FIC: In The Place Where You Are for theymp 2019 Springfling
Title: In The Place Where You Are
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: Teen and up
W/C: ~1300
Any warnings: Show-level violence, cursing
The really old graves, the ones this cemetery and this town and its people had forgotten about, the ones almost completely overtaken with weeds and grass and fucking kudzu, were of course a long hike from the car.
Growing up, the Winchesters learned to hunt in every weather condition, even those that kept the postal service workers in their comfortable homes. Poltergeists didn’t wait for sunny days, werewolves needed killing even when the wind froze tears on your face. Sam adapted like the rest of his family, out of necessity, but that was then.
The past few years in Palo Alto he’d been out of the game. He’d also been in about as perfect weather as he was aware existed. Sure, there had been some hot days, in the summer, but not consistently. Not all the time hot. Not sticky and humid even after the sun went down, like maybe you could reach out and grab a handful of the air.
Shovel in hand, Dean was moving steady, no complaints. So Sam repositioned the shotgun on his shoulder, pretended his shirt wasn’t slowly melting into his skin from the collar to the hem, and kept up.
By the time they had their targeted gravestone in sight, there was a shift in the air. For just one blissful second, Sam thought maybe it was a breeze. But he instantly knew better, and so did Dean.
Something was scouting them from the treeline. And it was definitely not the ghost that they had both been so certain had been causing the suspicious accidents in this town. Instinctively, they moved into a back to back position, slowly turning to get the best view they could of their surroundings. Dean dropped the shovel he’d been holding and pulled a pistol from his waistband. Sam held onto his shotgun for now, hoping the rock salt shells would at least slow whatever this was if it came at them.
They didn’t have to wait long. Whatever this was moved faster than almost anything Sam had ever seen before. Between one blink and the next, the creature had passed them, leaving behind a horrific smell and only one brother still standing.
Sam wasn’t exactly certain how he’d gotten them both back to the motel. He’d driven them there, in the car, of course, but if Dean asked him for specifics Sam might have to make shit up.
He had flashes. His brother on the ground, bright blooming stain of blood. Trying to carry Dean. Dean pushing and yelling at him, about forty percent power. One arm pressing a shovel and a shotgun to his side, the other pressing Dean, who protested less and less the farther they walked. Wrapping...something around the wound on Dean’s arm, something he found in the back seat, maybe a shirt or a towel or...it didn’t matter.
By the time Sam fetched their med kit and the half-bottle of tequila from the car, Dean was peeling off his shirt. As he made his way into the bathroom, he batted Dean’s hands away.
“Jesus, I need to cut this off, stop it”, he muttered, making use of the scissors and getting his first up-close look at the wound.
Fuck.
Sam had seen worse. Much worse, and he knew it, in the logical part of his brain that remembered things accurately.
But that had been a long time ago.
He mechanically responded to Dean’s demands - handed him the bottle of booze. Looked through the med kit and found a bottle with various narcotic painkillers. Handed them over, wished he could wait until they started working before he took care of this injury.
“Dean, I gotta - this needs to be stitched up, man.”
“No shit, Sam”, Dean said, at the end of a swig of tequila. “Just do it.”
“You sure you don’t want me to take you to a hospital or-”
“What the hell are you talking about? You’ve done this a hundred times, man, I’m not going to a goddamn hospital for a few stitches” Dean was looking bewildered by now, probably wondering if Sam hit his head or something.
But it was fine, and Sam had done this plenty of times, and he was going to do it again, right now.
For once he was thankful for how small their bathroom was in the motel room. He balanced on the edge of the tub while Dean sat on the toilet seat and they were plenty close enough to get this job done. The curved suture needle was threaded, the needle and the wound were as sterilized as they were going to be, and Sam held the edges of Dean’s skin together.
All he had to do was focus. Just fucking focus. He tried closing his eyes to clear his head, but that was a mistake.
Brother on the ground, shirt stained with blood.
Years away at school. He offered to stitch up a cut for his freshman roommate his first semester, the guy looked at him like he was insane.
Brother on the ground, shirt stained with blood.
