Supernatural Fic
Dec. 5th, 2007 10:03 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rahmiTitle: Count Your Courage
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Wee!Chesters (Dean - 13, Sam - 9), John
Pairings: None
Dad drags Sammy out on hunts with them, no matter how much he moans and complains about schoolwork or whatever the hell else it is that makes him so nerdy.
Dean knows why Dad does it, even if Sammy's too thick to figure it out; it's safer for him with them, with him and Dad around to watch his back (and his front and his sides and his ginormous feet that he's already tripping on; Dad says it's because his bangs are so long he can't see where he's stepping and Sammy just crosses his arms, face pulled up into this truly vile expression that Dean wants to smack away).
There are all kind of predators out there, fifty different types of monsters that Dean can name without even thinking about it that prefer kids to adults and just as many types of friggin' human perverts who like little kids more than the monsters do. And, sure, Dean had been taking care of both of them at Sammy's age, but Sammy's different. Sammy hadn't pulled his brother out of a fire and Sammy hadn't even started to learn how to shoot yet.
Sammy's Sammy, and Sammy needs to be kept safe with them.
He's in the back seat right now, reading his way through some stupid book about a mouse who rides a bike or something. Dean reaches back and ruffles his hair when Dad parks the Impala on the side of the road; Sammy ducks out from underneath his hand with a mumble and a half smile. Dean's gonna have to steal that book when they get home, see what's so interesting about it that his little brother won't even put it down to whine at him about messing with his hair, but they're on a hunt right now.
"Stay in the car," Dad says as he pulls the shotgun from where he's got it wedged; he leans back, cuffs Sammy's head lightly until he actually looks up with the beginning of impressive scowl number two. Dad ignores it. "I said stay in the car. Lock the doors when we're gone. Dean, put down the salt."
Sammy's faint, upset, "Yes, sir," follows them both out. It's kind of cold outside right now, so Sammy's not gonna roast like people are always saying dogs do when they're left in cars; in fact, he looks pretty happy sitting there, shuffling around so that he's sprawled across the whole backseat with his head on an armrest.
Dean shakes his head and outlines the Impala in salt, just in case. What they're hunting isn't going to give a rat's ass about the salt, but there's also ghosts in the woods, so.
Dean completes his circle, takes the shotgun from Dad, and goes bear hunting.
Bugbear, anyway, which are nastier than regular bears.
They're in the forest maybe ten minutes, sweeping slowly throw the signs of bugbear activity (the scratches are kind of a dead giveaway) when the screaming starts. Dean cocks his head to the side, thinks for half a second that he didn't know bugbears could mimic human voices, and then he's turning on his heel and running like he's never run before because he knows that voice.
Dad passes him up within seconds.
The rear door of the Impala is flung twenty feet into the tree line. Dean's wheezing with the effort of running so quickly, but as soon as he sees it he pushes himself those last few feet, heart pounding with dread and safer, he's safer, oh, god, Sammy, be alright, please, be alright.
He breaks into the clearing in time to see Dad's shotgun go off. There's a moving, snarling thing next to the Impala, easily as big as the car is, and where's Sammy? Dean raises his own shotgun, automatic, autopilot, brings the monster down so that you can do something else after, takes his shot and hits the massive bear-like monster in the back of the skull.
It roars, tries to twist around while something holds one of its paws to the ground (Sammy, Sammy, oh, God, that's Sammy) and then Dad's got his knife out, the big one, specially blessed by Pastor Jim and made of cold iron.
The bugbear's head separates from its body with a noise that Dean would call sickening if he wasn't snarling in satisfaction at seeing it go down.
The bugbear had yanked the door off the Impala, sunk its claws into Sammy's leg and pulled until his little brother was flat on the grass beside the car, whimpering. He's not even screaming anymore and Dean thinks about doing it for him, only Dad's skidding to his knees beside Sammy and Dean knows he doesn't have time to be a sissy.
"Dean," Dad calls. "Get the blankets out of the trunk." He touches Sammy on the forehead, wipes away a smear of dirt and blood; Sammy's breathing heavy, sobbing under his breath, and Dean wants to tell Dad, "no, sir," and drop down beside his brother to offer smiles and whatever else he could to make the pain go away.
