Fic: Mister Fix-it
Sep. 2nd, 2009 05:26 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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spn_summergenTitle: Mister Fix-it
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fonapola
Recipient:chemm80
Rating: PG
Warnings: Um, reference to the Village People?
Summary: Side jobs, and their uses in the hunting world.
“This is a pipe.” The guy held up the curved piece of plastic and spoke with an authority well above his pay grade. “Any questions?”
Dean closed his eyes, reminding himself it was worth it. For Sammy. The moronic plumber and his training skills were worth it for the dopey grin his brother was going to have when Dean bought him a new pair of soccer cleats.
“The pipe is where the water runs.”
Dean sighed.
::
There’s a bottom half of a body sticking out from beneath the sink, when Sam walks back into Mrs. Lemke’s kitchen. His brother’s body. A box of tools is situated at Dean’s hip and his hand sneaks out, grabs a wrench then ducks back under the sink.
“Uh Dean, what are you doing?” Sam asks, squatting down beside his brother’s long frame.
Dean grunts, but stays put. “Baking a cake,” he says, his voice muffled by the cupboard currently surrounding his head and shoulders.
Sam sighs and nudges him in the thigh. “You’re fixing her sink?” Mrs. Lemke is due home in another five minutes, and they are planning on heading out as soon as she steps through the door. Her small ghost problem has been dealt with, and they have other cases to see to.
“It was leaking,” he responds as if the answer is obvious. “I hate leaky sinks.”
“Since when?” Sam asks, and remembers a lifetime of leaky sinks and rusty pipes, but doesn’t remember his brother ever fixing them. He remembers his brother cursing them and plotting their demise should they refuse to stop interrupting his sleep, but never fixing.
Dean ignores him, grunting again, and Sam hears the squeak of something moving that hadn’t planned to and imagines the pipe breaking, spraying his brother’s face with water. He scoots back, just incase. “There,” his brother says, sliding out of his small cave with a satisfied smile. “No more leakage.”
Sam cocks an eyebrow at leakage. “You just felt like being charitable?” he presses, still not entirely convinced his brother isn’t a little off, because saving women’s homes from a haunting is normal, but fixing their pipes isn’t. Well, normal for them, at least.
“It was broken. I knew how to fix it. So, I fixed it.” He’s finished packing up the tools and is halfway to the door, before Sam gets it, and he feels guilty again, just like he did two weeks ago when Dean had looked at him with sad, angry eyes and said some guy is dead now because of me, and Sam hadn’t been able to argue.
He wants to apologize again and tell Dean it’s not his fault Layla wasn’t saved. But he doesn’t, because that won’t help his brother. Dean copes by doing. Sam’s the talker, the one who needs to work out his problems with words, but his brother just needs a job, anything to get his mind off his problems. Apologies and reassurances won’t change Dean’s mind.
“So, does this mean you’ll take a look at the motel shower?” Sam asks, reaching his side.
Dean looks over at him and smirks. “Nope. You’ll have to take what you get, Princess.”
::
Sam didn’t say anything, just cocked an eyebrow, and Dean decided that was more irritating than any comment he could have made. He hated when his brother silently mocked him.
“Say it,” he insisted, tossing up his hands in defeat. His reflective vest rode up with the movement and he yanked it back down, ignoring his brother’s snickering.
“I was just wondering where the rest of the Village People were.”
Dean reached for his hardhat, imagined his brother ducking out of the way as it was chucked at his face then decided against it. His boss would take it out of his pay if he broke his hat. Instead, he just pulled out a small piece of paper with the words call me scrolled across it and smirked. “Chicks dig macho men, Sammy.”
::
“Go check on your brother,” Bobby orders as soon as Sam steps through the door. There’s something cooking on the stove in front of the older hunter, but Sam doesn’t stop to take an appreciative sniff.
“He still in the library?” he asks, instead, dropping the supplies he’s just bought on a counter.
Bobby nods and returns to his cooking. “Make sure he’s not going to kill himself on that damn ladder.”
Sam makes it into the library just as Dean is climbing down from the ‘damn ladder’. He looks up and smiles at his brother’s handy work. The crack that had once run across the ceiling (courtesy of Meg) is now patched up, as good as new. “Nice work, dude.”
Dean rubs his shoulder carefully, nodding in appreciation. “Thanks. Now Da Vinci, you get to paint the devil’s trap back on.” He grabs a bucket of paint from a nearby table and holds it out expectantly.
“It’s Michelangelo.”
“What?”
“You mean Michelangelo, not Da Vinci,” Sam corrects, taking the paint and starting up the ladder.
Dean shakes his head. “No, I meant Da Vinci, ‘cause I’m going to cut your ear off if you don’t get to work.”
Sam snorts. “Van Gough.”
