Sea Otters and Bumblebees
Title: Sea Otters and Bumblebees
Author:
hopeintheashes
Rating: PG for mild language
Genre/pairing: Hurt/Comfort, Gen
Characters: Sam, Dean, Cas, Bobby, Jody Mills
Word count: 1250
Summary: Written for 27_jaredjensen's prompt at the ohsam comment fic meme: Gen. Sam is sick and drifting in and out of sleep on the couch while Dean teaches Cas how to make a real Thanksgiving dinner. Any other "family" members (Bobby, Jody, etc.) can be there too!
Disclaimer: These boys? Definitely not mine.
A/N: As far as I can tell, this is the sweetest, fluffiest thing I have ever written in my life (and I've been writing since I was 7 or 8). It makes me kind of ridiculously happy.
Also available on AO3.
. . .
It’s warm. That's the first thing. He’d been cold last night; tiny, trembling shivers way down deep in his gut. There’d been a figure in the doorway, a shadow in the dim yellow glow that had blinked out of existence before he was sure it was really there. A shadow, and footsteps, then gun oil and whiskey and a worn wool blanket, heavy on his back.
He’s not trembling anymore. The sun’s coming in, bright and cold off of snow, and the sick room is suddenly stifling. He steps into the hallway, blankets dragging behind, and exhales.
Downstairs, Dean’s leaning up against the kitchen counter, coffee in hand, laughing. Bobby’s wearing an apron and a trucker hat and wielding a knife. There’s a naked turkey on the counter. Sam blinks hard. Right. Thanksgiving.
Two days in bed was apparently too much. He’s just starting to sag against the wall at the foot of the stairs when Dean looks up and grins. “Hey!”
Sam lifts a hand in greeting, but under three layers of blankets, he’s not sure Dean can tell. He manages a hoarse, “Hey,” before he’s overtaken by a coughing fit and has to sit down clumsily on the second-to-last step. Bobby shoots an exasperated look at Dean, who puts down the coffee and comes over to grab his arm.
“Couch.”
Sam doesn’t object, but doesn’t help much, either. Dean untangles the blankets and holds them expectantly while Sam lowers himself onto the faded cushions. There’s aftershave and coffee and heavy blankets (again), and he’s out.
. . .
The flap of wings brings him to with a sharp inhale that starts up the coughing again. When he gets his eyes open, Dean’s got Cas by the wrist, the other hand pointing at him accusingly, holding a red dishtowel that swings wildly with every stab. The naked turkey is gone.
“What, you were just gonna turn up and then-” Dean gestures dramatically with the dishtowel-“foop! away again?”
“I wasn’t planning to stay, no.”
“Well, you’re here now. And it’s Thanksgiving. So you’re staying.”
Cas just narrows his eyes.
“If I let go, are you gonna disappear on me?”
“I suppose not.”
“Alright.” Dean lets go slowly, still pointing his finger at the space between Cas's eyes. He backs away toward the counter before lowering his hand to pick up his beer. Sam's sure it was coffee just a second ago. He shakes his head to clear it. It doesn’t work, just hurts.
Cas looks into the living room. “Sam. You’re ill.”
Sam is tempted to roll his eyes, but thankfully for his headache, Dean does it for him. “No shit, Sherlock. Can you fix him?”
Cas turns to look at Dean, face serious. “No.”
“No?” Dean’s got his eyebrows raised in a way that Sam recognizes as dangerous, but Cas probably doesn’t.
“No.”
“That’s it?”
“Was I unclear?” Cas takes another look. “You’re angry. I’ll leave.”
Sam jumps in. “No! Cas, stay. Dean, it’s fine.” Dean takes a swig of his beer, but doesn’t quite release his grip on the butcher’s knife he'd unconsciously grabbed somewhere along the way.
Bobby, who’s been watching the whole thing with an amused smirk, finally speaks up. “So, Cas. You ever basted a turkey before?”
. . .
“Dean, I fail to see-”
“Just mash the damn potatoes, Cas.”
. . .
Bobby’s sitting in the armchair, watching football on his old tv. Sam sits up enough to stretch and cough and sip water from the glass that seems to have magically appeared beside him. He raises his eyebrows at the sight of Bobby relaxing when dinner is clearly not done, but Bobby just nods to the kitchen. At some point, Cas had removed his trenchcoat-or, more likely, Dean had pulled it off, muttering about catching the whole damn house on fire. The coat is now draped over a kitchen chair, and in its place, Cas is wearing Bobby’s “Kiss the Cook” apron. His sleeves are rolled up, which Sam has no doubt Dean is responsible for as well. Damn, he regrets sleeping through that.
“I thought pies were typically made with fruit?”
“Well, yeah, but they don’t have to be.” Dean doesn’t sound nearly as angry now. He has a fresh beer in his hand and the oven halfway open, checking on the turkey and the green bean casserole.
There’s a knock on the door and Jody Mills enters without waiting for a reply. “Hey! I brought the rolls.”