Instead, he obediently turns and trots over to the trunk, feeling his legs wiggle like jelly. Sammy's bleeding over there, some vicious little voice in the back of his mind says, Sammy's bleeding over there and he's not fucking safer.
"We're gonna have to take these out," Dad says to the both of them, talking over Sammy's faint cries. He takes the blankets from Dean, tucks them under and around Sammy, gives the knife to Dean and tells him to hack through the tendon controlling the claws before he tries to pull them out.
Dean carefully keeps his breakfast and does not, in fact, look at the amount of blood coating Sammy's jeans.
Dad starts to ease the claws out as soon as Dean clears out of the way.
"Didn't mean to," Sammy's whispering as Dad carefully pulls the claws from where they've dug deep into Sammy's leg, "Didn't mean to, sorry, didn't..."
"It's alright, hush Sammy," Dad says back, hands steady even though his voice is starting to wobble all over the place.
Dean holds the shotgun in both of his hands to keep them from shaking and tries to smile at his little brother; he feels cold and hot and there's sweat starting to pool in his armpits and the small of his back. Sammy's supposed to be safer with them; he's not supposed to start bleeding.
The bugbear is a huge lump of brown fur and stink next to all three of them. Dean's going to burn it. He's going to chop it into little pieces and burn it for even thinking of touching Sammy just as soon as his hands stop trying to tremble.
"Sammy, keep your eyes open, kiddo," Dad pulls the last of the claws (huge, the size of Sam's entire hand, Jesus, how did those miss that big, nice artery in Sammy's leg and Dean's not going to think about it and upchuck, he's not) out, throws it and the bugbear's paw back towards the corpse and puts firm pressure on the sluggishly bleeding wounds.
Sammy barely makes a sound, shivering.
Dad tilts his head, calls Dean over without a word and Dean goes. He takes Sammy's front half, leaning over and pasting what has to be the fakest smile ever on his face for his little brother, and then he and Dad are pulling/pushing Sammy into the back seat, settled in with his leg in Dean's lap and his head on the seat next to him.
"Put pressure on that," Dad says, calm, and Dean does.
Sammy makes a breathy noise of pain and blood squishes between Dean's fingers.
Dean feels his stomach rise, turns and pukes onto the Impala's floor even while he tries to keep Sammy's blood inside where it belongs. Sammy whimpers and clings to Dean's leg; Dean swallows back the need to puke again at the smell of so much little brother blood and the smell of congealing, half-digested hot dogs.
Sammy's eyes are wide and terrified in the fading sunshine, all pupil with just the thinnest sliver of puppy brown. He's never had anything worse than a skinned knee, Dean knows. Hell, Dean's the one who kissed them better and he half-hysterically wonders if a little kiss would make Sammy grin and sit up, wiggle happily away without even a bandage because big brother kisses were magic or something to his freaky little mind.
Dean leans on his hands, tries to smile at Sammy and opens his mouth to tell him that everything's gonna be fine, he's not gonna even have a scar from this, but all that comes out is this thin little helpless noise.
He tries again, hears himself say, "Hey, little brother, what'd you do, insult its mother?" and sees Sammy's eyes go a little less scared, a little more "my brother is a jerk who loves me, eww."
Dad swears in the front seat, long and low, vicious while he swerves the car around the winding roads and Dean pets Sammy's head with one bloody hand and keeps hard pressure on the five deep wounds with the other. You're safe, he tells Sammy, picking and prodding and making up stories about stupid mice riding their stupid bikes so that the terror recedes into "ouch, ouch, stupid Dean, ouch, ouch."
He's safe, he's safe, he's safe.
Twenty-five stitches and a cast for the hairline fracture in Sammy's femur later, Dean's still repeating his mantra in his head. Sammy's safe with them, he is, they'd never let anything get him.
Even so, when Sam sets his jaw eight years later and tells them both that he's leaving, he's going to have his normal and his safe without them in it, Dean doesn't really try to stop him. He pushes himself against the wall outside of the motel room, listens to Dad and Sam tear each other into pieces and ransacks his wallet, the Impala, Dad's truck.
He presses five hundred dollars into Sam's hands when he finally comes out, crying and furious and trying to hide it all. Dean looks away while Sam opens his mouth and doesn't say anything, thinks, "Get out of here and be safe."
