sam announces that he wants to be put of his misery. Please.
Dean dumps the bags on the mini fridge and kicks the door closed behind him.
“So, you’re admitting that you’re sick?” he asks.
“Fuck you,” Sam says, though the effect is lost when combined with the way he’s pouting. Dean rolls his eyes. Sam has been shot, beaten, burned and came back from the dead after being stabbed in the back but nothing is worse than dealing with Sam when he’s sick.
“Okay, well, I’m going to heat up some soup for you. You didn’t eat very much at lunch,” Dean says.
“S’because I threw it up,” Sam moans, curling up a little tighter on the bed.
“When, just now?” Dean stops fussing with the hot plate and moves to the bedside, slipping a calloused palm under Sam’s bangs. “You’ve got a fever,” he says and is completely unable to stop himself from making a tsk sound, like someone’s grandma for Chrissakes.
“No, earlier. At the diner.” Sam huffs out, almost leaning in to Dean’s touch. Dean smirks a little and brushes Sam’s hair back. “What kind of soup?” he asks.
“I don’t know, it said the main ingredient was salt so I figured you’d love it,” Dean teases, laughing outright at the scandalized expression on Sam’s face.
“Dean,” Sam says, drawing out his name into multiple whiny syllables.
“Ah, shuddup,” Dean says. “I got that low sodium hippie kind you like.” Sam hums a little, eyes closing.
“Sap,” he mumbles.
Sam finishes about half a bowl of soup, takes the Advil Dean hands him and manfully resists the obvious urge to hit Dean when Dean can’t resist the urge to adjust his pillows. Dean figures he couldn’t be any more obvious anyway, so he whips out the movie without even trying to make an excuse for it. The way Sam’s eyes light up though, well, it’s probably worth the mocking Dean is going to get when Sam feels better.
“No way,” Sam says, practically bouncing now, all but rubbing his hands together with glee. “You do know,”
“Yeah, yeah, I know you’re going to say all the damn lines,” Dean cuts him off and waves his hand. “Just don’t expect this to be a regular occurrence, okay?”
“Whatever, you love it,” Sam waves a hand, “You always end up singing the brave Sir Robin song.”
It’s not even eight o’clock but Dean finds himself sitting up against the headboard on Sam’s bed watching as the weird credits start rolling. And okay, the moose thing is kind of funny. Or at least, he’s pretty sure it was the first fifteen times he watched it. Sam is watching with a kind of vague attention, eyes occasionally drifting away from the television screen and with his hair mussed and his cheeks flushed Dean thinks he looks more like a stoned ten year old than an actual adult. By the time Sir Bevedere made his appearance Sam’s head on his thigh and Sam’s arm hooked around his knee. He’d forgotten how clingy Sam could be when he was sick. None of which explained why Dean’s hand was cupping the curve of Sam’s skull, fingertips rubbing Sam’s scalp.
Of course, it means Sam’s asleep when Dean does start singing along with the brave Sir Robin song, so Dean’s pretty okay with it.
geminigrl11's birthday! Gem, you are one of the first people I met in the Supernatural fandom and I have valued our friendship since day one. You are an amazing writer and an even better friend. I hope your day is as fantastic as it should be!
As per our discussion a few days ago, here is a little ficlet just for you! It's not much, but I've been busy with work (how dare they? do they think that a paycheck entitles them to my time?) but I wanted to have something to give to you!
Consult the book of armaments | spn gen | 1238 words
Sam is sick, but the stubborn bastard won’t admit it. Instead, he torments Dean with his incessant whining.
“Bench seats are fucking stupid,” he says after a half hour spent trying to pretzel himself into a comfortable position. “Why can’t we have a normal car with a passenger seat that can recline on its own?”
Dean’s right hand twitches, reflex when his baby’s honour is at stake, but he hears what Sam isn’t saying, knows that every muscle and joint is probably aching with the flu he swears he doesn’t have, knows that the back of Sam’s t-shirt is stuck to the leather upholstery from the fever he won’t admit to. Dean sighs, wonders if Sam really thinks though Dean is blind and can’t see the spots of colour smeared across his cheekbones contrasted against the absolute pallor of the rest of his face.
Trouble is, Dean is a stubborn bastard, too. They come by it honestly enough, but it doesn’t change the fact that they’ve spent more than half their lives engaged in a game of chicken, always wondering who’s gonna blink first. So they’re both stubborn bastards and Sam won’t admit that he’s sick and Dean refuses to acknowledge the obvious until Sam acknowledges it first.
“Stop yer moaning,” Dean says, “Another three hours and we’ll stop in Greenville.”
There’s no reason to push on to Greenville, no job on the go, they’re headed to Bobby’s, more for something to do than anything else, and Dean could stop anywhere, they’ve passed a couple of motels already.
Sam’s mouth tightens and he hunches down further against the door.
“Whatever,” he says, and Dean shrugs.
