SPN: Spooks: Hesitate
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The man behind Dean, easing the needle through tanned skin, is not his brother. Not Sam. Oh, he wears Sam’s face, acts the right way. And they’ve been over it, yes. It is Sam, just… missing his soul.
It’s one thing to know it intellectually. It’s a whole ‘nother ballgame to have to watch him in the mirror, sewing rent flesh back together, to have the visual confirmation of who it is, because your body doesn’t recognize him anymore. It’s scary as fuck.
Every time Sam has ever patched you up, there’s been hesitancy in his touch. Not a lack of confidence; the kid has that in spades. Knows his medical field training as well as you do, has done enough procedures to be better than some nurses you’ve stumbled across. Just a general hesitation, one you can feel each time. Even as his hands are steady and sure, his breath is calm and collected, you can feel the flutter of reluctance in him.
It’s always been there, from the first time you came home with a scratch across your hand from your first hunt. Dad was pissed you’d gotten hurt, but it wasn’t bad. Barely memorable, considering some of the truly impressive wounds you’ve gathered over your life. You remember Sammy’s eyes going wide as his chubby little fingers hovered over the dried blood, the little dry pieces of skin sticking up. Hazel eyes had been full of alarm, fear and worry, and he’d dashed off to the bathroom, stumbling back quickly with something in his hands.
The light flutter of your kid brother’s hesitative fingers had deftly placed Scooby-Doo bandages on your scratch with a gentle kiss to the plastic that wouldn’t have harmed a butterfly. You had laughed, ruffling his hair as you told him it felt better. Even that first time there had been a hint of question in his touch, you’d just assumed it was his way.
Until he had patched up Dad that first time - pressing gauze and tape to the large abrasion, holding them firm without the hesitation that always showed up whenever he helped put you back together.
You finally gave up, asking him days later as you turned down Def Leppard just a touch, and watching from the corner of your eye as he shrugged, hazel gaze still out the Impala’s window. I just… don’t want to hurt you. ‘S all.
There’s no hesitation in Sam now. Fingers strong, sure and firm, gentling only a little when you hiss as the sutures bite a little too deep. So you watch the mirror, reminding yourself it’s Sam, not a random, faceless nurse, physician or EMT patching you together. It’s your brother, and you force your shoulders to relax, to stay still, keep from flinching.
His eyes never leave the injury, and you can’t stop the promise that wells up, silent and sure as he is. I’ll fix this Sammy. I’ll put you back together. Don’t you worry. I’ll fix it.
Somehow.
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The man behind Dean, easing the needle through tanned skin, is not his brother. Not Sam. Oh, he wears Sam’s face, acts the right way. And they’ve been over it, yes. It is Sam, just… missing his soul.
It’s one thing to know it intellectually. It’s a whole ‘nother ballgame to have to watch him in the mirror, sewing rent flesh back together, to have the visual confirmation of who it is, because your body doesn’t recognize him anymore. It’s scary as fuck.
Every time Sam has ever patched you up, there’s been hesitancy in his touch. Not a lack of confidence; the kid has that in spades. Knows his medical field training as well as you do, has done enough procedures to be better than some nurses you’ve stumbled across. Just a general hesitation, one you can feel each time. Even as his hands are steady and sure, his breath is calm and collected, you can feel the flutter of reluctance in him.
It’s always been there, from the first time you came home with a scratch across your hand from your first hunt. Dad was pissed you’d gotten hurt, but it wasn’t bad. Barely memorable, considering some of the truly impressive wounds you’ve gathered over your life. You remember Sammy’s eyes going wide as his chubby little fingers hovered over the dried blood, the little dry pieces of skin sticking up. Hazel eyes had been full of alarm, fear and worry, and he’d dashed off to the bathroom, stumbling back quickly with something in his hands.
The light flutter of your kid brother’s hesitative fingers had deftly placed Scooby-Doo bandages on your scratch with a gentle kiss to the plastic that wouldn’t have harmed a butterfly. You had laughed, ruffling his hair as you told him it felt better. Even that first time there had been a hint of question in his touch, you’d just assumed it was his way.
Until he had patched up Dad that first time - pressing gauze and tape to the large abrasion, holding them firm without the hesitation that always showed up whenever he helped put you back together.
You finally gave up, asking him days later as you turned down Def Leppard just a touch, and watching from the corner of your eye as he shrugged, hazel gaze still out the Impala’s window. I just… don’t want to hurt you. ‘S all.
There’s no hesitation in Sam now. Fingers strong, sure and firm, gentling only a little when you hiss as the sutures bite a little too deep. So you watch the mirror, reminding yourself it’s Sam, not a random, faceless nurse, physician or EMT patching you together. It’s your brother, and you force your shoulders to relax, to stay still, keep from flinching.
His eyes never leave the injury, and you can’t stop the promise that wells up, silent and sure as he is. I’ll fix this Sammy. I’ll put you back together. Don’t you worry. I’ll fix it.
Somehow.
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