Fic: Counting the Years
May. 10th, 2011 06:13 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
mayhsgirl93.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
ohsam Title: Counting the Years
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mayhsgirl93
Rating: PG
Genre/pairing: Gen, pre-series
Characters: Sam, Dean - Sam is 11, and Dean has just turned 16
Word count: 1200
Summary: Counting has always been calming for Sammy.
Disclaimer: Don't own anything. Just borrowing the boys on a boring Tuesday afternoon.
A/N: Forbeckalooby , who asked for "Sam gets stitches for the first time."
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sam sits on the dirty kitchen floor, legs splayed out in front of him. His head is pounding and his shoulder is screaming in pain from where the poltergeist threw a butcher knife at him. He watches, intrigued, at the blood oozing out of the deep cut. Sam swallows down the vomit that is slowly rising in his throat. He tries to take his mind off the pain. He counts the dark red drops that roll off his fingers and form a small puddle on the floor.
One… two… three…
Counting has always been calming for Sam. His father uses alcohol to cope, or his brother uses girls, but Sam counts. He counts when he’s bored, like on long car rides from state to state. He counts when he’s sad, like the time they had to leave town right before Sam’s soccer tournament. He counts when he’s angry, like when Dean pushed him in the mud in front of Suzie Carmichael. And right now, he’s counting so he can stay conscious.
Seventeen…eighteen…nineteen…
The door to the grimy room is kicked open with such force that the doorknob punches a hole in the wall behind it. Dean looks around wildly before his eyes finally settle upon his brother. “Sammy,” He shouts, and he runs to where his brother is lying in his own blood and sweat.
Sam doesn’t acknowledge his brother at first. He’s too busy focusing on the red droplets plummeting down to the floor. The drops increase in frequency, so he has to count faster.
Thirty…thirty one…thirty two…
He’s finally pulled away from his entrancing activity as Dean peels the fabric from his wounded arm, making him yelp and jump away in pain.
“Sorry, kiddo. Gotta see how deep it is.” Dean’s hands are firm but gentle as he pokes and prods at the deep slash going from Sam’s shoulder to elbow. Sam is amazed at how Dean, though only sixteen, is more mature than any grown up he’s ever met.
“S’it bad?” Sam asks, his voice shaking with fear and pain.
Dean shakes his head. “Nah, it’s not too terrible. You shouldn’t have ditched me back there, man. I told you this spirit was a nasty son of a bitch.” He pulls a bandana out from his pocket and wraps it good and tight around Sam’s small bicep. He carefully hoists Sam to his feet and helps him out to the car.
Sam’s movements are sluggish and his vision is swimming. He tries to keep himself as steady as possible, just concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other. Dean’s hand on his back is solid and supporting, like always.
~~~
The ride back to the motel is quiet. Sam glances over at Dean a few times and notices that Dean’s eyebrows are scrunched together, his face brooding and pensive. Sam wants to apologize for getting separated on the hunt, for screwing up and getting himself hurt. But his tongue is stuck to his palate and he’s afraid if he opens his mouth he’ll vomit all over Dean’s precious car. So he just sits there in silence and counts the streetlights: one on each side of the road.
Two…four…six…eight…
By the time he gets to forty six, they’re at the motel. Dean helps him into the small, dark room and sits him down carefully on the bed.
Sam sulks on the bed angrily. “Where’s Dad? He was supposed to meet us here when we were done.”
Dean looks up from the first aid kit he has opened on his lap. “On a hunt with Uncle Bobby. I guess they’re taking a little longer than expected.” He takes out a large sewing needle from the kit and pours some whiskey on it. He hands to bottle to Sam, who stares at it, bewildered.
“I don’t want a drink…”
Dean chuckles. “It’s to numb you up for your stitches, dummy.”
Sam’s eyes go wide. “Stitches?” He scoots back against the headboard, pressing his injured arm close to his body. “I don’t wanna…just put a bandage on it.”
Dean sits on the bed next to him. “I can’t, Sammy. It’s too deep.” He puts a hand on his brother’s knee. “I know it’s your first time, so I’ll go slowly.”
Sam hesitates, but then he nods his head and takes a few small sips of alcohol. It burns his mouth and throat and he coughs half the bottle up, but after a few minutes he starts to feel a little fuzzy. It must be working, he thinks.
He lets Dean cut the sleeve of his shirt off and grits his teeth as Dean pours some more whiskey on the gash. He shuts his eyes and lets out a small whimper. It stings. A lot.
“It’s okay, Sammy. Just relax.”
