Supernatural fic: Practice (PG-13, gen)
Thursday, 3 August 2006 00:20![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
krisomniacTitle: Practice
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
krisomniac
Rating, Warning, Pairing: PG-13 for rope and innuendo, gen
Disclaimer: Not mine. No profit. All fun.
Author's Note: In answer to this very serious discussion and challenge to write a story in which: Sam gets tied up -- RIGHT? -- and can't escape, because he's somehow lost his mad Houdini skillz while he was away at college, and Dean has to rescue him -- of course -- and then Dean decides that Sam needs to be re-taught all of those escaping skills and they, erm, practice.
Wordcount: ~1000
Practice
It is an unwritten rule of the universe that the moment a person is bound, wrists, ankles, and chest to a large tree in the middle of nowhere, his nose will inevitably begin to itch.
Sam scrunches his face around in an effort to relieve it. Then he wiggles his shoulders once more to try and loosen the ropes. He forgot how much hemp could chafe.
Dean had said he was just going to take a piss.
That was over three hours ago.
~
"Dean, over here!"
"Where?"
"Here."
"Oh. Sorry, I thought you were some other little bitch who'd forgotten how to slip out of a simple straight-jacket tie. Not Sam, Sammy, Master of Escapology."
"Bite me. There's no such thing. ... No, I was kidding. No biting. Just get the ropes."
"What's the magic word?"
"Bite-- Please."
~
Dean handcuffs him to a bedpost in Tulsa.
In El Dorado Springs, it's duct tape and a rickety wooden chair.
Sam groans. The bark digs into his back, and the ropes feel no more ready to give than they were an hour ago. The sun sinks down to the horizon, and long shadows stretch across the field. There's a balmy breeze under a clear sky. In the distance, he can hear someone singing and closer by, the soothing sound of insects in the grass. It would be a perfect day in Tennessee--
If only he wasn't hog-tied to an ancient oak.
One lousy slip, he gets caught by one pissed-off warlock, and it's like they're kids again; Dean never misses a chance to test him, try him against every restraint in their extensive collection. Sam claws at the loops of knot he can reach and shakes his head, he's tired of staying on his toes, tired of watching his back, always training for the hunt.
But reminding Dean over breakfast about a certain night in a certain orchard only seems to have made things worse.
~
"Come on, you telling me you can't pop a little pawl?"
"I'm telling you I can't do anything when there's nothing to work wi--"
"What, college make go you all soft?"
"You've got to admit the thumbcuffs were excessive."
"I think they're kind of cute."
"Where'd you even find these things? They've gotta be ancient--"
"If I were you, I'd worry more about getting them open."
"--rusted and I think the mechanism's--"
"Outside Augusta, I think, disagreement with a state trooper over some questionable items in the back seat."
"--cracking. Guns?"
"Hens."
"Bait?"
"Yeah."
"Got it."
"Not bad, little bro."
~
There. It's the slightest give in the outer braid, but to Sam's numbing fingertips it's like a light in a dark, ropey tunnel. He slips his pinky into the loop and works it back and forth a few times.
An ant crawls over his left knee.
Finally his hands slip free, and he rubs them vigorously until the pins and needles begin to fade. In another few minutes, he's untied the knots from his ankles and chest, and is standing, leaning against the tree for support, massaging the stiffness from his shoulders.
He grins and feels like whooping, running down the hill and waving the stupid cords in Dean's stupid, smug face. He feels like friggin' Houdini; this'll give Dean his escapology. But when he gets to the car, there's no one there.
The windows are down, and a fly buzzes around a half-eaten sandwich on the dash. Sam drops the rope he's been carrying and checks the glove compartment; Dean's handgun is gone, but his cell phone is still there.
Sam's heart is suddenly pounding. It was only an exercise--Shit--just a test. He swallows, mouth suddenly dry. Scanning up and down the old dirt road, he sees nothing. Then strange marks in the soil catch his eye. There are prints from a scuffle, an area of flattened earth, and a dark red stain, just visible in the fading light.
It takes him less than thirty panicked seconds to jump the car. The engine springs to life with a familiar purr, and he lays his foot on the gas, going as fast as he dares without losing the trail.
It leads him down one road, then another, towards the outskirts of town, then disappears into a ditch by the side of the road. Sam leaps out of the car and looks around, the ache in his legs and ribs long forgotten. There's nothing but overgrown vegetation, thick kudzu vines down the steep sides of a local gorge.
