Hey guys! So I've definitely been hitting the writer's block for a while now. No matter how hard I tried to get something written, it just didn't feel right. Then today this one popped into my head, and I just had to write it down. It's definitely not one of my best, but I still like it. It doesn't have any of my usual heavy angst and tears, but it's still got some brotherly love. It's pretty short, and it's pure fluff, but who doesn't need that sometimes, right? :)
Anyway, I really hope you enjoy it. :)
Disclaimer: Still not mine...
The hunt hadn't gone that well. Not very well at all, in fact.
Obadiah, the very angry spirit of a dead "priest" had turned out to be Obadiah, the very angry spirit of a dead hoodoo priest.
After their first encounter with him, Dean had come down with a mysterious illness. After a lot of frantic research, Sam had soon found out Obadiah's specialty while he was alive was invoking sickness on his enemies and other "customers" enemies.
Luckily the illness wasn't life-threatening, but Dean had still come down with a pretty bad fever, and had been sick to his stomach for days.
Now, Obadiah was firmly trapped in a solid circle of salt, and wasn't getting out anytime soon. Which gave them plenty of time to burn the bones.
Sam sighed as he dug. It was hard work, digging up a grave, even when you were helped by your brother. Even harder when you were going at it alone.
He'd told Dean to stay in the car, due to his still clinging on sickness. He'd stopped throwing up yesterday, but his fever was still high and he was pale and exhausted.
It was very early spring, there was still patches of snow on the ground, the air was still extremely chilly, and Sam did not want his brother out in this weather with that fever.
Nevertheless, as Dean always had to, he'd kicked up a fight about not coming with Sam. (Although it was fairly small compared to his usual 'I'm-not-being-left-behind-while-you-hunt' fights, which added even more to Sam's belief that Dean was nowhere near well enough to dig up a grave.)
Sam had won the fight. It wasn't that hard when Dean was sick. He'd threatened to tie him up in the car if he needed to, which was answered with the predicted "I don't swing that way". Dean had tried to glare at Sam as he closed the car door, but he'd looked too exhausted for it to really have that much impact.
Sam finally finished digging the grave and straightened up, panting, before vaulting out. He'd just leaned down to open his bag when a sudden voice made him jump.
Sam turned around to see his brother, hands jammed in his jacket pockets, watching him through half-closed green eyes, a faint sheen of sweat still covering his forehead.
Sam huffed. "Dean? What're you doing, man? You scared the crap outta me."
Dean lowered his eyes. "Sorry."
Sam sighed lightly. "Dean, I told you to stay in the car. What're you doing out here?"
Dean shrugged, not meeting Sam's eyes. "Didn' wanna be alone."
Sam looked at him quickly. Dean was watching him with that look, that "walls-are-down" look, that "this-is-the-real-me" look. The one he only got when he was either sick, hurt, or had been through hell. Sam gave in.
Dean approached him slowly, still a bit dizzy.
"You really shouldn't be out here in this weather with a fever like that," Sam reprimanded, but he didn't have the heart to send his brother back to the car. "Sit."
He gently pushed Dean down so he was sitting on the ground next to Sam.
Dean didn't argue, instead he just leaned on Sam's leg and let out a funny little sigh, one that Sam could only describe as contented.
He shook his head a little, but couldn't help smiling. He quickly sprinkled the bones below with salt and holy water, followed by gasoline, then dug the matches out of his pocket. He lit one and then dropped it, watching as the body burst into flames.
He glanced down at his brother, Dean was watching too, his eyes still only half-open.
Sam looked back at the dancing flames, watched them slowly scorching the bones and the wooden box containing them. He couldn't help thinking how fire had ruined so much of their lives – Mom, Jess… and then Dean, in Hell. But Dean had survived.
Suddenly overwhelmed with a surge of emotion at how lucky he was to still have his brother by his side, Sam dropped his hand down to Dean's feverish head, sinking his fingers into the dark blond hair and ruffling it a little.
Dean closed his eyes for a second, relishing the touch, but quickly followed with a slurred "Dude, get off."
Sam grinned, ruffling Dean's hair one more time, then said "You gonna help me fill in this grave, seeing as you're feeling so healthy now? Healthy enough to walk on out here?"
Dean fake-glared at him, and Sam laughed. "Didn't think so."
He helped Dean over to a nearby tree, letting him lean on it, then returned to the graveside and picked up his shovel. He began filling the grave back in, then glanced up at Dean, who gave him a tired smile. His hair was still ruffled from Sam's fingers, and he looked about ten years old.
Sam smiled back at him, then went back to digging.
As long as his brother was around, yeah, he was lucky. Lucky to have Dean for a brother. Lucky that he was still here, glaring and fighting and laughing and smiling at Sam like only he could.
Sam was the luckiest damn guy in the world.
Well? What did you think? Loved it? Hated it?
Please let me know! I do love to hear from you guys. :)
Thanks so much for reading, and I'll catch you on the flipside.