Title: Too Many Daves
Author:
wave_obscuraGenre: Gen, H/C
Rating: PG-13 (language)
Word Count: ~1,000
Summary: Dean needs stitches. Sam distracts him from the pain with Dr. Seuss. Not gonna lie, this is pretty much fanfiction of fanfiction-- namely
roque_clasique’s
Easy as 123. I would strongly suggest reading it, because it’s FABULOUS, but all you need to know for this fic is that Dean never learned how to read and Sam has been teaching him as an adult.
Warnings/Spoilers: illiterate!Dean, hurt!Dean.
Disclaimer: For our sick pleasure. No copyright infringement intended. Also, the title of this fic belongs to Dr. Seuss and I use parts of the poem of the same name in the fic. Please don’t sue me, Dr. Seuss’ estate/lawyers. I am merely paying tribute.
Too Many Daves
by wave obscura
“Goddamn it, that hurts.” Dean tries to lean out of Sam’s reach. “Get off.”
“It’s hydrogen peroxide, Dean.”
“So? Ow.”
“So it doesn’t hurt when you pour it in a wound.”
“It’s fucking cold,” Dean revises.
“You’ll live.” Sam dumps more into the gash on Dean’s back. The liquid mixes with the blood and fizzes down Dean’s spine and onto the sheets, staining them reddish-pink.
“Well?” Dean says.
“Sorry, dude. I have to close this up.”
Dean rubs his eyes. “Damn it.”
“I’ll go as quick as I can.”
“Fuck.”
“I picked up a new book yesterday. Why don’t you read while I do this.”
“Sounds like a riot.”
“Where’d that Walmart bag go?” Sam caps the bottle of peroxide and sets it aside. He finds the bag under the bed, takes from it a shiny new book and tosses it to Dean. “Read. It’ll keep your mind off the pain.”
Dean examines it. Two stuffy-looking yellow creatures march haughtily across the front cover. “The-- The Sn...Snee...Sneetches? And Oth--other Stories.”
“Yep.”
“More fucking Dr. Seuss, really?”
“It’s good practice.”
Dean gestures at a stack of books on his nightstand. “I’ll read one of those.”
“Uh uh, you’re way beyond Hop on Pop now. This one’ll be good for you. Lots of made up words.”
“But I’m bleeding to death.”
Sam doesn’t respond. He takes his time sterilizing the supplies, arranging them carefully on clean towel at the head of the bed, and slides in behind Dean.
“Lean forward.”
“Are you sure it needs stitches?”
“Positive. Lean forward.”
Sam picks up the needle to thread it; Dean cringes involuntarily.
“Up to you, if you just wanna sit here and be in pain,” Sam says quietly. “But you’re making such good progress with your reading and I’m... uh... impressed. I just want you to keep it up.”
“Shut up and stitch, Sammy,” Dean says, but opens the book, thumbing to the last story. The really short one, of course.
“T--Too Many Daves,” he begins. He’s really made amazing progress, but still lacks a bit of confidence, tends to read a little slow, a little choppy. “Uh. D-did I ever tell you that Mrs. McCahv--”
“Remember, if the word has an “e” at the end--”
“McCave.”
“Yes. Good.”
“...had tw-twenty-three... sones... sons. And she named them all Dah... Dave. This is so fucking stupid.”
“It is not,” Sam says. “Here comes the needle. Try to keep going.”
Dean continues. “Well, she did. And that was-- wasn't a sm-mart thing to do. You see, when she wants one and calls out-- FUCK, Sammy, OW. Jesus Christ.”
“I know, I’m sorry.”
Dean tenses against the pain of the needle, seems to get lost in it for a moment. His chin digs into his shoulder. He bares his teeth. Sam fights the urge to stitch faster; slow and agonizing is better than having to tear all the stitches out and start again.
“Keep reading,” Sam says, and presses on. “I’m almost half done already. Almost.”
“Fuck.”
“Read, Dean.”
“I lost my spot.”
“Mrs. McCave had twenty-three sons and she named them all Dave. Which was stupid, because when she calls out to one...”
“Yeah.” Dean winces. “Yeah. It was. Because... uh. Where--? Oh. When she wants one and calls out, "Yoo--yoo-Hoo! Come into the horse-- house, Dave!" she doesn't get ONE. All twenty-three Daves of hers come on the run.”