"Dean!" he shouts, but there's no response.
Instinct tells him that he'll have to go down, but their motel isn't far and he goes to get his climbing gear first.
~
"This is ridiculous."
"It's not."
"Nothing we hunt is ever going to use silk scarves."
"How do you know?"
"For one thing; ghosts and demons just aren't that classy."
"Yeah well--"
"You're enjoying this."
"Little bit."
"Bitch."
~
He sees Dean at the same moment he's bringing the Impala to a screeching halt outside room number twelve.
"Dean, what the--"
Dean half-smiles, but there's no humor in the look, only the smear of dirt and blood across his brow. He's walking slowly, one arm wrapped protectively around his ribs, under his shirt. He stumbles and catches himself against the wall.
Sam's there in an instant, though Dean tries to shrug him away. "Are you-- What did--?"
"Dude, 'm fine," he says, but his voice is hoarse and distant. "Get the door."
When they're both inside the cool darkness of the room, Dean leans back against the door and takes a deep breath. It smells of industrial detergent and a week's worth of dirty laundry stuffed into duffels, but for tonight, it's home. Sam sits on the bed, suddenly weak and feeling as shaken as Dean looks. He knows better than to ask, though, what happened. He'll get the story in time, and pressing won't make Dean talk any sooner.
Instead, he flexes his fingers and stares at the numbers on alarm clock. A minute later, he can't even recall what time it is. He's exhausted and worried and relieved, and so furious that while whatever happened was happening he was tied up for freaking training...he would hit Dean himself if he thought for an instant Dean could handle the punch.
"Siren," Dean finally says. "She caught up to me down by the car."
"Oh." He runs quickly in his head over all the things he knows about sirens and what they do to their victims. "But why didn't she-- How did you--?"
Dean smiles weakly. It's a real smile this time, that crinkles the skin and caked-on dirt around his eyes. He lifts the arm that's been hidden inside his shirt. "Important lessons, Sammy." The smile broadens. "And now we've got another pair to practice with."
Sam can't hide his grin.
Dangling from Dean's extended wrist, is a set of very pink and very fuzzy, handcuffs.
---
And now I've got to pack. Off to Baton Rouge until late Sunday. I should have internet at teh conference, but it'll likely be spotty. Email if you need anything!
Author:
krisomniacRating, Warning, Pairing: PG-13 for rope and innuendo, gen
Disclaimer: Not mine. No profit. All fun.
Author's Note: In answer to this very serious discussion and challenge to write a story in which: Sam gets tied up -- RIGHT? -- and can't escape, because he's somehow lost his mad Houdini skillz while he was away at college, and Dean has to rescue him -- of course -- and then Dean decides that Sam needs to be re-taught all of those escaping skills and they, erm, practice.
Wordcount: ~1000
It is an unwritten rule of the universe that the moment a person is bound, wrists, ankles, and chest to a large tree in the middle of nowhere, his nose will inevitably begin to itch.
Sam scrunches his face around in an effort to relieve it. Then he wiggles his shoulders once more to try and loosen the ropes. He forgot how much hemp could chafe.
Dean had said he was just going to take a piss.
That was over three hours ago.
~
"Dean, over here!"
"Where?"
"Here."
"Oh. Sorry, I thought you were some other little bitch who'd forgotten how to slip out of a simple straight-jacket tie. Not Sam, Sammy, Master of Escapology."
"Bite me. There's no such thing. ... No, I was kidding. No biting. Just get the ropes."
"What's the magic word?"
"Bite-- Please."
~
Dean handcuffs him to a bedpost in Tulsa.
In El Dorado Springs, it's duct tape and a rickety wooden chair.
Sam groans. The bark digs into his back, and the ropes feel no more ready to give than they were an hour ago. The sun sinks down to the horizon, and long shadows stretch across the field. There's a balmy breeze under a clear sky. In the distance, he can hear someone singing and closer by, the soothing sound of insects in the grass. It would be a perfect day in Tennessee--
If only he wasn't hog-tied to an ancient oak.
One lousy slip, he gets caught by one pissed-off warlock, and it's like they're kids again; Dean never misses a chance to test him, try him against every restraint in their extensive collection. Sam claws at the loops of knot he can reach and shakes his head, he's tired of staying on his toes, tired of watching his back, always training for the hunt.
But reminding Dean over breakfast about a certain night in a certain orchard only seems to have made things worse.
