Title: Scraped Knees and Bandaids
Characters: Sam, Dean
Category: Gen, hurt/comfort, humor
Warning: Way too many italics.
Spoilers: Uh, Pilot? Set round-about Season 1 sometime
Summary: Sometimes, Sam just wants his brother.
Word Count: 1592
Disclaimer: Tragically, they continue to not belong to me. :(
Author's Note: YAY BIRTHDAYS! It is authoressnebula's birthday today, but also MY SISTER TJ AKA dickensgirl WHO IS AWESOME AND LET ME DRAG HER INTO SPN and also is a Samgirl and loves hc as much as Dean loves pie. So here's a widdle fic for my girls. (And also my birthday is this coming Sunday. Feel free to do something about that. Like, eat a marshmallow for me. That will totally work.)
Scraped Knees and Bandaids
At a certain point, Sam just had to sit down and wait for Dean to find him.
He didn't like to do that. In fact, he pretty much hated it with everything he had. He was a man, dammit, he'd been to college and had a serious girlfriend, he knew how to use more guns and knives than the average Navy SEAL, he could speak three languages and read several more, he could find his way out of a trackless wilderness with nothing but a pocket knife and a piece of string (though a gum wrapper or two did help, Sam wasn't going to lie), and he didn't need his big brother to give him piggyback rides or feed him ice cream or, really, take care of him at all. Sam Winchester was a tough-as-shit adult hunter, and he didn't need anyone.
Except for sometimes. Like now. Because having your foot caught in a bear trap? Yeah, that kinda brought out every "FIXIT FIXIT FIXIT NOW DEAN PLEASE" instinct he had ever tried to beat into the ground with a hammer.
He was Sam Winchester, he was a man, he was a tough-as-shit hunter, and he wanted his brother to come and get this contraption off his foot before he burst into tears like the tiniest baby ever to get its finger caught in a door.
And so Sam sat on a stump in the middle of a forest somewhere in the Rocky Mountains and manfully sniffed back his tears. Then he fished his cell phone out of his right breast pocket and hit speed dial 1.
Sam's lip quivered.
"That you, Sam? Find any trace of the...whatever...I swear that name won't stick in my head for more than six seconds. Anyway, found any traces yet?"
Sam fought the urge for one second more. "Deeeeeaaaaaaannnn!"
It was totally a wail. He wasn't the least bit ashamed.
"Sammy?" The lighthearted tone was gone, just like that. Sam sniffed, unable to articulate even to himself just how glad he was to hear that serious, urgent voice. Dean was gonna come and he was gonna fix it and everything was gonna be okay. "What's wrong?"
Sam sniffed again. "I got my foot stuck in a bear trap."
"Aw," Dean said with gratifying swiftness. "Aw, dude, that sucks."
"A bear trap, Dean. A bear trap!"
"Yeah, I heard you. That's awful, man."
"IT'S A FREAKING BEAR TRAP, DEAN, AND MY FOOT IS STUCK IN IT."
"Yeah, yeah, that's horrible."
"Dean." Sam huffed a breath into the phone. He hoped it hurt Dean's ear. "Come now and fix it for me."
"Oh. Oh." Rapid rustling reached Sam over the phone. He blinked forcefully. "Okay, okay, I'm comin' to ya. Did you go in pretty much a straight line when we split up?"
"Yeah, pretty much." Sam's shoulders slumped and he relaxed on the stump. Dean was coming.
"All right, I'll be there soon."
The call cut off and Sam lowered the phone into his lap and stared fixedly at it. Maybe he could make Dean move faster with his brain.
Dean finally arrived, eyes wide and harried, rushing through the trees. "All right, all right, I'm here. Lemme at it."
Sam wiggled his foot, letting the chain jangle against the rest of the trap, and pointed balefully down at it.
Dean looked down at the trap, and his eyes widened. "That's it?"
Sam nodded dolefully.
"Really? That's it?"
Sam was starting to be annoyed by the incredulity in his brother's voice. "Yes, Dean. That's it. And it freakin' hurts."
"Dude..." Dean knelt down in the bracken and prodded cautiously at the metal contraption with the barrel of his gun, still held ready in his hand. "I hate to break it to ya, but this isn't a bear trap. It looks more like something for minx, maybe. Or weasels. It's tiny."
Sam frowned down at the thing stuck in the toe of his boot. "Whatever. It's a trap and my foot is stuck in it and I can't get it off and it hurts. Are you going to help me or not?"
"Of course I'm going to help you." Dean holstered the gun, then wrapped a hand gently around Sam's heel and lifted the entrapped foot, turning it carefully to study the trap. "Did you even try to get it off? I mean, it is kinda small..."
