Supernatural fic: After All (gen)
Tuesday, 2 May 2006 00:44![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
krisomniacTitle: After All
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
krisomniac
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Sam and Dean are not mine, never have been, never will be, but I do like to borrow them from time to time.
Author's Note: A thousand thanks toignipes for the beta and reassurances, and even for getting me hooked on a shiny new fandom. It's unbelievable fun to play with the boys.
Summary: The Winchester brothers pick up the pieces after one of Sam's more questionably brilliant plans.
After All
"Ouch."
"Stop moving."
"Stop poking me--ow!" Sam resisted the urge to squirm and stared resolutely at the gently alternating waves on the motel wallpaper, wondering what interior designer thought it was a good idea to color a room in shades of puce. The early morning light angled through the large front window. He clenched his jaw and tried not to make a sound as Dean placed another stitch in his leg.
"I wasn't the one who let that dog use my femur as a chew toy," Dean said. He wasn't smiling.
Sam didn't laugh. He could still smell the foul slaver and the rank, earthy scent of the dog-like creatures, still hear their squealing shrieks close in as he ran towards the truck, his lungs bursting and heart pounding. Stupid rock. His hands were scraped from the pebbly ground that had come rushing to meet him when he tripped in the dark. His ears rang with the sound of a rifle shot in the night.
"I thought it was a good idea," he said. "It nearly went off without a hitch."
He didn't need Dean to tell him that nearly wasn't good enough.
Dean frowned. "You're lucky that Jones is a good shot."
Jones also believed that tequila was one of the four food groups, Sam reflected, and was the only other person in town who recognized the creatures that left a trail of dead livestock and house pets in their wake.
Dean dropped another stitch across the gaping, bloody bite. "You should've waited until I got back."
"I didn't know how long you'd be gone," Sam said, or where you went. "I called, but you didn't get reception." He grunted as Dean drew the skin together. "It was a good idea," he insisted.
The trap was foolproof but, as it turned out, not Jones-proof. The chupacabras were on time; the crazy hermit with the childlike face was late.
Dean shrugged but didn't look up.
Sam knew that Dean had dealt with these monsters before, that he'd hunted a similar pack when he was eighteen and killed them all, and he knew that trusting the town drunk was one of the more boneheaded ideas Sam had ever had. But Dean said nothing more, just focused on the nasty bite along Sam's leg.
Sam didn't know where his brother had learned to stitch people back together and did know better than to ask. But Dean was neat and quick and silent, and Sam supposed it could have been worse.
Outside, cars came and went, people leaving on their morning business, not knowing or caring that they would be a little safer tonight. Sam twined his fingers in the bed sheet and counted the seconds passing by. The couple in the room next door was watching The Today Show. Muted laughter filtered through the walls. The note Sam had written hours ago was still sitting on the nightstand.
Dean, I found them. If you get this, meet Jones and me out past the old Thompson place. I've got it all worked out. Sam.
Dean held the desk lamp over Sam's knee, surveying his work. He dabbed at it with a warm, damp washcloth. The sharp, stabbing pain had finally faded to a dull ache.
Next, he pulled a dark cream from his battered first-aid kit. Sam knew there were things in there that you could only get with a fake medical license or a real M.D., things stolen from various hospitals and walk-in clinics, as well as things that no traditional doctor had ever heard of.
"That's gonna leave a scar," Dean said.
Sam shrugged. "You should see the other guy."
The cream burned for a moment and Sam hissed with the sudden pain, then the area went blessedly numb. Dean placed a soft, gauzy wrap over the cut and began to put his things away.
Sam closed his eyes. "Look," he said. "I know I screwed up."
In the bathroom, Dean washed his hands, splashed some water on his face and the back of his neck, and dried off with a clean towel.
"Dean?" Sam said. He stood gingerly and limped over to the mirror, his right leg tingling but able to support him. His face was grey and smudged with dirt. His tee shirt and boxers were smattered with blood, and his torn jeans lay in a heap on the floor. He leaned against the bureau and took a deep breath, recalling the events of the night, wondering how they'd gone so wrong.
Dean had been gone for three days. Before he left, he charged Sam with finding the pack of chupacabras he was certain was behind some recent attacks. Sam had found the pack and solicited the help of the hermit.
