FIC: I'm an Ocean
TITLE: I'm an Ocean
CHAR: Sam 'n Dean
RATING: PG 13
SPOILERS: None! I know. WHAAAAAT?
WORDS: 716
GENRE: Gen, Schmoop, musical self-indulgence
A/N: So I somehow got it in my head that Sam is definitely a Wilco fan (He is a white male who went to college in the early 2000's, right?), and that Dean might have been forced to listen to it at some point and thought it was pretty okay. I mean, IT IS WILCO. So that's why I had to write this one... Yeah, you'll see. Oh, also, it was written for mad_server's Again, but with more colds! comment-fic meme. Get over there!
SUMMARY: For the prompt: Sam and Dean are on a hunt and after an argument, Sam accidentally pushes Dean into a river. Dean, unable to swim because of a dislocated shoulder (which he successfully hid from Sam) almost drowns. Sam saves him but Dean becomes hypothermic, sneezy, drowsy. Roll camera!
I'm an Ocean
"Try th-th-uuuuuuzzzchaaow! Try the lighter again."
"Dean, it's soaked," Sam sighs, literally rubbing two sticks together.
"Know how it feels." Dean squeezes his good hand between his scrunched-up legs, coughs and glares at the salt-water drenched clothes spread out on a rock a few feet away. He's in Sam's hoodie and socks, and a wet pair of boxers. For a summer night in northern Maine, that ain't much. His skin is so pale it practically glitters in the moonlight.
"I'm sorry, man," Sam says.
"Nah. I shoulda listened to you."
"You were being a bit of a dick."
"Was just pissed about the shoulder."
"...that you didn't tell me about."
"Mmmm."
There's a spark, and Sam practically squeals, "Yes! I got it!"
"Yeah. 40 minutes later."
"Like to see you do better, one-arm McGee," Sam says, and blows on the dry pine needles and twigs he's used for fuel.
"Any other day, and... aah.... ahhhh... asshhhuuuaahg!" The sneeze nearly doubles Dean over completely, and he clings to his injured limb, trembling. "Uhhh...." He sounds desperately miserable, and Sam takes one more jab at the fire before he scoots back, leans against the same felled tree.
"And 5 minutes. Tops," Dean whispers, determined to finish his thought.
"We need to get a handle on this, man."
"On w-w-w-what?"
"This bickering crap. Why the hell can't we agree on anything lately?"
"Come on. We agree on stuff."
"Oh really? Dean. Yesterday we fought over who got to be the blue toothbrush. The chick in the CVS was staring at us like we were certifiable."
"Not m-m-m-my fault they ran outta g-g-g-green."
Sam shakes his head, gives up. "Hows the shoulder? Sling tight enough?" It's an excuse to get closer, tug at the flannel knot on Dean's neck, share some body heat.
"If you wanna hug, just ask, dude."
Sam stops. "You need to warm up, Dean. I just-"
"Fine."
"Fine?"
"You're warm. I'm freezing. Not an idiot. Uuuhhhtcheeesck!"
Sam lets out a short laugh, wraps an arm around Dean's shoulder, careful not to put too much weight on the other one with his hand. " 'Ut cheek'?"
"Lay off. 'Snot like I have control over these things."
"Jesus. You're shaking like crazy."
"That band," Dean says, squinting into the growing camp fire.
"What?"
"Usually hate y'r music. S'was good," Dean slurs, his eyes drooping closed a bit. He's slumped hard against Sam's chest.
"Stay awake, Dean," Sam says, nudging his chin. "Talk to me. What music?"
"Uhhhn?"
"You like some of my music?"
"Yeah. S'that folky shit. Bilbo or Woolfo or somethin'."
"Wilco?"
"Mmmm," Dean mutters, burrowing his nose into the crook of Sam's elbow. "S'alright."
"Huh. Yeah. We heard that song at a..."
"Deli in Chapel Hill."
"Yeah, man. Good. Just stay with me, okay?" Sam tells him as he rubs his hand on Dean's icy cold knees. They can hear bats in the trees and the wind blowing off the ocean. Sam pulls Dean in closer.
"Shit," Dean says, one eye peering up into the dark canopy. "Where're we?"
"Red Rock Island, bro. The lighthouse keeper. Remember?"
"Ganked?"
"Yeah. Ganked," Sam says, and Dean sighs, looks back into the flames.
"'Member th'song Sammy?" he asks.
"The Wilco song?"
"Yeah."
"Sure. I remember."
"How'sit go?"
"You want me to sing?"
"Uhhuh."
"Yeah, now I know you're delirious. Okay. It starts: Theologians don't know-"
"SING."
"Okay! Theologians, they don't know nothin' about my soul. No they don't know. That one, right?" Sam asks. But Dean's eyes have slipped closed again, his jaw slack.
Sam squeezes his bad shoulder and Dean's quickly awake again, groaning.
"Owe! Was just restin' m'eyes!"
"Right. You gotta stay awake Dean, you're like verging on hypothermia, if you don't have it already. Sing with me, okay? You remember it now?"
Dean nods, rubs at the spot where Sam pinched his shoulder.
"Theologians," he starts, and Sam joins him. "They don't know nothin' about my soul. No they don't know."
They don't know the rest of the words, really. Just that one bit. So they sing it over and over, sing it to the trees and the owls and the moon and the black Narraguagus Bay. They sing it to each other like it's the only song in the world.
