FIC: The Little Things (Gen, G)

It’s been eleven days.

Eleven days since Dad and Dean left. Eight days since Sam got out of school. Seven days since Sam last heard from Dad. Four days since Sam last heard from Dean. Two days since Dean said he would be back.

One day till Christmas.

It’s not like Sam was expecting something big, a tree or caroling or anything, but Dean said he would be home. Sam’s gotten used to the little half-assed Christmases they spend together, always made better by the fact that he's got Dean right beside him.

And Sam feels like a baby for being upset about it, but he was actually looking forward to Christmas this year. He’s had Dean’s gift ready for two weeks, wrapped in newspaper and twine and hidden away under his worn out t-shirts in the very back of the bureau he and Dean are sharing. He feels silly for it now, but he even bought some egg nog and hot chocolate and a tin of Christmas sugar cookies because Dean promised they'd celebrate for real this year.

But Dean isn't here.

And Sam knows he can't really blame Dean for that, he knows that sometimes hunts go longer than expected, and that sometimes Dad and Dean can't get back when they say they will, but it doesn't ever get easier to wait by the phone for a call that's not coming and it's always easy to imagine all the horrible ways Dean could’ve been ripped away from him in the four days since they last spoke.

He's just picturing the worst at this point-- Dean bleeding out in a gutter, Dean knocked out and defenseless in a snowbank, Dean trapped in a ditch with a twisted ankle and no hope of getting out. Dad didn't even have the decency to tell Sam what they were hunting, just came and got Dean from school one day and called Sam from the road.

By this point, Sam’s fucked-up brain has concocted an elaborate scenario in which Dad's unconscious and a black dog is ripping Dean to shreds, and he's so entranced in his horror daydream that he startles when the phone rings.

Sam nearly trips over his feet in his rush to pick up the receiver, and he’s breathless and hopeful when he says, “Hello?”

The line crackles a bit before his father’s gruff voice comes through. “Heya, Sam. We’re about an hour out. I need you to get the first aid stuff and have it ready for when we get back.”

Sam’s heart skips a beat, and there’s an undercurrent of worry in his voice when he answers. “Yessir. Dean-”

“Dean’s a big boy. He’ll be fine, just do what I told you.”

“Can I talk to him?” Sam asks, not the least bit reassured by his father’s affirmations.

“You can talk to him when we get there. I have to go, Sam. Be careful.” The dial tone clicks before Sam even has the chance to respond.

The first aid bag is under the bed, and Sam busies himself putting out their supplies. He lays a blanket over the ratty old couch and brings the pillow off of Dean’s bed. Gauze, peroxide, alcohol, needles, bandages, and antibiotic ointment all go in a neat little row on the coffee table. Sam finds a basin underneath the sink and fills it with soap and hot water, gathering a bunch of towels from their clean laundry.

He’s sterilizing the needles when the door to the apartment bangs open, Dad shouldering through with Dean half-hanging half-limping beside him. Sam springs up, going to Dean’s side in an instant. Dad grunts his thanks as Sam takes some of Dean’s weight, and together the three of them slowly make it to the couch.

Dean drops to the couch with a moan, stretching out as best he can. He swings his right leg up on the couch before gingerly pulling his left leg up beside it. He shifts so he’s lying flat on his back, head elevated by the armrest.

“Dean,” Sam says, and Dean reaches up to clap Sam on the arm, albeit feebly.

“I’m fine, squirt. Or at least I will be after you fix me up. Nothin’ a lil TLC won’t take care of.” Dean goes for what Sam thinks was meant to be a reassuring smile, but comes out as more of a grimace.

Sam turns to their father to ask about the hunt, but John starts speaking before Sam can get a word out. “Gorgons. Nasty goddamn creatures, claws about six inches long and venomous. One got Dean in the leg and we got the hell on out of there. Did a poultice in the car, so the venom’s cleared up, but they did a number on his thigh and he’s lost a lot of blood. I need you to fix him up, Sammy. Can you do that for me?”

Sam nods, “Yessir. What do you need me to help you with?”

John shakes his head and claps him on the shoulder. “This one’s all you, son. There’s a nest of gorgons that still needs to be cleared up, and I gotta meet Caleb in an hour. You’re fifteen, you can handle this one on your own.”

“Like you could’ve handled this hunt on your own?”