The argon flares were Sam's idea, based off a few notes in the margins of Dad's journal. Jones had rigged them up and fixed them to the front of a couple of trucks, but when Sam arrived at the farm, Jones was nowhere to be seen. Sighing, he jumped out of the pickup he'd driven and had a look around. He knew the creatures were there, stalking a herd of sheep left out overnight.
He never suspected they would come after him so fast.
Jones' shot had frightened away the leader of the pack, and Sam had scrambled the last yards to the borrowed truck, ignoring the pain in his leg. He turned the key in the ignition as Jones revved the engine in the other pickup. Just before the pack reached the cars, they each flipped a switch.
The argon flames flared high into the night, and Sam shielded his eyes. The flares burned bright as suns for several seconds, then went out.
The creatures froze, solid as stone.
Dean had pulled up as Jones was smashing the stone-like creatures to pieces with a crowbar, dancing under the stars and swinging a bottle of moonshine. They spoke for a minute, then Dean nodded curtly and turned toward Sam.
Sam rested his forehead against the steering wheel and tried to catch his breath. His leg was throbbing, every muscle felt hotwired to his right knee, every movement sent electric shocks through the wound, and he dreaded seeing the look on his brother's face.
The trip back to the motel was a blur. Dean drove the Impala; the borrowed truck was left in the field, beside a pile of rubble and dust.
Dean came out of the bathroom and rummaged through his suitcase for fresh clothes.
"How was your trip?" Sam asked. "Find what you were looking for?"
Dean found a shirt and pulled it over his head. He ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath. His brow was furrowed and he looked hard at Sam. "Damn near ten of them were out there, you know," he finally said.
Ten? Sam shook his head.
"You used argon?"
Sam nodded mutely.
"You lured ten chupacabras out of a field, in the middle of the night, with a crazy drunk for backup and a weapon you had no idea would work?"
Maybe not such a good idea, after all.
Dean whistled low. "Damn, kid. You've got balls."
Sam grinned at his reflection, stretched, and turned to face Dean. "So how 'bout breakfast?" he said. "I'm starving."
Dean raised an eyebrow then glanced at the mirror. "Seen yourself recently?"
"Right. Wash up first." He limped over to the bathroom peeling off his shirt, and shivered as the fresh morning air hit the skin of his back. "And Dean?" he said before closing the door. "Thanks."
Author:
krisomniacFandom: Supernatural
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Sam and Dean are not mine, never have been, never will be, but I do like to borrow them from time to time.
Author's Note: A thousand thanks to
ignipes for the beta and reassurances, and even for getting me hooked on a shiny new fandom. It's unbelievable fun to play with the boys. Summary: The Winchester brothers pick up the pieces after one of Sam's more questionably brilliant plans.
"Ouch."
"Stop moving."
"Stop poking me--ow!" Sam resisted the urge to squirm and stared resolutely at the gently alternating waves on the motel wallpaper, wondering what interior designer thought it was a good idea to color a room in shades of puce. The early morning light angled through the large front window. He clenched his jaw and tried not to make a sound as Dean placed another stitch in his leg.
"I wasn't the one who let that dog use my femur as a chew toy," Dean said. He wasn't smiling.
Sam didn't laugh. He could still smell the foul slaver and the rank, earthy scent of the dog-like creatures, still hear their squealing shrieks close in as he ran towards the truck, his lungs bursting and heart pounding. Stupid rock. His hands were scraped from the pebbly ground that had come rushing to meet him when he tripped in the dark. His ears rang with the sound of a rifle shot in the night.
"I thought it was a good idea," he said. "It nearly went off without a hitch."
He didn't need Dean to tell him that nearly wasn't good enough.
Dean frowned. "You're lucky that Jones is a good shot."
Jones also believed that tequila was one of the four food groups, Sam reflected, and was the only other person in town who recognized the creatures that left a trail of dead livestock and house pets in their wake.
Dean dropped another stitch across the gaping, bloody bite. "You should've waited until I got back."
"I didn't know how long you'd be gone," Sam said, or where you went. "I called, but you didn't get reception." He grunted as Dean drew the skin together. "It was a good idea," he insisted.
The trap was foolproof but, as it turned out, not Jones-proof. The chupacabras were on time; the crazy hermit with the childlike face was late.
Dean shrugged but didn't look up.
Sam knew that Dean had dealt with these monsters before, that he'd hunted a similar pack when he was eighteen and killed them all, and he knew that trusting the town drunk was one of the more boneheaded ideas Sam had ever had. But Dean said nothing more, just focused on the nasty bite along Sam's leg.