Maybe Sam could have been quick enough to stop this from happening if he hadn’t been gone so long.
His mind was racing and he couldn’t concentrate on the task in front of him, which he desperately needed to not screw up.
“Anytime now, Sam” - Dean’s voice, tight with pain, snapped him back into the moment. He shook his head, took a deep breath, let out an exhale so shaky it made him feel like his dad was standing over his shoulder waiting for him to do something wrong.
There was a movement in the corner of his vision. Dean, setting the bottle down on the floor, reaching over with his good arm and pressing his palm against Sam’s cheek.
“Listen to me, Sam. You know how to do this. You’re fine. This cut needs to be stitched up and you’re the only one here to do it. Look at me.”
Reluctantly, Sam raised his eyes to meet what he was certain would be a very irritated and impatient Dean.
But all he saw was understanding, tenderness, that something new that passed between them now that their relationship was intimate in a different way.
“I know you can do this. I trust you. This is me asking you for help, Sammy. Now get on with it before I start growing girl parts.”
Dean gave him a short little nod, and Sam nodded back, everything slowing down and clearing up at once. All of a sudden, he had no trouble at all concentrating. After the first stitch, he kept going almost on auto-pilot.
Once he’d finished up with a row of about twenty neat stitches down the back of Dean’s upper arm, the booze and painkillers started doing their work. Sam cleaned the cut, covered it with gauze, and led Dean back out into the room.
Dean clumsily stripped out of his jeans and Sam pulled the covers over him as he curled up on his uninjured side. Sam took the risk of sitting on the side of the bed, just looking down at his completely fine non-mortally-wounded brother. He reached out to smooth an imaginary mess in Dean’s hair, then rested his hand on Dean’s shoulder very lightly.
He had his own bed. They always got two beds, even now, things were new and uncertain and switching to one bed would be a whole thing, Sam figured, so.
“You did good, Sammy”, Dean whispered, his voice a bit slurred from exhaustion and impairment. “Gonna kiss me goodnight?”
Which was a ridiculous question, honestly, because Sam was definitely going to do that.
They had to start this hunt all over again from scratch, but that was for tomorrow.
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: Teen and up
W/C: ~1300
Any warnings: Show-level violence, cursing
The really old graves, the ones this cemetery and this town and its people had forgotten about, the ones almost completely overtaken with weeds and grass and fucking kudzu, were of course a long hike from the car.
Growing up, the Winchesters learned to hunt in every weather condition, even those that kept the postal service workers in their comfortable homes. Poltergeists didn’t wait for sunny days, werewolves needed killing even when the wind froze tears on your face. Sam adapted like the rest of his family, out of necessity, but that was then.
The past few years in Palo Alto he’d been out of the game. He’d also been in about as perfect weather as he was aware existed. Sure, there had been some hot days, in the summer, but not consistently. Not all the time hot. Not sticky and humid even after the sun went down, like maybe you could reach out and grab a handful of the air.
Shovel in hand, Dean was moving steady, no complaints. So Sam repositioned the shotgun on his shoulder, pretended his shirt wasn’t slowly melting into his skin from the collar to the hem, and kept up.
By the time they had their targeted gravestone in sight, there was a shift in the air. For just one blissful second, Sam thought maybe it was a breeze. But he instantly knew better, and so did Dean.
Something was scouting them from the treeline. And it was definitely not the ghost that they had both been so certain had been causing the suspicious accidents in this town. Instinctively, they moved into a back to back position, slowly turning to get the best view they could of their surroundings. Dean dropped the shovel he’d been holding and pulled a pistol from his waistband. Sam held onto his shotgun for now, hoping the rock salt shells would at least slow whatever this was if it came at them.
They didn’t have to wait long. Whatever this was moved faster than almost anything Sam had ever seen before. Between one blink and the next, the creature had passed them, leaving behind a horrific smell and only one brother still standing.
Sam wasn’t exactly certain how he’d gotten them both back to the motel. He’d driven them there, in the car, of course, but if Dean asked him for specifics Sam might have to make shit up.
