fic: Angel Maintenance (Supernatural; Sam and Dean; gen)
Angel Maintenance
Supernatural; Sam and Dean; g; 1,018 words
"Your shadow," Sam says, pointing. "It's come loose."
Huge thanks to luzdeestrellas for the speedy beta. Written for the West Wing title project.
~*~
Angel Maintenance
It's dark and they're in a hurry, so neither of them notices it at first, the way Dean's shadow lags, spooling out behind him like a sweater unraveling.
It's only the next day, when Dean is packing the car in the bright midmorning glow of the sun, that Sam sees it, hanging on by a thread at his ankle, completely unattached at the wrist.
"Dean."
Dean's humming something--it could be "Rock and Roll," it could be "Dude Looks Like a Lady"; Sam can't tell--and he doesn't hear (or isn't paying attention, which is more likely), so Sam calls him again.
"Dean."
Dean looks up from the trunk, eyebrows raised in question.
"Your shadow," Sam says, pointing. "It's come loose."
Dean looks behind him, mouth puckered and brow furrowed in thought. "Huh. That warlock must've been more powerful than we thought."
"Yeah," Sam says. He doesn't mention the possibility that after the fight for Dean's soul, his shadow might be a little more easily detached than most people's.
"We could use the glue gun." Dean looks ridiculously excited at the idea, his eyes wide and bright.
"I still don't know why we even have a glue gun."
"You never know when we're going to need it."
"For gluing things."
Dean looks at him like he's the crazy one. "For repairs."
"Well, you've always been kind of crafty."
"And also, it was a gift from this girl named--"
"I don't want to know." Sam holds up a hand. "It won't work and also, you'd get burned."
Dean sighs but doesn't argue.
They dig the first aid kit out and snap the trunk shut. Dean hops up onto the car, arms crossed and an expectant look on his face, and Sam realizes he has no idea if this is actually going to work.
"Take your boots off," he says, "and your jacket."
Dean rolls his eyes, but does what he's told, untying and kicking his boots off onto the asphalt. He balls up his socks and tosses them at Sam's head. Sam bats them away, nose wrinkled in disgust.
"Dude, we need to do laundry soon."
Dean nods, makes a hurry-up motion with his hand, and it's weird to see the movement without the shadow attached. "If you get me all sewn up here, Wendy, we can get on the road to the old Sudsy Duds, and I can stop offending your precious sense of smell."
"Shut up." Sam gets down on the ground, grabs Dean's ankle in his left hand. "I know where you're ticklish, man. Do you really want to piss me off when I'm this close? With a needle?"
Dean snorts but doesn't say anything else.
His skin is warm and sweaty and rough against Sam's fingers, years of wearing boots that maybe didn't fit quite right leaving calluses along the backs of his heels.
Sam takes a deep breath, rubs his thumb along Dean's skin in silent apology and warning, and then slips the needle through the tiny scrap of shadow still clinging to Dean's ankle.
Sam's sewn Dean up before, more times than he'd like to remember, and right now, Dean's not bleeding, the car's not moving, and nothing is trying to kill them, so his hands and heart are steady. The needle slips easily through the silky, insubstantial shadow, but requires more force to penetrate Dean's skin. He feels Dean tense, but he doesn't slow his stitches.
"The ancient Egyptians believed the shadow was an important part of making up who we are, along with the ka, the ba, the flesh, and the name," he says, glancing up at Dean, who is watching the whole procedure with an inquisitive frown.
Dean cuffs him lightly on the side of the head. "Freak."
"You're the one shedding your shadow, not me."
"And you're the one who's going to start quoting the Book of the Dead any minute now."
"The Egyptians had some really interesting burial rituals," Sam answers. He adds a second row of stitches, tugs lightly on the shadow, which doesn't come loose. He nods in satisfaction and straightens up, reaching for Dean's wrist.
Dean unstraps his watch, rolls up his sleeve, and lets Sam take his hand. His skin his warm and his pulse beats steady against Sam's fingers, and Sam can't even pretend it's not comforting. He settles himself on the trunk next to Dean, and pulls out a second pre-threaded needle, smaller gauge than the first.
"I bet with all the stuff they buried their dead with, they didn't have a lot of trouble with restless spirits," Dean says. "I mean, why bother to haunt the living when you've got food and chicks waiting for you in the afterlife?"
Sam looks up from the delicate work he's doing, but there are no shadows or regrets on Dean's face, just an amused smile.
"Of course, I'd've climbed right out of hell to make sure you were taking good care of my car."
Sam chokes, still too close to the reality of losing Dean to be able to laugh about it. Dean reaches up and ruffles his hair.
The wrist is easier, for all that it takes more sutures, and Sam's done quickly. He tests the stitches, and grins when they hold. Dean raises his hand, grins back when his shadow moves with him, sharp and dark in the sunlight. He buckles his watch back on, still engrossed in the play of his shadow across the ground and the car. Sometimes, he really is like a little kid, Sam thinks, tight ache of affection in his chest.
Before Sam can slide down off the car, Dean grabs his wrist, fingers circling warm and firm. "Thanks, Sam."
"Any time, man."
Dean lets him go and he gets down off the car to pelt Dean with his socks, wrinkling his nose and laughing at the same time. Dean doesn't bother pulling them on, just hops down barefoot onto the warm asphalt and chases him around the car, bouncing the socks off Sam's back. Their shadows trail closely. Sam imagines them echoing with their laughter.
end
~*~
Feedback is adored.