His brother waves a dismissive hand over his head as he walks away. “Just paint, Picasso.”
::
When the curvy blonde answered the door, Dean decided he could definitely get used to being an electrician’s assistant. She blushed under his smile, and he tried to figure out how to fit circuit breaker into a pick-up line.
::
Sam jerks awake when the alarm starts playing a tune he barely recognizes in his half-dazed state. He reaches over to turn it off, deciding he deserves more sleep.
His brother is still a silent lump in the next bed.
The switch clicks into the off position, but the music continues to play. It’s some up-beat country song that makes Sam clench his teeth, because nothing should be up-beat that early in the morning. Deciding he’s turned the switch the wrong way, he sits up a little straighter and moves it back and forth, listening as the song jumps with each click but continues just as strong as before.
Two more tries and he’s ready to throw the thing against a wall. He reaches to yank out the plug, but stops when he realizes something odd: his brother is still a silent lump in the next bed. He blinks at this, taking a minute to process it, and when he does, the faulty alarm clock suddenly makes more sense.
It only confirms his suspicions, when he hears Dean snicker into his pillow.
::
“Aw, Sammy Winchester is taking Home Ec?”
Sam ignored the jeers, marching through the crowd to his fifth period class. It wasn’t the first time he’d dealt with the teasing, and he knew it wouldn’t be the last.
“Sam?” He turned at the girl’s voice and smiled when Carrie Anderson jogged a little to reach him. Her blonde ponytail swayed with her quick steps, and the small crowd of guys who’d just been picking on him backed off, eyes wide. “Going to Home Ec?” she asked.
Sam nodded. “Yep.”
“Good. I’ll walk with you.” She hooked her arm through his, and Sam knew that was the last time he’d hear any teasing from his classmates.
::
“I think that shirt has seen its last day,” his brother observes as Dean peals the tattered material from his body.
He huffs and holds it up for inspection. “It’s not bad,” he reasons, pulling the fabric a little so the tears aren’t as noticeable. “Nothing a little duct tape won’t fix.”
“Duct tape?” Sam repeats, amused. He looks up at him from his spot on his bed and smiles. “Just say your goodbyes, Dean, and throw it away.”
“I liked this shirt,” Dean mutters, knowing he sounds a little pathetic, but also knowing the tone is necessary for the situation.
His brother rolls his eyes and stands up. “You’re such a girl,” he declares, before snagging the shirt from his hands. He tosses it onto his bed and moves to his duffel to grab the small sewing kit, an annoyed frown secure on his face the entire time.
Dean wants to remind him that in most cultures it’s the girls who handle the sewing, but he saves the comment for later. He really does like the shirt, and that kind of comment will guarantee that Sam will use bright pink thread for stitching.
“Thanks Sammy,” he says instead.
Sam waves him off and sits back down on the bed, pulling the shirt onto his lap. “Yeah, yeah. Go fix the car, or something.”
Dean just smiles.
Author:
fonapolaRecipient:
chemm80Rating: PG
Warnings: Um, reference to the Village People?
Summary: Side jobs, and their uses in the hunting world.
“This is a pipe.” The guy held up the curved piece of plastic and spoke with an authority well above his pay grade. “Any questions?”
Dean closed his eyes, reminding himself it was worth it. For Sammy. The moronic plumber and his training skills were worth it for the dopey grin his brother was going to have when Dean bought him a new pair of soccer cleats.
“The pipe is where the water runs.”
Dean sighed.
::
There’s a bottom half of a body sticking out from beneath the sink, when Sam walks back into Mrs. Lemke’s kitchen. His brother’s body. A box of tools is situated at Dean’s hip and his hand sneaks out, grabs a wrench then ducks back under the sink.
“Uh Dean, what are you doing?” Sam asks, squatting down beside his brother’s long frame.
Dean grunts, but stays put. “Baking a cake,” he says, his voice muffled by the cupboard currently surrounding his head and shoulders.
Sam sighs and nudges him in the thigh. “You’re fixing her sink?” Mrs. Lemke is due home in another five minutes, and they are planning on heading out as soon as she steps through the door. Her small ghost problem has been dealt with, and they have other cases to see to.
“It was leaking,” he responds as if the answer is obvious. “I hate leaky sinks.”
“Since when?” Sam asks, and remembers a lifetime of leaky sinks and rusty pipes, but doesn’t remember his brother ever fixing them. He remembers his brother cursing them and plotting their demise should they refuse to stop interrupting his sleep, but never fixing.
Dean ignores him, grunting again, and Sam hears the squeak of something moving that hadn’t planned to and imagines the pipe breaking, spraying his brother’s face with water. He scoots back, just incase. “There,” his brother says, sliding out of his small cave with a satisfied smile. “No more leakage.”