Sam goes.
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Wee!Chesters (Dean - 13, Sam - 9), John
Pairings: None
Dad drags Sammy out on hunts with them, no matter how much he moans and complains about schoolwork or whatever the hell else it is that makes him so nerdy.
Dean knows why Dad does it, even if Sammy's too thick to figure it out; it's safer for him with them, with him and Dad around to watch his back (and his front and his sides and his ginormous feet that he's already tripping on; Dad says it's because his bangs are so long he can't see where he's stepping and Sammy just crosses his arms, face pulled up into this truly vile expression that Dean wants to smack away).
There are all kind of predators out there, fifty different types of monsters that Dean can name without even thinking about it that prefer kids to adults and just as many types of friggin' human perverts who like little kids more than the monsters do. And, sure, Dean had been taking care of both of them at Sammy's age, but Sammy's different. Sammy hadn't pulled his brother out of a fire and Sammy hadn't even started to learn how to shoot yet.
Sammy's Sammy, and Sammy needs to be kept safe with them.
He's in the back seat right now, reading his way through some stupid book about a mouse who rides a bike or something. Dean reaches back and ruffles his hair when Dad parks the Impala on the side of the road; Sammy ducks out from underneath his hand with a mumble and a half smile. Dean's gonna have to steal that book when they get home, see what's so interesting about it that his little brother won't even put it down to whine at him about messing with his hair, but they're on a hunt right now.
"Stay in the car," Dad says as he pulls the shotgun from where he's got it wedged; he leans back, cuffs Sammy's head lightly until he actually looks up with the beginning of impressive scowl number two. Dad ignores it. "I said stay in the car. Lock the doors when we're gone. Dean, put down the salt."
Sammy's faint, upset, "Yes, sir," follows them both out. It's kind of cold outside right now, so Sammy's not gonna roast like people are always saying dogs do when they're left in cars; in fact, he looks pretty happy sitting there, shuffling around so that he's sprawled across the whole backseat with his head on an armrest.
Dean shakes his head and outlines the Impala in salt, just in case. What they're hunting isn't going to give a rat's ass about the salt, but there's also ghosts in the woods, so.
Dean completes his circle, takes the shotgun from Dad, and goes bear hunting.
Bugbear, anyway, which are nastier than regular bears.
They're in the forest maybe ten minutes, sweeping slowly throw the signs of bugbear activity (the scratches are kind of a dead giveaway) when the screaming starts. Dean cocks his head to the side, thinks for half a second that he didn't know bugbears could mimic human voices, and then he's turning on his heel and running like he's never run before because he knows that voice.
Dad passes him up within seconds.
The rear door of the Impala is flung twenty feet into the tree line. Dean's wheezing with the effort of running so quickly, but as soon as he sees it he pushes himself those last few feet, heart pounding with dread and safer, he's safer, oh, god, Sammy, be alright, please, be alright.
He breaks into the clearing in time to see Dad's shotgun go off. There's a moving, snarling thing next to the Impala, easily as big as the car is, and where's Sammy? Dean raises his own shotgun, automatic, autopilot, brings the monster down so that you can do something else after, takes his shot and hits the massive bear-like monster in the back of the skull.
It roars, tries to twist around while something holds one of its paws to the ground (Sammy, Sammy, oh, God, that's Sammy) and then Dad's got his knife out, the big one, specially blessed by Pastor Jim and made of cold iron.
The bugbear's head separates from its body with a noise that Dean would call sickening if he wasn't snarling in satisfaction at seeing it go down.
The bugbear had yanked the door off the Impala, sunk its claws into Sammy's leg and pulled until his little brother was flat on the grass beside the car, whimpering. He's not even screaming anymore and Dean thinks about doing it for him, only Dad's skidding to his knees beside Sammy and Dean knows he doesn't have time to be a sissy.
"Dean," Dad calls. "Get the blankets out of the trunk." He touches Sammy on the forehead, wipes away a smear of dirt and blood; Sammy's breathing heavy, sobbing under his breath, and Dean wants to tell Dad, "no, sir," and drop down beside his brother to offer smiles and whatever else he could to make the pain go away.