“Good, Dean.”
“This makes things qu-qu-quite diffi-- diffi-- cult at the McCaves', as you can im--im-- imma-- imagine. With so many Daves.”
“Good.”
“And oft- often she wishes that, when they were born, she had named one of them... I don’t-- OW-- ow fuck -- I don’t know this word.”
“It’s made up. Sound it out.”
“Fucking Dr. Suess.”
“Just a couple more stitches, Dean. Sound it out.”
“Bah-- bod-- Bodkin. Van. Ho--horn?”
“Yep.”
“What the fuck is a Bodkin Van Horn?”
“Read the sentence again.”
“And often she wishes that, when they were born, she had named one of them Bodkin Van Horn. And one of them Hoo... Hoo... Hoos-Foos?”
“Yup.”
“And one of them Sssnn-- ahhh, shit, ow -- Snimm. And one of them Hot-Shot. And One Sunny Jim.”
Sam stitches, slow and steady, listens to Dean labor through the long list of names Mrs. McCave wishes she’d given her twenty-three sons. Between Shadrack and Blinkey, Dean begins to sweat. His voice goes hoarse with pain around Stuffy and Stinkey. Sam’s pretty sure Dean weeps a little somewhere between Putt-Putt, Moon Face and (his personal favorite) Marvin O’Gravel Balloon Face.
Then Dean goes completely quiet, but Sam doesn’t press. He’s been there-- he knows Dean’s back must be like searing lava by now, that his pain-addled brain is probably fighting hard to drop unconscious, or at least fall asleep.
He’s surprised when Dean trembles with laughter.
“Stay still, Dean,” Sam says. “What’s so funny?”
“Soggy Muff,” Dean says, laughing through his nose. “Mrs. McCave wishes she’d named one of her sons Soggy Muff.”
Sam smiles. “I thought you’d like that.”
“Soggy Muff... how the hell’d she end up with twenty-three sons anyway? And where’s Mr.McCave?”
“Went out for a pack of cigarettes and never came back,” Sam says, “you think his first name was Dave?”
With another giggle Dean promptly blacks out. His chin hits his chest, the book falls from his lap, he sags to one side. Sam catches him easily, holds him steady until he blinks awake a few seconds later.
“Thinkkis time for bed, Sammy,” he slurs.
“Yep. I just have to bandage you up. Hold on a few more seconds, alright?”
“Mm,” Dean says, but he’s clearly in and out.
Sam balances Dean against his chest, tediously taping up the bandage by reaching around Dean’s front with one arm and his back with the other. By the time he’s done, Dean’s eyes are fluttering open again.
“Perfect timing,” Sam says, “You can lose consciousness now. It’s alright.”
Sam eases Dean down until he’s lying on his side, stuffs some pillows here and there so he won’t be tempted to roll on his back during the night. “You did good today. You’ll be reading John Steinbeck novels in no time.”
Dean snickers deliriously. “Soggy Muff. Ha. Soggy Muff.”
“Or not,” Sam says. “Go to sleep.”
::::
The end.
Too Many Daves
by Dr. Seuss
Did I ever tell you that Mrs. McCave
Had twenty-three sons and she named them all Dave?
Well, she did. And that wasn't a smart thing to do.
You see, when she wants one and calls out, "Yoo-Hoo!
Come into the house, Dave!" she doesn't get ONE.
All twenty-three Daves of hers come on the run!
This makes things quite difficult at the McCaves'
As you can imagine, with so many Daves.
And often she wishes that, when they were born,
She had named one of them Bodkin Van Horn
And one of them Hoos-Foos. And one of them Snimm.
And one of them Hot-Shot. And one Sunny Jim.
And one of them Shadrack. And one of them Blinkey.
And one of them Stuffy. And one of them Stinkey.
Another one Putt-Putt. Another one Moon Face.
Another one Marvin O'Gravel Balloon Face.
And one of them Ziggy. And one Soggy Muff.
One Buffalo Bill. And one Biffalo Buff.
And one of them Sneepy. And one Weepy Weed.
And one Paris Garters. And one Harris Tweed.
And one of them Sir Michael Carmichael Zutt
And one of them Oliver Boliver Butt
And one of them Zanzibar Buck-Buck McFate...
But she didn't do it. And now it's too late.