Alphabet Fics: A, B.
hi...
A is for Abacus
Sam's supposed to be this genius kid, yeah, okay, clearly you weren't around when John was trying to teach the kid math.
He was five and already reading like a champ. He could sound out anything; he'd read exorcisms like he had them memorized. His comprehension was for shit, but it's not as if John knew what the words meant anyway, and Dean over there still sulked his way through coping out newspaper headlines.
But Sam could not do math.
"Numbers are supposed to have feel," he said.
John tried to be patient. He tried very hard. "That doesn't make any sense, Sam."
"I want to touch them."
"You don't touch words when you read them, right?" John says, which wasn't exactly true, because Sam was always running his grubby fingers across all the pages of his (damn it Sam there's only one copy of that in fucking existence) books, but he did that to his math pages too and apparently that wasn't helping.
Sam fixed him with the kind of stare John imagined he'd be seeing a lot more of once Sam was a teenager. "Numbers are not words, dad."
"He thinks they have textures," Dean said. He was sitting on the motel bed, sharpening a knife, while John and Sam were on the floor.
"What?"
"So on the pages they're just like...shadows."
"Crazy kid," John said, and he gathered Sam up on his lap. "Frustrating little bastard."
He found the abacus at a garage sale, and he put Sam back on his lap again and helped him slide the beads back and forth. Sam giggled and counted. In Latin.
-----
B is for Blankets
It starts when Sam has strep throat in Des Moines. He's croaky, feverish, dizzy, just a nice trifecta of shittyness, and Dean's actually pretty okay with admitting he feels bad for the kid. He's that miserable.
He loads him up with Tylenol but they quickly realize they're gonna have to add Benadryl to the mix too, because now, with that throat, is really not the time for that allergy attack he's easing into.
"What the fuck is even setting you off?" Dean asks, when Sam gives another scratchy sneeze, and another wince, and another set of shaky fingers on the base of his throat.
"I don't know," Sam says, but then starts sneezing hard immediately after wiping his nose on the gross motel blanket, so there you go, then. Dean tugs it away from him and Sam shivers and whimpers.
"Here." Dean tosses him a hoodie. "Stay warm, sneezy."
Sam tries, but he doesn't, really, and Dean cranks the heat up and grumbles his way to the car.
**
It's a huge fluffy thing with a big tag that says HYPOALLERGENIC, and they had it in blue and pink so guess which Dean got?
"It looks like Pepto Bismal," Sam says.
"Yeah, sick blanket."
Sam wraps up in it, still looking dubious. "Throwing up's about the only thing that's not wrong with me."
"Boohoo I'm Sam."
"It's nice. Thank you."
"Just keep it clean."
Sam brings the blanket up and over his head like a hood. It stays there until the fever drops.
**
The blanket is over Sam every time he's in the car until the illness is all the way out of him. Dean's expecting it to get packed away after that, especially when the next two motels are nice enough and Sam's not even sniffly. But no, Sam comes up with some bullshit excuse every time about have you seen statistics on how dirty these rooms really are and maybe they use that detergent that gives me hives and Sam's bed is pink again.
"You're ridiculous, you know that?" Dean says. Sam's sitting up in bed with the blanket wrapped around his shoulders while he does research.
"It's not a blanket," Sam says, without looking up. "It's a cape."
"Super allergy man!"
"Ba da ba ba!"
**
Sam pulls him out of the grave, out of hellfiredogsbarsteeth, and into the Impala. Dean's gasping, choking on dirt, and Sam starts the car.
And then reaches to the backseat, then to Dean, and wraps his blanket around his filthy brother.
more later...if I stop sucking...
A is for Abacus
Sam's supposed to be this genius kid, yeah, okay, clearly you weren't around when John was trying to teach the kid math.
He was five and already reading like a champ. He could sound out anything; he'd read exorcisms like he had them memorized. His comprehension was for shit, but it's not as if John knew what the words meant anyway, and Dean over there still sulked his way through coping out newspaper headlines.
But Sam could not do math.
"Numbers are supposed to have feel," he said.
John tried to be patient. He tried very hard. "That doesn't make any sense, Sam."
"I want to touch them."
"You don't touch words when you read them, right?" John says, which wasn't exactly true, because Sam was always running his grubby fingers across all the pages of his (damn it Sam there's only one copy of that in fucking existence) books, but he did that to his math pages too and apparently that wasn't helping.
Sam fixed him with the kind of stare John imagined he'd be seeing a lot more of once Sam was a teenager. "Numbers are not words, dad."
"He thinks they have textures," Dean said. He was sitting on the motel bed, sharpening a knife, while John and Sam were on the floor.
"What?"
"So on the pages they're just like...shadows."
"Crazy kid," John said, and he gathered Sam up on his lap. "Frustrating little bastard."
He found the abacus at a garage sale, and he put Sam back on his lap again and helped him slide the beads back and forth. Sam giggled and counted. In Latin.
-----
B is for Blankets
It starts when Sam has strep throat in Des Moines. He's croaky, feverish, dizzy, just a nice trifecta of shittyness, and Dean's actually pretty okay with admitting he feels bad for the kid. He's that miserable.
He loads him up with Tylenol but they quickly realize they're gonna have to add Benadryl to the mix too, because now, with that throat, is really not the time for that allergy attack he's easing into.
"What the fuck is even setting you off?" Dean asks, when Sam gives another scratchy sneeze, and another wince, and another set of shaky fingers on the base of his throat.
"I don't know," Sam says, but then starts sneezing hard immediately after wiping his nose on the gross motel blanket, so there you go, then. Dean tugs it away from him and Sam shivers and whimpers.
"Here." Dean tosses him a hoodie. "Stay warm, sneezy."
Sam tries, but he doesn't, really, and Dean cranks the heat up and grumbles his way to the car.
**
It's a huge fluffy thing with a big tag that says HYPOALLERGENIC, and they had it in blue and pink so guess which Dean got?
"It looks like Pepto Bismal," Sam says.
"Yeah, sick blanket."
Sam wraps up in it, still looking dubious. "Throwing up's about the only thing that's not wrong with me."
"Boohoo I'm Sam."
"It's nice. Thank you."
"Just keep it clean."
Sam brings the blanket up and over his head like a hood. It stays there until the fever drops.
**
The blanket is over Sam every time he's in the car until the illness is all the way out of him. Dean's expecting it to get packed away after that, especially when the next two motels are nice enough and Sam's not even sniffly. But no, Sam comes up with some bullshit excuse every time about have you seen statistics on how dirty these rooms really are and maybe they use that detergent that gives me hives and Sam's bed is pink again.
"You're ridiculous, you know that?" Dean says. Sam's sitting up in bed with the blanket wrapped around his shoulders while he does research.
"It's not a blanket," Sam says, without looking up. "It's a cape."
"Super allergy man!"
"Ba da ba ba!"
**
Sam pulls him out of the grave, out of hellfiredogsbarsteeth, and into the Impala. Dean's gasping, choking on dirt, and Sam starts the car.
And then reaches to the backseat, then to Dean, and wraps his blanket around his filthy brother.
more later...if I stop sucking...