Sam’s suddenly aware of just how pathetic he must look, hunched over on the couch, still coughing occasionally, sweaty hair matted to his head. He goes to stand up, to make himself a little more presentable, but his foot’s on one of the blankets and he can’t quite manage it.
“Don’t you dare get up,” Jody tells him, with the sort of maternal authority he can’t help but obey. He sinks back down as she sweeps into the kitchen. Bobby levers himself up out of his chair. “Cas! So nice to see you.”
“Sheriff,” Cas nods. “Dean’s teaching me about pie.”
“Of course he is. Here, where do you want these?”
Sam tries to stay awake, since there’s company and all, but he can’t quite manage that, either. He’s warm, comfortably warm, and the other four are laughing in the kitchen and the crowd on tv is roaring quietly, like the ocean, and dinner smells so damn good, even if he’s pretty sure he’s not going to be able to swallow any of it.
. . .
He wakes to find a pair of intense blue eyes inches away from his own. “Cas!” He starts coughing again, and Cas steps back.
“Dean said to tell you that dinner is ready.”
“Okay.” Sam yawns and pulls himself up so that he’s sitting on the edge of the couch. He makes himself take off the blankets-he’s undignified enough already-but finds that the outside world is far too cold without at least one. He settles on the blanket from last night, which still smells faintly of gun oil and whiskey and Dean. He wears it over his shoulders like a superhero cape (definitely not like an old woman’s shawl) and sits down at the table to eat. Cas is still wearing the apron, which Dean snorts a laugh at and helps him remove. They sit down next to each other across the table from Sam. Bobby’s at the head, and Jody’s between him and Sam. She rubs his back absently through the blanket, laughing at something Bobby said.
“I was told that it’s traditional for everyone to state what they’re thankful for.” Cas looks incredibly serious.
Dean tries to object, but Jody nods encouragingly. Bobby looks at her with a wry smile. “You’re gonna regret this.”
As Cas begins a long, detailed list of all the things for which he’s thankful-including, but not limited to, sea otters, supernovas, and some kind of snail that lives only in the Brazilian rainforest-Dean grins at Sam across the table and passes him the mashed potatoes. Bobby’s already piling his plate high with turkey, and Jody’s reaching for the gravy. As Cas starts in on the wonders of bumblebees, Sam decides that it doesn’t matter that he’s sick and sweaty and hasn’t showered in three days; he doesn’t mind if they don’t. And clearly, they don’t. Sam smiles as Jody’s hand brushes Bobby’s and Dean tries to pass the platter of turkey to Cas. He supposes bumblebees are reasonable things to be thankful for. Bumblebees and sea otters and family, and something that feels a hell of a lot like home.
Author:
hopeintheashes
Rating: PG for mild language
Genre/pairing: Hurt/Comfort, Gen
Characters: Sam, Dean, Cas, Bobby, Jody Mills
Word count: 1250
Summary: Written for 27_jaredjensen's prompt at the ohsam comment fic meme: Gen. Sam is sick and drifting in and out of sleep on the couch while Dean teaches Cas how to make a real Thanksgiving dinner. Any other "family" members (Bobby, Jody, etc.) can be there too!
Disclaimer: These boys? Definitely not mine.
A/N: As far as I can tell, this is the sweetest, fluffiest thing I have ever written in my life (and I've been writing since I was 7 or 8). It makes me kind of ridiculously happy.
Also available on AO3.
. . .
It’s warm. That's the first thing. He’d been cold last night; tiny, trembling shivers way down deep in his gut. There’d been a figure in the doorway, a shadow in the dim yellow glow that had blinked out of existence before he was sure it was really there. A shadow, and footsteps, then gun oil and whiskey and a worn wool blanket, heavy on his back.
He’s not trembling anymore. The sun’s coming in, bright and cold off of snow, and the sick room is suddenly stifling. He steps into the hallway, blankets dragging behind, and exhales.
Downstairs, Dean’s leaning up against the kitchen counter, coffee in hand, laughing. Bobby’s wearing an apron and a trucker hat and wielding a knife. There’s a naked turkey on the counter. Sam blinks hard. Right. Thanksgiving.
Two days in bed was apparently too much. He’s just starting to sag against the wall at the foot of the stairs when Dean looks up and grins. “Hey!”
Sam lifts a hand in greeting, but under three layers of blankets, he’s not sure Dean can tell. He manages a hoarse, “Hey,” before he’s overtaken by a coughing fit and has to sit down clumsily on the second-to-last step. Bobby shoots an exasperated look at Dean, who puts down the coffee and comes over to grab his arm.
“Couch.”
Sam doesn’t object, but doesn’t help much, either. Dean untangles the blankets and holds them expectantly while Sam lowers himself onto the faded cushions. There’s aftershave and coffee and heavy blankets (again), and he’s out.
. . .
The flap of wings brings him to with a sharp inhale that starts up the coughing again. When he gets his eyes open, Dean’s got Cas by the wrist, the other hand pointing at him accusingly, holding a red dishtowel that swings wildly with every stab. The naked turkey is gone.
“What, you were just gonna turn up and then-” Dean gestures dramatically with the dishtowel-“foop! away again?”