Sam takes a deep breath. He knows that if the whiskey hurt, the stitches are going to hurt a lot more. He's not stupid. He’s seen the way Dean and his dad grunt and groan in pain when they’re being stitched up. He just hopes it will be quick.
“Try not to think about it,” Dean advises as he sterilizes the needle with a lighter. “Just think about something else, like cars or chicks…or your nerdy calculus.”
Sam throws him a bitch-face. “It’s not nerdy and it’s not calculus.” But he decides to take Dean’s advice. He quickly looks around the room for something to count. He chooses the ceiling tiles, dirty and yellow with water stains.
As the needle pierces a particularly tender piece of torn flesh, Sam looses count and whimpers, and he jerks away in pain. Dean’s hand is instantly on his knee, soothing the smaller boy.
"Shh, kiddo, just a few more, you're doing great.”
Sam sniffles and nods his head. “Sorry.” He mutters.
“Don’t ever apologize for being in pain.” Dean scolds, but his tone is gentle and comforting.
He pulls at the last stitch and wipes his brow. “There, it’s done.”
Sam looks down at his brother’s handiwork. The stitches are kind of crooked, and some of them needed to be pulled tighter, but Sam is beyond grateful. Dean douses the cut in alcohol again and wraps the whole upper part of Sam’s arm in gauze.
Dean starts to clean up the bloody gauze and towels. “Get some rest. Maybe when dad comes back he’ll give you some of those drugs we got from when I broke my ankle a few months ago.” He helps Sam crawl under the covers, careful not to touch the stitches.
Sam can feel his eyelids getting heavier and heavier. “Mmm…thanks, Dean.” He mumbles.
“No problem, kiddo.” Dean pulls a chair over next to the bed and grabs a magazine so he can watch Sam sleep.
Silence falls upon the room for several minutes and Dean’s in the middle of a fascinating article about tire rims when Sam speaks again. “Dean?” His voice is slurred with sleepiness.
Dean looks up. “Yeah, kiddo? What do you need?”
“H’w m’ny wuzzit?”
Dean is confused. “How many what?”
“St’ches.”
Dean smiles slightly. “Thirty two.”
“Mm’kay…” Sam drifts off to sleep, dreaming of numbers.
END
Author:
mayhsgirl93 Rating: PG
Genre/pairing: Gen, pre-series
Characters: Sam, Dean - Sam is 11, and Dean has just turned 16
Word count: 1200
Summary: Counting has always been calming for Sammy.
Disclaimer: Don't own anything. Just borrowing the boys on a boring Tuesday afternoon.
A/N: For
beckalooby , who asked for "Sam gets stitches for the first time."~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sam sits on the dirty kitchen floor, legs splayed out in front of him. His head is pounding and his shoulder is screaming in pain from where the poltergeist threw a butcher knife at him. He watches, intrigued, at the blood oozing out of the deep cut. Sam swallows down the vomit that is slowly rising in his throat. He tries to take his mind off the pain. He counts the dark red drops that roll off his fingers and form a small puddle on the floor.
One… two… three…
Counting has always been calming for Sam. His father uses alcohol to cope, or his brother uses girls, but Sam counts. He counts when he’s bored, like on long car rides from state to state. He counts when he’s sad, like the time they had to leave town right before Sam’s soccer tournament. He counts when he’s angry, like when Dean pushed him in the mud in front of Suzie Carmichael. And right now, he’s counting so he can stay conscious.
Seventeen…eighteen…nineteen…
The door to the grimy room is kicked open with such force that the doorknob punches a hole in the wall behind it. Dean looks around wildly before his eyes finally settle upon his brother. “Sammy,” He shouts, and he runs to where his brother is lying in his own blood and sweat.
Sam doesn’t acknowledge his brother at first. He’s too busy focusing on the red droplets plummeting down to the floor. The drops increase in frequency, so he has to count faster.
Thirty…thirty one…thirty two…
He’s finally pulled away from his entrancing activity as Dean peels the fabric from his wounded arm, making him yelp and jump away in pain.
“Sorry, kiddo. Gotta see how deep it is.” Dean’s hands are firm but gentle as he pokes and prods at the deep slash going from Sam’s shoulder to elbow. Sam is amazed at how Dean, though only sixteen, is more mature than any grown up he’s ever met.
“S’it bad?” Sam asks, his voice shaking with fear and pain.