~
"Come on, you telling me you can't pop a little pawl?"
"I'm telling you I can't do anything when there's nothing to work wi--"
"What, college make go you all soft?"
"You've got to admit the thumbcuffs were excessive."
"I think they're kind of cute."
"Where'd you even find these things? They've gotta be ancient--"
"If I were you, I'd worry more about getting them open."
"--rusted and I think the mechanism's--"
"Outside Augusta, I think, disagreement with a state trooper over some questionable items in the back seat."
"--cracking. Guns?"
"Hens."
"Bait?"
"Yeah."
"Got it."
"Not bad, little bro."
~
There. It's the slightest give in the outer braid, but to Sam's numbing fingertips it's like a light in a dark, ropey tunnel. He slips his pinky into the loop and works it back and forth a few times.
An ant crawls over his left knee.
Finally his hands slip free, and he rubs them vigorously until the pins and needles begin to fade. In another few minutes, he's untied the knots from his ankles and chest, and is standing, leaning against the tree for support, massaging the stiffness from his shoulders.
He grins and feels like whooping, running down the hill and waving the stupid cords in Dean's stupid, smug face. He feels like friggin' Houdini; this'll give Dean his escapology. But when he gets to the car, there's no one there.
The windows are down, and a fly buzzes around a half-eaten sandwich on the dash. Sam drops the rope he's been carrying and checks the glove compartment; Dean's handgun is gone, but his cell phone is still there.
Sam's heart is suddenly pounding. It was only an exercise--Shit--just a test. He swallows, mouth suddenly dry. Scanning up and down the old dirt road, he sees nothing. Then strange marks in the soil catch his eye. There are prints from a scuffle, an area of flattened earth, and a dark red stain, just visible in the fading light.
It takes him less than thirty panicked seconds to jump the car. The engine springs to life with a familiar purr, and he lays his foot on the gas, going as fast as he dares without losing the trail.
It leads him down one road, then another, towards the outskirts of town, then disappears into a ditch by the side of the road. Sam leaps out of the car and looks around, the ache in his legs and ribs long forgotten. There's nothing but overgrown vegetation, thick kudzu vines down the steep sides of a local gorge.
"Dean!" he shouts, but there's no response.
Instinct tells him that he'll have to go down, but their motel isn't far and he goes to get his climbing gear first.
~
"This is ridiculous."
"It's not."
"Nothing we hunt is ever going to use silk scarves."
"How do you know?"
"For one thing; ghosts and demons just aren't that classy."
"Yeah well--"
"You're enjoying this."
"Little bit."
"Bitch."
~
He sees Dean at the same moment he's bringing the Impala to a screeching halt outside room number twelve.
"Dean, what the--"
Dean half-smiles, but there's no humor in the look, only the smear of dirt and blood across his brow. He's walking slowly, one arm wrapped protectively around his ribs, under his shirt. He stumbles and catches himself against the wall.
Sam's there in an instant, though Dean tries to shrug him away. "Are you-- What did--?"
"Dude, 'm fine," he says, but his voice is hoarse and distant. "Get the door."
When they're both inside the cool darkness of the room, Dean leans back against the door and takes a deep breath. It smells of industrial detergent and a week's worth of dirty laundry stuffed into duffels, but for tonight, it's home. Sam sits on the bed, suddenly weak and feeling as shaken as Dean looks. He knows better than to ask, though, what happened. He'll get the story in time, and pressing won't make Dean talk any sooner.
Instead, he flexes his fingers and stares at the numbers on alarm clock. A minute later, he can't even recall what time it is. He's exhausted and worried and relieved, and so furious that while whatever happened was happening he was tied up for freaking training...he would hit Dean himself if he thought for an instant Dean could handle the punch.
"Siren," Dean finally says. "She caught up to me down by the car."
"Oh." He runs quickly in his head over all the things he knows about sirens and what they do to their victims. "But why didn't she-- How did you--?"
Dean smiles weakly. It's a real smile this time, that crinkles the skin and caked-on dirt around his eyes. He lifts the arm that's been hidden inside his shirt. "Important lessons, Sammy." The smile broadens. "And now we've got another pair to practice with."
Sam can't hide his grin.
Dangling from Dean's extended wrist, is a set of very pink and very fuzzy, handcuffs.
---
And now I've got to pack. Off to Baton Rouge until late Sunday. I should have internet at teh conference, but it'll likely be spotty. Email if you need anything!