~*~
Supernatural; Sam and Dean; g; 1,018 words
"Your shadow," Sam says, pointing. "It's come loose."
Huge thanks to luzdeestrellas for the speedy beta. Written for the West Wing title project.
~*~
Angel Maintenance
It's dark and they're in a hurry, so neither of them notices it at first, the way Dean's shadow lags, spooling out behind him like a sweater unraveling.
It's only the next day, when Dean is packing the car in the bright midmorning glow of the sun, that Sam sees it, hanging on by a thread at his ankle, completely unattached at the wrist.
"Dean."
Dean's humming something--it could be "Rock and Roll," it could be "Dude Looks Like a Lady"; Sam can't tell--and he doesn't hear (or isn't paying attention, which is more likely), so Sam calls him again.
"Dean."
Dean looks up from the trunk, eyebrows raised in question.
"Your shadow," Sam says, pointing. "It's come loose."
Dean looks behind him, mouth puckered and brow furrowed in thought. "Huh. That warlock must've been more powerful than we thought."
"Yeah," Sam says. He doesn't mention the possibility that after the fight for Dean's soul, his shadow might be a little more easily detached than most people's.
"We could use the glue gun." Dean looks ridiculously excited at the idea, his eyes wide and bright.
"I still don't know why we even have a glue gun."
"You never know when we're going to need it."
"For gluing things."
Dean looks at him like he's the crazy one. "For repairs."
"Well, you've always been kind of crafty."
"And also, it was a gift from this girl named--"
"I don't want to know." Sam holds up a hand. "It won't work and also, you'd get burned."
Dean sighs but doesn't argue.
They dig the first aid kit out and snap the trunk shut. Dean hops up onto the car, arms crossed and an expectant look on his face, and Sam realizes he has no idea if this is actually going to work.
"Take your boots off," he says, "and your jacket."
Dean rolls his eyes, but does what he's told, untying and kicking his boots off onto the asphalt. He balls up his socks and tosses them at Sam's head. Sam bats them away, nose wrinkled in disgust.
"Dude, we need to do laundry soon."
Dean nods, makes a hurry-up motion with his hand, and it's weird to see the movement without the shadow attached. "If you get me all sewn up here, Wendy, we can get on the road to the old Sudsy Duds, and I can stop offending your precious sense of smell."
"Shut up." Sam gets down on the ground, grabs Dean's ankle in his left hand. "I know where you're ticklish, man. Do you really want to piss me off when I'm this close? With a needle?"
Dean snorts but doesn't say anything else.
His skin is warm and sweaty and rough against Sam's fingers, years of wearing boots that maybe didn't fit quite right leaving calluses along the backs of his heels.
Sam takes a deep breath, rubs his thumb along Dean's skin in silent apology and warning, and then slips the needle through the tiny scrap of shadow still clinging to Dean's ankle.
Sam's sewn Dean up before, more times than he'd like to remember, and right now, Dean's not bleeding, the car's not moving, and nothing is trying to kill them, so his hands and heart are steady. The needle slips easily through the silky, insubstantial shadow, but requires more force to penetrate Dean's skin. He feels Dean tense, but he doesn't slow his stitches.
"The ancient Egyptians believed the shadow was an important part of making up who we are, along with the ka, the ba, the flesh, and the name," he says, glancing up at Dean, who is watching the whole procedure with an inquisitive frown.
Dean cuffs him lightly on the side of the head. "Freak."
"You're the one shedding your shadow, not me."
"And you're the one who's going to start quoting the Book of the Dead any minute now."
"The Egyptians had some really interesting burial rituals," Sam answers. He adds a second row of stitches, tugs lightly on the shadow, which doesn't come loose. He nods in satisfaction and straightens up, reaching for Dean's wrist.
Dean unstraps his watch, rolls up his sleeve, and lets Sam take his hand. His skin his warm and his pulse beats steady against Sam's fingers, and Sam can't even pretend it's not comforting. He settles himself on the trunk next to Dean, and pulls out a second pre-threaded needle, smaller gauge than the first.
"I bet with all the stuff they buried their dead with, they didn't have a lot of trouble with restless spirits," Dean says. "I mean, why bother to haunt the living when you've got food and chicks waiting for you in the afterlife?"
Sam looks up from the delicate work he's doing, but there are no shadows or regrets on Dean's face, just an amused smile.
"Of course, I'd've climbed right out of hell to make sure you were taking good care of my car."
Sam chokes, still too close to the reality of losing Dean to be able to laugh about it. Dean reaches up and ruffles his hair.
The wrist is easier, for all that it takes more sutures, and Sam's done quickly. He tests the stitches, and grins when they hold. Dean raises his hand, grins back when his shadow moves with him, sharp and dark in the sunlight. He buckles his watch back on, still engrossed in the play of his shadow across the ground and the car. Sometimes, he really is like a little kid, Sam thinks, tight ache of affection in his chest.
Before Sam can slide down off the car, Dean grabs his wrist, fingers circling warm and firm. "Thanks, Sam."
"Any time, man."
Dean lets him go and he gets down off the car to pelt Dean with his socks, wrinkling his nose and laughing at the same time. Dean doesn't bother pulling them on, just hops down barefoot onto the warm asphalt and chases him around the car, bouncing the socks off Sam's back. Their shadows trail closely. Sam imagines them echoing with their laughter.
end
~*~
Feedback is adored.
~*~