“I wasn’t planning to stay, no.”
“Well, you’re here now. And it’s Thanksgiving. So you’re staying.”
Cas just narrows his eyes.
“If I let go, are you gonna disappear on me?”
“I suppose not.”
“Alright.” Dean lets go slowly, still pointing his finger at the space between Cas's eyes. He backs away toward the counter before lowering his hand to pick up his beer. Sam's sure it was coffee just a second ago. He shakes his head to clear it. It doesn’t work, just hurts.
Cas looks into the living room. “Sam. You’re ill.”
Sam is tempted to roll his eyes, but thankfully for his headache, Dean does it for him. “No shit, Sherlock. Can you fix him?”
Cas turns to look at Dean, face serious. “No.”
“No?” Dean’s got his eyebrows raised in a way that Sam recognizes as dangerous, but Cas probably doesn’t.
“No.”
“That’s it?”
“Was I unclear?” Cas takes another look. “You’re angry. I’ll leave.”
Sam jumps in. “No! Cas, stay. Dean, it’s fine.” Dean takes a swig of his beer, but doesn’t quite release his grip on the butcher’s knife he'd unconsciously grabbed somewhere along the way.
Bobby, who’s been watching the whole thing with an amused smirk, finally speaks up. “So, Cas. You ever basted a turkey before?”
. . .
“Dean, I fail to see-”
“Just mash the damn potatoes, Cas.”
. . .
Bobby’s sitting in the armchair, watching football on his old tv. Sam sits up enough to stretch and cough and sip water from the glass that seems to have magically appeared beside him. He raises his eyebrows at the sight of Bobby relaxing when dinner is clearly not done, but Bobby just nods to the kitchen. At some point, Cas had removed his trenchcoat-or, more likely, Dean had pulled it off, muttering about catching the whole damn house on fire. The coat is now draped over a kitchen chair, and in its place, Cas is wearing Bobby’s “Kiss the Cook” apron. His sleeves are rolled up, which Sam has no doubt Dean is responsible for as well. Damn, he regrets sleeping through that.
“I thought pies were typically made with fruit?”
“Well, yeah, but they don’t have to be.” Dean doesn’t sound nearly as angry now. He has a fresh beer in his hand and the oven halfway open, checking on the turkey and the green bean casserole.
There’s a knock on the door and Jody Mills enters without waiting for a reply. “Hey! I brought the rolls.”
Sam’s suddenly aware of just how pathetic he must look, hunched over on the couch, still coughing occasionally, sweaty hair matted to his head. He goes to stand up, to make himself a little more presentable, but his foot’s on one of the blankets and he can’t quite manage it.
“Don’t you dare get up,” Jody tells him, with the sort of maternal authority he can’t help but obey. He sinks back down as she sweeps into the kitchen. Bobby levers himself up out of his chair. “Cas! So nice to see you.”
“Sheriff,” Cas nods. “Dean’s teaching me about pie.”
“Of course he is. Here, where do you want these?”
Sam tries to stay awake, since there’s company and all, but he can’t quite manage that, either. He’s warm, comfortably warm, and the other four are laughing in the kitchen and the crowd on tv is roaring quietly, like the ocean, and dinner smells so damn good, even if he’s pretty sure he’s not going to be able to swallow any of it.
. . .
He wakes to find a pair of intense blue eyes inches away from his own. “Cas!” He starts coughing again, and Cas steps back.
“Dean said to tell you that dinner is ready.”
“Okay.” Sam yawns and pulls himself up so that he’s sitting on the edge of the couch. He makes himself take off the blankets-he’s undignified enough already-but finds that the outside world is far too cold without at least one. He settles on the blanket from last night, which still smells faintly of gun oil and whiskey and Dean. He wears it over his shoulders like a superhero cape (definitely not like an old woman’s shawl) and sits down at the table to eat. Cas is still wearing the apron, which Dean snorts a laugh at and helps him remove. They sit down next to each other across the table from Sam. Bobby’s at the head, and Jody’s between him and Sam. She rubs his back absently through the blanket, laughing at something Bobby said.
“I was told that it’s traditional for everyone to state what they’re thankful for.” Cas looks incredibly serious.
Dean tries to object, but Jody nods encouragingly. Bobby looks at her with a wry smile. “You’re gonna regret this.”
As Cas begins a long, detailed list of all the things for which he’s thankful-including, but not limited to, sea otters, supernovas, and some kind of snail that lives only in the Brazilian rainforest-Dean grins at Sam across the table and passes him the mashed potatoes. Bobby’s already piling his plate high with turkey, and Jody’s reaching for the gravy. As Cas starts in on the wonders of bumblebees, Sam decides that it doesn’t matter that he’s sick and sweaty and hasn’t showered in three days; he doesn’t mind if they don’t. And clearly, they don’t. Sam smiles as Jody’s hand brushes Bobby’s and Dean tries to pass the platter of turkey to Cas. He supposes bumblebees are reasonable things to be thankful for. Bumblebees and sea otters and family, and something that feels a hell of a lot like home.