John’s face darkens, and his voice is full of thunder when he says, “Now I don’t need no lip from you, boy. I told you to take care of your brother and I expect you to follow orders without talking back.”

Dean’s voice comes weakly from the couch. “Dad-”

“It’s fine, Dean. You’ll be fine. Sam here will fix you up. I’ll be back in three days, you hear?”

There’s a chorus of “Yessir,” Sam’s defiant and Dean’s defeated. John tosses a couple of bills on the end table and fixes Sam with a hard look before he’s gone, door loudly signaling his departure.

Sam turns to Dean and sighs, dropping to sit down on the table in front of him.

“Good to see you too, Sammy,” Dean jokes, but his face falls when Sam just looks at him.

“I hate that Dad uses you the way he does, and you just let him,” Sam complains, and Dean shakes his head.

“We’re not having this argument again, Sam. He’s doing the best he can.”

“Piss-poor job of it, if you ask me,” Sam mutters as he grabs a pair of scissors, and Dean sighs but lets the comment slide.

They’re both quiet as Sam goes to work, cutting away the leg of Dean’s jeans so he has better access to the wound. Dean is breathing harshly, trying to mask the pain, but Sam can tell that it hurts like hell. When he cuts away the bloody bandage, there are three slashes going diagonally across Dean’s lower thigh, the middle one the deepest. Dean’s pale and sweating a little, and Sam fetches him a glass of water and two painkillers before he starts in on tending to the wound.

Sam first removes the butterfly bandages, tossing them in the wastebasket with the bloodied gauze.

“I’m gonna disinfect it now, it’s gonna hurt,” Sam warns, but Dean just chuckles and smirks at him.

“Hit me, little brother. I’m a big boy, I can take it.”

Sam rolls his eyes and grabs a couple of washcloths before pouring a little water over the cuts and carefully cleaning them. Dean hisses in pain, eyes screwed tight as he knocks his head back against the pillow. Sam puts a hand on his upper thigh and he calms a little.

“Shhh, it’s okay Dean, I’m sorry, you’re okay. Just can’t let it get infected. I’m gonna use some alcohol and then stitch you up and you’ll be all good, I promise.”

Dean nods his head a little frantically, practically pants out, “I’m good, Sammy, just-- just get it over with.”

Sam makes quick work of disinfecting Dean’s leg, cleaning up all the dried blood on his thigh and flushing out the wounds with warm water and a little bit of alcohol. He stitches up the three gashes as neatly and efficiently as he can, Dean watching him work with gritted teeth and slitted eyes the whole time.

He ties off the last stitch, grinning at Dean and patting him on his right leg.

“It’s done, man. I just gotta get some antibiotics on it and wrap it up and you’re good to go. Worst part’s over.”

Dean mirrors his smile, sitting up a little to examine Sam’s handiwork.

“You did a pretty good job, kid, thanks. You must’ve had a good teacher,” he jokes, and Sam rolls his eyes and socks him gently in the shoulder. “I’m kidding, man! But really, that’s some neat work. I’m proud of you. Look at you, saving my life and shit. Glad I have you around.” The warmth in his eyes is genuine, and Sam kind of wants to hug the shit out of him.

“Anytime, Dean. I’m gonna clean this shit up and then come back and wrap this. You need anything while I’m up?”

“Could you get me some skin mags?”

“So another glass of water and some tranquilizers, sure, I’ve got you,” Sam says dryly, and Dean cracks up.

He does take the proffered glass of water and painkillers Sam hands him, knocking them back with a gulp and a “Thanks, Sammy.”

Sam goes and puts the wastebasket back in the bathroom, dumping the used cloths with the rest of the garbage and cleaning out the basin he used. The first aid supplies go back in the duffel under the bed, save for the ointment and gauze he puts in his pocket. When he comes back out to the living room, Dean’s asleep, so Sam quietly applies the antibiotic cream over the fresh stitches and wraps Dean’s lower thigh in gauze and fastens the bandage. He carefully unlaces Dean’s boots, pulling them off with his socks and setting them in front of the couch. He grabs another blanket from the hall closet, draping it over his brother before he goes into their room and climbs into bed.

Sam falls asleep thanking his lucky stars that Dean is home for Christmas.

--

When Sam wakes up the next morning, he rummages in the back of his dresser drawer and pulls out his present for Dean.