Sam didn't know where his brother had learned to stitch people back together and did know better than to ask. But Dean was neat and quick and silent, and Sam supposed it could have been worse.
Outside, cars came and went, people leaving on their morning business, not knowing or caring that they would be a little safer tonight. Sam twined his fingers in the bed sheet and counted the seconds passing by. The couple in the room next door was watching The Today Show. Muted laughter filtered through the walls. The note Sam had written hours ago was still sitting on the nightstand.
Dean, I found them. If you get this, meet Jones and me out past the old Thompson place. I've got it all worked out. Sam.
Dean held the desk lamp over Sam's knee, surveying his work. He dabbed at it with a warm, damp washcloth. The sharp, stabbing pain had finally faded to a dull ache.
Next, he pulled a dark cream from his battered first-aid kit. Sam knew there were things in there that you could only get with a fake medical license or a real M.D., things stolen from various hospitals and walk-in clinics, as well as things that no traditional doctor had ever heard of.
"That's gonna leave a scar," Dean said.
Sam shrugged. "You should see the other guy."
The cream burned for a moment and Sam hissed with the sudden pain, then the area went blessedly numb. Dean placed a soft, gauzy wrap over the cut and began to put his things away.
Sam closed his eyes. "Look," he said. "I know I screwed up."
In the bathroom, Dean washed his hands, splashed some water on his face and the back of his neck, and dried off with a clean towel.
"Dean?" Sam said. He stood gingerly and limped over to the mirror, his right leg tingling but able to support him. His face was grey and smudged with dirt. His tee shirt and boxers were smattered with blood, and his torn jeans lay in a heap on the floor. He leaned against the bureau and took a deep breath, recalling the events of the night, wondering how they'd gone so wrong.
Dean had been gone for three days. Before he left, he charged Sam with finding the pack of chupacabras he was certain was behind some recent attacks. Sam had found the pack and solicited the help of the hermit.
The argon flares were Sam's idea, based off a few notes in the margins of Dad's journal. Jones had rigged them up and fixed them to the front of a couple of trucks, but when Sam arrived at the farm, Jones was nowhere to be seen. Sighing, he jumped out of the pickup he'd driven and had a look around. He knew the creatures were there, stalking a herd of sheep left out overnight.
He never suspected they would come after him so fast.
Jones' shot had frightened away the leader of the pack, and Sam had scrambled the last yards to the borrowed truck, ignoring the pain in his leg. He turned the key in the ignition as Jones revved the engine in the other pickup. Just before the pack reached the cars, they each flipped a switch.
The argon flames flared high into the night, and Sam shielded his eyes. The flares burned bright as suns for several seconds, then went out.
The creatures froze, solid as stone.
Dean had pulled up as Jones was smashing the stone-like creatures to pieces with a crowbar, dancing under the stars and swinging a bottle of moonshine. They spoke for a minute, then Dean nodded curtly and turned toward Sam.
Sam rested his forehead against the steering wheel and tried to catch his breath. His leg was throbbing, every muscle felt hotwired to his right knee, every movement sent electric shocks through the wound, and he dreaded seeing the look on his brother's face.
The trip back to the motel was a blur. Dean drove the Impala; the borrowed truck was left in the field, beside a pile of rubble and dust.
Dean came out of the bathroom and rummaged through his suitcase for fresh clothes.
"How was your trip?" Sam asked. "Find what you were looking for?"
Dean found a shirt and pulled it over his head. He ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath. His brow was furrowed and he looked hard at Sam. "Damn near ten of them were out there, you know," he finally said.
Ten? Sam shook his head.
"You used argon?"
Sam nodded mutely.
"You lured ten chupacabras out of a field, in the middle of the night, with a crazy drunk for backup and a weapon you had no idea would work?"
Maybe not such a good idea, after all.
Dean whistled low. "Damn, kid. You've got balls."
Sam grinned at his reflection, stretched, and turned to face Dean. "So how 'bout breakfast?" he said. "I'm starving."
Dean raised an eyebrow then glanced at the mirror. "Seen yourself recently?"
"Right. Wash up first." He limped over to the bathroom peeling off his shirt, and shivered as the fresh morning air hit the skin of his back. "And Dean?" he said before closing the door. "Thanks."
