Title: Finger Talk
Challenge: 15 minute challenge at spn_het_love
Characters: Dean, Sam, OFC
Summary: A fevered mind perceives the world differently and Dean never realised before just how much hands had to say.
Dean had been the one to teach her how to shoot. Up until then she’d been happy to rely on knives and daggers as she had done since she was old enough to hold them without stabbing herself. She’d actually not been that keen on the idea of moving on to guns at first but after Dean reasoning over and over again that it was better to kill the thing trying to hurt her before it got within striking range, she finally relented. He’d taken her into Bobby’s back yard with a selection of firearms from the Impala’s trunk and a few dozen empty beer bottles.
The shotgun he’d soon discovered wasn’t ideal. The kick back from it always knocked her momentarily no matter how well she braced herself and it took her too long to get the next shot off. So he’d moved on to the handgun instead, an old military issue Colt that may or may not have once been his dad’s. He couldn’t be sure but he was happy to let her have it either way. Dad wouldn’t have held any sentimentality about it.
She wasn’t a natural shooter but she worked on it. Damn girl always was stubborn and she hated to be beaten by anything. It was probably a bit of an ego thing he’d suggested with a grin which she pointed out was highly dangerous when she was armed. She was never going to be as good a shot as him or Sam but she hadn’t grown up with it so he didn’t expect her to be.
And as it turned out though, she had enough skill to save his life. Or at least his leg.
The salamander nest was supposed to be just an inconvenience. They were helping out a friend of Bobby’s as a favour, the guy fed up of the fire loving lizards making home in his out building which was secretly being used a weapon smith. He obviously didn’t want to draw any more attention to the place than necessary and so he’d called Bobby for help and since they were in the area Bobby had called them.
Most of the lizards were normal sized, up to a foot long and easily dealt with. One son of a bitch must have been eating his Weeties though because when it threw itself at Dean, ambushing him from the shadows, it was the size of a large dog and big enough to knock him to his ass.
He cried out in pain, automatically squeezing his eyes shut as it locked agonisingly on to his leg, biting down hard. For a moment he thought the bone was going to snap.
And then a shot rang out and he forced his eyes open, expecting to see Sam but finding Izzy instead, looking rather shocked at the lizard twitching on the floor as it breathed his last. Dean guessed that you always remembered the first time you killed a living creature no matter what it was.
Sam had come running, looking hurriedly around, scanning for danger as he entered the room. He was worried as they took a limping Dean back to the car. Salamander saliva was meant to be poisonous. But Dean felt fine and he had protested long and determinedly, until they’d agreed to forgo the hospital visit just to stop his bitching.
It was three am when he’d hauled himself into the bathroom and violently threw up, sweat pouring from his body, feeling like he was burning from the inside out. He’d tried to call out to them, too shaky to get off the floor, but his throat was raw and he could barely make a sound.
Thank god Sam was a light sleeper.
Dean’s fevered brain remembered little of the drive to the hospital. He remembered their worried voices, remembered grumbling about the fact that they were hauling him to the car instead of letting him collapse in bed where he wanted to be. He remembered hearing the squeal of tires and thinking he was going to kick Sam’s ass as he lay, head in Izzy’s lap, looking up at the roof above the Impala’s back seat.
Her mouth mumbled words of comfort but he couldn’t make out a single one and so he just concentrated on the soothing tone of her voice.
Now, as he lay in a hospital bed, pumped full of a cocktail of drugs that would put Keith Richards to shame, he realised that his senses were finally returning to something like normality and his brain could function once more.
The hand on his right arm was Izzy’s; small, cool and soft. ‘Cold hands, warm heart’ his mother always used to say when he complained about her own chilled fingers as she’d helped him dress for bed. Izzy just said that it was poor circulation.
Sam’s hands, like the one currently on his left arm, were the complete opposite; large, warm and calloused. They hadn’t always been like that. Dean remembered gripping his brother’s hand as he taught him how to cross the street when he was four and had scared the crap out of Dean by nearly running out in front of a car. The hand in his was so small back then and despite growing so much larger over the years, Dean could never shake that idea of ‘little Sammy’ entirely from his head. His little brother may be bigger than him but not in Dean’s mind’s eye.
He heard Sam and Izzy talking lightly. They sounded relaxed and relieved and so he guessed that he was going to be okay.
He drifted back to sleep with the two things he needed most beside him.
Izzy’s touch - loving and comforting, telling him she would always be there to care about him.
Sam’s touch - strength and reassurance, telling him that whatever happened they’d get through it together.
He wanted to reach his hands out for them too but his tired limbs wouldn’t cooperate.
Not that it mattered really. They already knew how he felt.
More fics in this series can be found here.