"Of course I tried! I'm not a baby! I'm a man! I went to college! I had a serious girlfriend! I know how to use more guns and knives than the average Navy SEAL! I'm a tough-as-shit adult hunter! I tried to open the trap! You have to step on both sides and I only have one foot free!"
Dean leaned back a little, his eyes wide. "Wow. Okay. I'll open it."
He bent back over the trap, folding his hands gently around the metallic band. Clever, elegant fingers found the catches on either side, and the trap sprung open. Sam let out a sigh of relief and pulled his foot back, gingerly wiggling his toes.
"It still hurts."
Dean wordlessly tugged at his boot. Sam straightened his foot, letting him pull it off, revealing blood-soaked cotton, and Dean peeled off the sock as well. Jagged triangular gashes marked Sam's foot in a circle like a bite from a monster, and he wiggled his toes again and very deliberately did not cry.
"All right, I got this." Dean slung the duffel bag off his shoulder and dug out their massive, well-equipped first aid kit. Despite his skepticism at the veracity of the "bear" trap, his hands were very gentle, the callused fingers somehow soft as he cleaned the wounds with an antispectic wipe, turning Sam's foot in his hand to make sure he got them all.
Sam stared down at his brother's gold-brown head, bent over his foot in focused concentration. He remembered those rollerskates at the trailer park in Georgia when he was eight, remembered his determination to master the devil-wheels no matter how long it took, no matter how many times he fell. Remembered the shimmer of July sun off the blacktop pavement melting the tar into sticky stripes, a trap for little wheels and little boys. Remembered his big brother kneeling next to him as he sat on the rickety steps leading up to their rusty trailer, sniffing and refusing to cry as his brother cleaned the bloody scrape on his knee with a ragged off-white dish rag. Remembered the pounding of his heart subsiding into calm, remembered the pain in his knee fading under his brother's ministrations. Remembered his injured pride soothed by Dean calling the rollerskates names, saying they must have been invented by demons, assuring Sammy that he was awesome and he could totally beat those crazy things and how 'bout if Dean held his hand for a little while? Just until he figured it out? Dean was sure it wouldn't take long at all.
Dean finished winding gauze around the injured foot, then rifled in the duffel for a clean sock and rolled it onto Sam's foot. He picked up the boot and looked at it doubtfully. "Sorry about the boot, man. I don't think those holes will come out in the wash."
"I needed new ones anyway." Sam stuck his foot into Dean's face and waited patiently until his big brother slumped, then pulled the laces a little looser and drew the boot over Sam's foot.
Dean straightened then, hands on his knees. "Okay, you hurt anywhere else?"
Sam considered, then rolled up his flannel sleeve and folded his arm in half, displaying the bloody scrape on his elbow. "I hit it on a tree."
Dean stared. "Really?"
Sam nodded solemnly.
"Seriously? You want me to..."
Sam nodded again, more vigorously, and gave him a frown.
Dean hesitated, then sighed and turned to the kit, pulling out another antiseptic wipe and the box of bandaids. He cleaned the scrape and crossed two bandaids over it, smoothing them carefully down so they wouldn't stick to the abrasions. Then he sat back again, clearly thinking he was done.
Sam frowned harder, then waved the elbow back and forth a little. He put a warning in his voice. "Dean..."
Dean's mouth dropped open. "You really want me to..."
Dean rolled his eyes, but he did it. He leaned over and gently kissed Sammy's boo-boo.
"Okay. Are we done now?"
Sam tilted his head in consideration, then nodded. He unbent his arm and pulled the sleeve back down, then carefully stood up, balancing on one foot. "I'm still a tough-as-shit hunter," he said menacingly.
"That's right, Sammy," Dean said, tucking the supplies back into the duffel. "You're still a tough-as-shit hunter." He stood up and slid his shoulder under Sam's arm. "C'mon, let's get you back to the motel, tough guy. I think we've had enough monster-hunting for one day."
Sam nodded. "I'll get it tomorrow though."
"Of course you will." Dean steered them back through the trees toward the car. "In the meantime, this day totally calls for ice cream. And a Godzilla marathon on the SciFi channel."
"Yeah. Let's do that."
Sometimes things just didn't go Sam's way. Fortunately there was always Dean, there to pick him up off the pavement, brush the dust off his clothes, kiss his boo-boos, and tell him it would be better soon.
And Sam always believed him. He couldn't do otherwise.
Um, I'm sorry this went kind of goofy. I meant it to be a serious little h/c moment, but I guess birthdays put me in a good mood.