It’s still pretty early, so Sam gets a pot of coffee going and makes some oatmeal. They usually make pancakes, but Sam’s never done it by himself before and isn’t particularly keen on burning down the apartment for some hotcakes.

When he comes out to the living room, Dean is blinking awake, and he groggily mumbles “mornin’, Sammy,” as Sam hands him a mug and a bowl.

“Morning, Dean. How you feelin’?” Sam asks.

“Like steam-rolled hot garbage. But now that you brought me coffee it’s all good. Thanks, Sammy,” Dean says, mouth up quirking into a smile. There’s a bruise on his cheekbone and his hair’s sticking up all weird from the way he sweat so bad the night before, but looking at him is like staring into the sun. This is all Sam needs.

“Earth to Sammy,” Dean says, waving a hand in front of his face. “I got something on my face or what?”

“Oh,” Sam says. “Nothing, um-- wait.” He reaches under the table and grabs his gift for Dean, thrusting it in his face. “Here. S’for you. I know we didn’t say anything about getting each other presents or anything but we did say we would celebrate so I, yeah um, just open it.”

“Dude,” Dean says. “No way.”

Sam colors. “I didn’t expect you to get me anything, it’s fine, I just wanted to get you something, because you deserve it. You’re so good to me even when I’m being a brat, and you take care of me so I wanted to do something for you for once-”

“Sam! Shut up. God. Go get the fucking Christmas shit you bought, and bring me my duffel, I told you we’d celebrate for real.”

Sam nods, a little confused, but does as Dean says. When he comes back into the room, Dean’s sitting up with his left leg up on the coffee table. Sam hands Dean his bag and opens the tin of Christmas cookies, laying them out on a plate and pouring a glass of egg nog for each of them. Dean's found the remote and has the shitty TV tuned to one of the cable stations, and Charlie Brown complains to Snoopy about the true meaning of Christmas through the tinny speakers.

Dean fishes out his flask and sets it on the coffee table, then fishes out a brown paper bag and hands it to Sam. He grabs one of the cookies and takes a bite, munching obnoxiously as he says, “Did you really think I wouldn’t get you anything?”

Sam shrugs sheepishly, and Dean rolls his eyes.

“Alright, moment of truth. Let’s open these babies.”

Sam takes his gift out of the paper bag as Dean rips the newspaper off of his. The contents of the bag are wrapped in paper, and Sam unwraps the paper to find a leather-bound journal, and copies of Catcher in the Rye and 1984. He looks up at Dean, who hasn’t opened the box yet, awaiting Sam’s reaction. Sam grins at him.

“This is great, Dean. Thank you.”

Dean lets out a relieved laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “I was a little worried you might’ve read them already, the librarian gave me a list of American classics and I thought these looked cool. And the journal, I figured it was time you stopped using Dad’s and had one of your own, that way you can put stuff you find important in it too, not just hunting stuff. Anyway uh, I’m glad you like it.”

“Open yours,” Sam says.

Dean lifts the top off the box, mouth dropping open when he sees what’s inside.

“Sam I-” he says incredulously, lifting the boots out of the box. “I’ve never had new boots before, these are great.” He chuckles, eyes glistening. “Heh, I’d try ‘em on, but we’ll save that for when my legs are in working order, dont’cha think? Man, this is awesome, Dad’s boots aren’t bad but damn, thank you Sammy.”

“Keep looking,” Sam says, smiling wide.

Dean reaches into the box and picks up a stack of tapes with permanent marker written accross the front. He looks up at Sam in awe, and Sam just grins harder.

“I figured since Dad gave you the Impala, it’s time you had your own music. I know you’d been wanting to make some mixtapes, so I thought I’d save you the trouble.”

“This is the best, Sam. Honestly. C’mere,” he says, and Sam goes.

Dean hugs him around the neck, ruffling his hair.

“Guess you’re not as useless as you look, huh?”

“Oh, shut up, Dean,” Sam says, punching him in the shoulder. Dean just laughs, grabs his egg nog and drinks the rest in one swallow. He motions for Sam to pour him some more before he pours a shot of whiskey from his flask into each of their cups.

Dean raises his cup, and Sam mirrors the movement, knocking his cup against Dean’s.

“Cheers, Sammy. Merry Christmas, little brother.”

“Merry Christmas, Dean,” Sam says, and they both drink.

The alcohol makes Sam feel warm, but it’s no comparison to the feeling of having Dean by his side.

It’s the little things.