WILCO! LISTEN!
CHAR: Sam 'n Dean
RATING: PG 13
SPOILERS: None! I know. WHAAAAAT?
WORDS: 716
GENRE: Gen, Schmoop, musical self-indulgence
A/N: So I somehow got it in my head that Sam is definitely a Wilco fan (He is a white male who went to college in the early 2000's, right?), and that Dean might have been forced to listen to it at some point and thought it was pretty okay. I mean, IT IS WILCO. So that's why I had to write this one... Yeah, you'll see. Oh, also, it was written for mad_server's Again, but with more colds! comment-fic meme. Get over there!
SUMMARY: For the prompt: Sam and Dean are on a hunt and after an argument, Sam accidentally pushes Dean into a river. Dean, unable to swim because of a dislocated shoulder (which he successfully hid from Sam) almost drowns. Sam saves him but Dean becomes hypothermic, sneezy, drowsy. Roll camera!
I'm an Ocean
"Try th-th-uuuuuuzzzchaaow! Try the lighter again."
"Dean, it's soaked," Sam sighs, literally rubbing two sticks together.
"Know how it feels." Dean squeezes his good hand between his scrunched-up legs, coughs and glares at the salt-water drenched clothes spread out on a rock a few feet away. He's in Sam's hoodie and socks, and a wet pair of boxers. For a summer night in northern Maine, that ain't much. His skin is so pale it practically glitters in the moonlight.
"I'm sorry, man," Sam says.
"Nah. I shoulda listened to you."
"You were being a bit of a dick."
"Was just pissed about the shoulder."
"...that you didn't tell me about."
"Mmmm."
There's a spark, and Sam practically squeals, "Yes! I got it!"
"Yeah. 40 minutes later."
"Like to see you do better, one-arm McGee," Sam says, and blows on the dry pine needles and twigs he's used for fuel.
"Any other day, and... aah.... ahhhh... asshhhuuuaahg!" The sneeze nearly doubles Dean over completely, and he clings to his injured limb, trembling. "Uhhh...." He sounds desperately miserable, and Sam takes one more jab at the fire before he scoots back, leans against the same felled tree.
"And 5 minutes. Tops," Dean whispers, determined to finish his thought.
"We need to get a handle on this, man."
"On w-w-w-what?"
"This bickering crap. Why the hell can't we agree on anything lately?"
"Come on. We agree on stuff."
"Oh really? Dean. Yesterday we fought over who got to be the blue toothbrush. The chick in the CVS was staring at us like we were certifiable."
"Not m-m-m-my fault they ran outta g-g-g-green."
Sam shakes his head, gives up. "Hows the shoulder? Sling tight enough?" It's an excuse to get closer, tug at the flannel knot on Dean's neck, share some body heat.
"If you wanna hug, just ask, dude."
Sam stops. "You need to warm up, Dean. I just-"
"Fine."
"Fine?"
"You're warm. I'm freezing. Not an idiot. Uuuhhhtcheeesck!"
Sam lets out a short laugh, wraps an arm around Dean's shoulder, careful not to put too much weight on the other one with his hand. " 'Ut cheek'?"
"Lay off. 'Snot like I have control over these things."
"Jesus. You're shaking like crazy."
"That band," Dean says, squinting into the growing camp fire.
"What?"
"Usually hate y'r music. S'was good," Dean slurs, his eyes drooping closed a bit. He's slumped hard against Sam's chest.
"Stay awake, Dean," Sam says, nudging his chin. "Talk to me. What music?"
"Uhhhn?"
"You like some of my music?"
"Yeah. S'that folky shit. Bilbo or Woolfo or somethin'."
"Wilco?"
"Mmmm," Dean mutters, burrowing his nose into the crook of Sam's elbow. "S'alright."
"Huh. Yeah. We heard that song at a..."
"Deli in Chapel Hill."
"Yeah, man. Good. Just stay with me, okay?" Sam tells him as he rubs his hand on Dean's icy cold knees. They can hear bats in the trees and the wind blowing off the ocean. Sam pulls Dean in closer.
"Shit," Dean says, one eye peering up into the dark canopy. "Where're we?"
"Red Rock Island, bro. The lighthouse keeper. Remember?"
"Ganked?"
"Yeah. Ganked," Sam says, and Dean sighs, looks back into the flames.
"'Member th'song Sammy?" he asks.
"The Wilco song?"
"Yeah."
"Sure. I remember."
"How'sit go?"
"You want me to sing?"
"Uhhuh."
"Yeah, now I know you're delirious. Okay. It starts: Theologians don't know-"
"SING."
"Okay! Theologians, they don't know nothin' about my soul. No they don't know. That one, right?" Sam asks. But Dean's eyes have slipped closed again, his jaw slack.
Sam squeezes his bad shoulder and Dean's quickly awake again, groaning.
"Owe! Was just restin' m'eyes!"
"Right. You gotta stay awake Dean, you're like verging on hypothermia, if you don't have it already. Sing with me, okay? You remember it now?"
Dean nods, rubs at the spot where Sam pinched his shoulder.
"Theologians," he starts, and Sam joins him. "They don't know nothin' about my soul. No they don't know."
They don't know the rest of the words, really. Just that one bit. So they sing it over and over, sing it to the trees and the owls and the moon and the black Narraguagus Bay. They sing it to each other like it's the only song in the world.
Click to viewWILCO! LISTEN!