He had flashes. His brother on the ground, bright blooming stain of blood. Trying to carry Dean. Dean pushing and yelling at him, about forty percent power. One arm pressing a shovel and a shotgun to his side, the other pressing Dean, who protested less and less the farther they walked. Wrapping...something around the wound on Dean’s arm, something he found in the back seat, maybe a shirt or a towel or...it didn’t matter.
By the time Sam fetched their med kit and the half-bottle of tequila from the car, Dean was peeling off his shirt. As he made his way into the bathroom, he batted Dean’s hands away.
“Jesus, I need to cut this off, stop it”, he muttered, making use of the scissors and getting his first up-close look at the wound.
Fuck.
Sam had seen worse. Much worse, and he knew it, in the logical part of his brain that remembered things accurately.
But that had been a long time ago.
He mechanically responded to Dean’s demands - handed him the bottle of booze. Looked through the med kit and found a bottle with various narcotic painkillers. Handed them over, wished he could wait until they started working before he took care of this injury.
“Dean, I gotta - this needs to be stitched up, man.”
“No shit, Sam”, Dean said, at the end of a swig of tequila. “Just do it.”
“You sure you don’t want me to take you to a hospital or-”
“What the hell are you talking about? You’ve done this a hundred times, man, I’m not going to a goddamn hospital for a few stitches” Dean was looking bewildered by now, probably wondering if Sam hit his head or something.
But it was fine, and Sam had done this plenty of times, and he was going to do it again, right now.
For once he was thankful for how small their bathroom was in the motel room. He balanced on the edge of the tub while Dean sat on the toilet seat and they were plenty close enough to get this job done. The curved suture needle was threaded, the needle and the wound were as sterilized as they were going to be, and Sam held the edges of Dean’s skin together.
All he had to do was focus. Just fucking focus. He tried closing his eyes to clear his head, but that was a mistake.
Brother on the ground, shirt stained with blood.
Years away at school. He offered to stitch up a cut for his freshman roommate his first semester, the guy looked at him like he was insane.
Brother on the ground, shirt stained with blood.
Maybe Sam could have been quick enough to stop this from happening if he hadn’t been gone so long.
His mind was racing and he couldn’t concentrate on the task in front of him, which he desperately needed to not screw up.
“Anytime now, Sam” - Dean’s voice, tight with pain, snapped him back into the moment. He shook his head, took a deep breath, let out an exhale so shaky it made him feel like his dad was standing over his shoulder waiting for him to do something wrong.
There was a movement in the corner of his vision. Dean, setting the bottle down on the floor, reaching over with his good arm and pressing his palm against Sam’s cheek.
“Listen to me, Sam. You know how to do this. You’re fine. This cut needs to be stitched up and you’re the only one here to do it. Look at me.”
Reluctantly, Sam raised his eyes to meet what he was certain would be a very irritated and impatient Dean.
But all he saw was understanding, tenderness, that something new that passed between them now that their relationship was intimate in a different way.
“I know you can do this. I trust you. This is me asking you for help, Sammy. Now get on with it before I start growing girl parts.”
Dean gave him a short little nod, and Sam nodded back, everything slowing down and clearing up at once. All of a sudden, he had no trouble at all concentrating. After the first stitch, he kept going almost on auto-pilot.
Once he’d finished up with a row of about twenty neat stitches down the back of Dean’s upper arm, the booze and painkillers started doing their work. Sam cleaned the cut, covered it with gauze, and led Dean back out into the room.
Dean clumsily stripped out of his jeans and Sam pulled the covers over him as he curled up on his uninjured side. Sam took the risk of sitting on the side of the bed, just looking down at his completely fine non-mortally-wounded brother. He reached out to smooth an imaginary mess in Dean’s hair, then rested his hand on Dean’s shoulder very lightly.
He had his own bed. They always got two beds, even now, things were new and uncertain and switching to one bed would be a whole thing, Sam figured, so.
“You did good, Sammy”, Dean whispered, his voice a bit slurred from exhaustion and impairment. “Gonna kiss me goodnight?”
Which was a ridiculous question, honestly, because Sam was definitely going to do that.
They had to start this hunt all over again from scratch, but that was for tomorrow.