Dean shakes his head. “Nah, it’s not too terrible. You shouldn’t have ditched me back there, man. I told you this spirit was a nasty son of a bitch.” He pulls a bandana out from his pocket and wraps it good and tight around Sam’s small bicep. He carefully hoists Sam to his feet and helps him out to the car.
Sam’s movements are sluggish and his vision is swimming. He tries to keep himself as steady as possible, just concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other. Dean’s hand on his back is solid and supporting, like always.
~~~
The ride back to the motel is quiet. Sam glances over at Dean a few times and notices that Dean’s eyebrows are scrunched together, his face brooding and pensive. Sam wants to apologize for getting separated on the hunt, for screwing up and getting himself hurt. But his tongue is stuck to his palate and he’s afraid if he opens his mouth he’ll vomit all over Dean’s precious car. So he just sits there in silence and counts the streetlights: one on each side of the road.
Two…four…six…eight…
By the time he gets to forty six, they’re at the motel. Dean helps him into the small, dark room and sits him down carefully on the bed.
Sam sulks on the bed angrily. “Where’s Dad? He was supposed to meet us here when we were done.”
Dean looks up from the first aid kit he has opened on his lap. “On a hunt with Uncle Bobby. I guess they’re taking a little longer than expected.” He takes out a large sewing needle from the kit and pours some whiskey on it. He hands to bottle to Sam, who stares at it, bewildered.
“I don’t want a drink…”
Dean chuckles. “It’s to numb you up for your stitches, dummy.”
Sam’s eyes go wide. “Stitches?” He scoots back against the headboard, pressing his injured arm close to his body. “I don’t wanna…just put a bandage on it.”
Dean sits on the bed next to him. “I can’t, Sammy. It’s too deep.” He puts a hand on his brother’s knee. “I know it’s your first time, so I’ll go slowly.”
Sam hesitates, but then he nods his head and takes a few small sips of alcohol. It burns his mouth and throat and he coughs half the bottle up, but after a few minutes he starts to feel a little fuzzy. It must be working, he thinks.
He lets Dean cut the sleeve of his shirt off and grits his teeth as Dean pours some more whiskey on the gash. He shuts his eyes and lets out a small whimper. It stings. A lot.
“It’s okay, Sammy. Just relax.”
Sam takes a deep breath. He knows that if the whiskey hurt, the stitches are going to hurt a lot more. He's not stupid. He’s seen the way Dean and his dad grunt and groan in pain when they’re being stitched up. He just hopes it will be quick.
“Try not to think about it,” Dean advises as he sterilizes the needle with a lighter. “Just think about something else, like cars or chicks…or your nerdy calculus.”
Sam throws him a bitch-face. “It’s not nerdy and it’s not calculus.” But he decides to take Dean’s advice. He quickly looks around the room for something to count. He chooses the ceiling tiles, dirty and yellow with water stains.
As the needle pierces a particularly tender piece of torn flesh, Sam looses count and whimpers, and he jerks away in pain. Dean’s hand is instantly on his knee, soothing the smaller boy.
"Shh, kiddo, just a few more, you're doing great.”
Sam sniffles and nods his head. “Sorry.” He mutters.
“Don’t ever apologize for being in pain.” Dean scolds, but his tone is gentle and comforting.
He pulls at the last stitch and wipes his brow. “There, it’s done.”
Sam looks down at his brother’s handiwork. The stitches are kind of crooked, and some of them needed to be pulled tighter, but Sam is beyond grateful. Dean douses the cut in alcohol again and wraps the whole upper part of Sam’s arm in gauze.
Dean starts to clean up the bloody gauze and towels. “Get some rest. Maybe when dad comes back he’ll give you some of those drugs we got from when I broke my ankle a few months ago.” He helps Sam crawl under the covers, careful not to touch the stitches.
Sam can feel his eyelids getting heavier and heavier. “Mmm…thanks, Dean.” He mumbles.
“No problem, kiddo.” Dean pulls a chair over next to the bed and grabs a magazine so he can watch Sam sleep.
Silence falls upon the room for several minutes and Dean’s in the middle of a fascinating article about tire rims when Sam speaks again. “Dean?” His voice is slurred with sleepiness.
Dean looks up. “Yeah, kiddo? What do you need?”
“H’w m’ny wuzzit?”
Dean is confused. “How many what?”
“St’ches.”
Dean smiles slightly. “Thirty two.”
“Mm’kay…” Sam drifts off to sleep, dreaming of numbers.
END
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Date: 2011-05-11 09:03 pm (UTC)Teen!dean is my weakness! Im obsessed!!
Thanks for commenting! Glad you like it!!