Still, Dean is not a heartless so after an hour or so when Sam’s face is taking a decidedly green tinge he finds the next off ramp with a little roof sign attached to it and pulls into the Seasons Motor Inn. Sam doesn’t say anything about the change in plans which just reaffirms for Dean that he made the right call. He can outstubborn Sam some other day, when it won’t end in vomit on the Impala’s upholstery.
There aren’t any rooms on the ground level but the mattresses don’t squeak and the room smells a little sterile and not at all musty and Sam promptly crawls across one of the bed’s to slump facedown on the comforter and Dean counts it all as a win. There’s a tiny kitchenette with a mini fridge, sink and hot plate on the left of the door and a bathroom on the right. Dean twitches the beige curtains aside and finds himself looking down into someone’s fenced off backyard.
There’s no cable, which is expected, but there is an old VCR, which is not. A handwritten card taped on the corner of the black casing states that the convenience store down the street rents videos to guests. Dean glances over at Sam, who isn’t moving but clearly isn’t sleeping, and wipes his hands across his thighs.
“I’m gonna head to the store, get some food and some movies, okay?”
Sam doesn’t lift his face from the pillows but he lifts his hand off the bed and makes some kind of weird waving motion which Dean takes to mean thanks Dean for once again handling everything while I act like an ass pretending that I’m not about to start projectile vomiting the moment your back is turned.
The convenience store is actually pretty well appointed and maybe Dean is actually a complete freaking sap because he buys what must be the most expensive oranges on the North American continent, the special low sodium beef barley soup Sam loves, and rents a Monty Python flick even though he knows Sam will be quoting the entire Swamp Castle scene for weeks and that he’ll mimic every damn thing Sir Bedevere says. Because he’s an awesome, if totally underappreciated, brother.
Sam is pretty much in same position Dean left him in, and the solitude seems to have flipped some internal switch because as soon as Dean crosses the threshold Sam announces that he wants to be put of his misery. Please.
Dean dumps the bags on the mini fridge and kicks the door closed behind him.
“So, you’re admitting that you’re sick?” he asks.
“Fuck you,” Sam says, though the effect is lost when combined with the way he’s pouting. Dean rolls his eyes. Sam has been shot, beaten, burned and came back from the dead after being stabbed in the back but nothing is worse than dealing with Sam when he’s sick.
“Okay, well, I’m going to heat up some soup for you. You didn’t eat very much at lunch,” Dean says.
“S’because I threw it up,” Sam moans, curling up a little tighter on the bed.
“When, just now?” Dean stops fussing with the hot plate and moves to the bedside, slipping a calloused palm under Sam’s bangs. “You’ve got a fever,” he says and is completely unable to stop himself from making a tsk sound, like someone’s grandma for Chrissakes.
“No, earlier. At the diner.” Sam huffs out, almost leaning in to Dean’s touch. Dean smirks a little and brushes Sam’s hair back. “What kind of soup?” he asks.
“I don’t know, it said the main ingredient was salt so I figured you’d love it,” Dean teases, laughing outright at the scandalized expression on Sam’s face.
“Dean,” Sam says, drawing out his name into multiple whiny syllables.
“Ah, shuddup,” Dean says. “I got that low sodium hippie kind you like.” Sam hums a little, eyes closing.
“Sap,” he mumbles.
Sam finishes about half a bowl of soup, takes the Advil Dean hands him and manfully resists the obvious urge to hit Dean when Dean can’t resist the urge to adjust his pillows. Dean figures he couldn’t be any more obvious anyway, so he whips out the movie without even trying to make an excuse for it. The way Sam’s eyes light up though, well, it’s probably worth the mocking Dean is going to get when Sam feels better.
“No way,” Sam says, practically bouncing now, all but rubbing his hands together with glee. “You do know,”
“Yeah, yeah, I know you’re going to say all the damn lines,” Dean cuts him off and waves his hand. “Just don’t expect this to be a regular occurrence, okay?”
“Whatever, you love it,” Sam waves a hand, “You always end up singing the brave Sir Robin song.”
It’s not even eight o’clock but Dean finds himself sitting up against the headboard on Sam’s bed watching as the weird credits start rolling. And okay, the moose thing is kind of funny. Or at least, he’s pretty sure it was the first fifteen times he watched it. Sam is watching with a kind of vague attention, eyes occasionally drifting away from the television screen and with his hair mussed and his cheeks flushed Dean thinks he looks more like a stoned ten year old than an actual adult. By the time Sir Bevedere made his appearance Sam’s head on his thigh and Sam’s arm hooked around his knee. He’d forgotten how clingy Sam could be when he was sick. None of which explained why Dean’s hand was cupping the curve of Sam’s skull, fingertips rubbing Sam’s scalp.
Of course, it means Sam’s asleep when Dean does start singing along with the brave Sir Robin song, so Dean’s pretty okay with it.