Fic: The American Dream
At this point you aren’t sure who is more fussy, Sam or Jared.
The irony of the situation is that you’ve had this conversation with the props and makeup people how many times now, but aftercare just isn’t something you have time for in a 40 minute show. So here you are, feeling trapped in the middle of some obsessive fan fiction, letting Jared put pressure on your upper forearm while he digs around with his free hand for butterflies, cussing out Dean’s penchant for not buying proper first aid supplies and rambling under his breath about how next time you might as well start at your wrist and go vertical if you’re looking to off yourself.
“What did you want me to do, let us both get killed,” you protest, and you aren’t exactly a wuss when it comes to pain but damn, it hurts. Mental note: serrated knives, not so good for slicing your arm open.
He snorts, and yeah, that’s all Sam. “Ah. Bingo,” he says, and pulls some Telfa pads and a roll of Ace bandage from the bottom of Dean’s duffel bag. You grit your teeth and let him wrap it and place your hand close to your chest, fist over your heart. “Hold it like that,” he says, “and try not to move around too much.”
You comply, settling back against the headboard. Your fingers are already starting to tingle, but you figure you can deal with that later. At least the bleeding seems to be stopping. Jared is packing everything he can get his hands on as fast as he possibly can, and only pauses briefly to wipe your blood down the front of Sam’s shirt. You let your eyes drift closed, just for a second -- he’s got this -- and they snap open again at the sound of his startled yell.
He’s standing between you and the window, and from the motion the curtains are making you can only assume they just got thrown open. You bolt off the bed just in time to see a tall woman on the other side reach out her hand and curl it into a fist, the world shifts and you hear the sound of the universe shattering and --
You wake up mid-fall onto a drop cushion and you land softly to the sound of Bob Singer yelling, “Cut!”
Jared’s eyes find yours, wide and questioning, and you swallow hard and nod. Yes, that happened. You check your arm at the same time as he checks his bruised jaw, and you both come up empty. Nothing. You let yourself collapse into the inflatable mat, relieved that whatever sent you back felt it was important to keep order in your tiny, humanistic universe.
Jared whispers, “Think they’re okay?” and you press your lips together. They are, of course. They have to be.
“Yeah, ‘course,” you whisper back, rolling up onto your knees and offering him a hand. He takes it, no hesitation, and you hear a small gasp come from the circle of observers behind you.
Jared cracks a grin. He’s going to enjoy this, you can tell. “Whatever that was … at least we’re talking.”
You nod, and you let yourself grin back. There’s always that.