Instead, he obediently turns and trots over to the trunk, feeling his legs wiggle like jelly. Sammy's bleeding over there, some vicious little voice in the back of his mind says, Sammy's bleeding over there and he's not fucking safer.
"We're gonna have to take these out," Dad says to the both of them, talking over Sammy's faint cries. He takes the blankets from Dean, tucks them under and around Sammy, gives the knife to Dean and tells him to hack through the tendon controlling the claws before he tries to pull them out.
Dean carefully keeps his breakfast and does not, in fact, look at the amount of blood coating Sammy's jeans.
Dad starts to ease the claws out as soon as Dean clears out of the way.
"Didn't mean to," Sammy's whispering as Dad carefully pulls the claws from where they've dug deep into Sammy's leg, "Didn't mean to, sorry, didn't..."
"It's alright, hush Sammy," Dad says back, hands steady even though his voice is starting to wobble all over the place.
Dean holds the shotgun in both of his hands to keep them from shaking and tries to smile at his little brother; he feels cold and hot and there's sweat starting to pool in his armpits and the small of his back. Sammy's supposed to be safer with them; he's not supposed to start bleeding.
The bugbear is a huge lump of brown fur and stink next to all three of them. Dean's going to burn it. He's going to chop it into little pieces and burn it for even thinking of touching Sammy just as soon as his hands stop trying to tremble.
"Sammy, keep your eyes open, kiddo," Dad pulls the last of the claws (huge, the size of Sam's entire hand, Jesus, how did those miss that big, nice artery in Sammy's leg and Dean's not going to think about it and upchuck, he's not) out, throws it and the bugbear's paw back towards the corpse and puts firm pressure on the sluggishly bleeding wounds.
Sammy barely makes a sound, shivering.
Dad tilts his head, calls Dean over without a word and Dean goes. He takes Sammy's front half, leaning over and pasting what has to be the fakest smile ever on his face for his little brother, and then he and Dad are pulling/pushing Sammy into the back seat, settled in with his leg in Dean's lap and his head on the seat next to him.
"Put pressure on that," Dad says, calm, and Dean does.
Sammy makes a breathy noise of pain and blood squishes between Dean's fingers.
Dean feels his stomach rise, turns and pukes onto the Impala's floor even while he tries to keep Sammy's blood inside where it belongs. Sammy whimpers and clings to Dean's leg; Dean swallows back the need to puke again at the smell of so much little brother blood and the smell of congealing, half-digested hot dogs.
Sammy's eyes are wide and terrified in the fading sunshine, all pupil with just the thinnest sliver of puppy brown. He's never had anything worse than a skinned knee, Dean knows. Hell, Dean's the one who kissed them better and he half-hysterically wonders if a little kiss would make Sammy grin and sit up, wiggle happily away without even a bandage because big brother kisses were magic or something to his freaky little mind.
Dean leans on his hands, tries to smile at Sammy and opens his mouth to tell him that everything's gonna be fine, he's not gonna even have a scar from this, but all that comes out is this thin little helpless noise.
He tries again, hears himself say, "Hey, little brother, what'd you do, insult its mother?" and sees Sammy's eyes go a little less scared, a little more "my brother is a jerk who loves me, eww."
Dad swears in the front seat, long and low, vicious while he swerves the car around the winding roads and Dean pets Sammy's head with one bloody hand and keeps hard pressure on the five deep wounds with the other. You're safe, he tells Sammy, picking and prodding and making up stories about stupid mice riding their stupid bikes so that the terror recedes into "ouch, ouch, stupid Dean, ouch, ouch."
He's safe, he's safe, he's safe.
Twenty-five stitches and a cast for the hairline fracture in Sammy's femur later, Dean's still repeating his mantra in his head. Sammy's safe with them, he is, they'd never let anything get him.
Even so, when Sam sets his jaw eight years later and tells them both that he's leaving, he's going to have his normal and his safe without them in it, Dean doesn't really try to stop him. He pushes himself against the wall outside of the motel room, listens to Dad and Sam tear each other into pieces and ransacks his wallet, the Impala, Dad's truck.
He presses five hundred dollars into Sam's hands when he finally comes out, crying and furious and trying to hide it all. Dean looks away while Sam opens his mouth and doesn't say anything, thinks, "Get out of here and be safe."
Sam goes.