Sam cocks an eyebrow at leakage. “You just felt like being charitable?” he presses, still not entirely convinced his brother isn’t a little off, because saving women’s homes from a haunting is normal, but fixing their pipes isn’t. Well, normal for them, at least.
“It was broken. I knew how to fix it. So, I fixed it.” He’s finished packing up the tools and is halfway to the door, before Sam gets it, and he feels guilty again, just like he did two weeks ago when Dean had looked at him with sad, angry eyes and said some guy is dead now because of me, and Sam hadn’t been able to argue.
He wants to apologize again and tell Dean it’s not his fault Layla wasn’t saved. But he doesn’t, because that won’t help his brother. Dean copes by doing. Sam’s the talker, the one who needs to work out his problems with words, but his brother just needs a job, anything to get his mind off his problems. Apologies and reassurances won’t change Dean’s mind.
“So, does this mean you’ll take a look at the motel shower?” Sam asks, reaching his side.
Dean looks over at him and smirks. “Nope. You’ll have to take what you get, Princess.”
::
Sam didn’t say anything, just cocked an eyebrow, and Dean decided that was more irritating than any comment he could have made. He hated when his brother silently mocked him.
“Say it,” he insisted, tossing up his hands in defeat. His reflective vest rode up with the movement and he yanked it back down, ignoring his brother’s snickering.
“I was just wondering where the rest of the Village People were.”
Dean reached for his hardhat, imagined his brother ducking out of the way as it was chucked at his face then decided against it. His boss would take it out of his pay if he broke his hat. Instead, he just pulled out a small piece of paper with the words call me scrolled across it and smirked. “Chicks dig macho men, Sammy.”
::
“Go check on your brother,” Bobby orders as soon as Sam steps through the door. There’s something cooking on the stove in front of the older hunter, but Sam doesn’t stop to take an appreciative sniff.
“He still in the library?” he asks, instead, dropping the supplies he’s just bought on a counter.
Bobby nods and returns to his cooking. “Make sure he’s not going to kill himself on that damn ladder.”
Sam makes it into the library just as Dean is climbing down from the ‘damn ladder’. He looks up and smiles at his brother’s handy work. The crack that had once run across the ceiling (courtesy of Meg) is now patched up, as good as new. “Nice work, dude.”
Dean rubs his shoulder carefully, nodding in appreciation. “Thanks. Now Da Vinci, you get to paint the devil’s trap back on.” He grabs a bucket of paint from a nearby table and holds it out expectantly.
“It’s Michelangelo.”
“What?”
“You mean Michelangelo, not Da Vinci,” Sam corrects, taking the paint and starting up the ladder.
Dean shakes his head. “No, I meant Da Vinci, ‘cause I’m going to cut your ear off if you don’t get to work.”
Sam snorts. “Van Gough.”
His brother waves a dismissive hand over his head as he walks away. “Just paint, Picasso.”
::
When the curvy blonde answered the door, Dean decided he could definitely get used to being an electrician’s assistant. She blushed under his smile, and he tried to figure out how to fit circuit breaker into a pick-up line.
::
Sam jerks awake when the alarm starts playing a tune he barely recognizes in his half-dazed state. He reaches over to turn it off, deciding he deserves more sleep.
His brother is still a silent lump in the next bed.
The switch clicks into the off position, but the music continues to play. It’s some up-beat country song that makes Sam clench his teeth, because nothing should be up-beat that early in the morning. Deciding he’s turned the switch the wrong way, he sits up a little straighter and moves it back and forth, listening as the song jumps with each click but continues just as strong as before.
Two more tries and he’s ready to throw the thing against a wall. He reaches to yank out the plug, but stops when he realizes something odd: his brother is still a silent lump in the next bed. He blinks at this, taking a minute to process it, and when he does, the faulty alarm clock suddenly makes more sense.
It only confirms his suspicions, when he hears Dean snicker into his pillow.
::
“Aw, Sammy Winchester is taking Home Ec?”
Sam ignored the jeers, marching through the crowd to his fifth period class. It wasn’t the first time he’d dealt with the teasing, and he knew it wouldn’t be the last.
“Sam?” He turned at the girl’s voice and smiled when Carrie Anderson jogged a little to reach him. Her blonde ponytail swayed with her quick steps, and the small crowd of guys who’d just been picking on him backed off, eyes wide. “Going to Home Ec?” she asked.
Sam nodded. “Yep.”
“Good. I’ll walk with you.” She hooked her arm through his, and Sam knew that was the last time he’d hear any teasing from his classmates.
::
“I think that shirt has seen its last day,” his brother observes as Dean peals the tattered material from his body.
He huffs and holds it up for inspection. “It’s not bad,” he reasons, pulling the fabric a little so the tears aren’t as noticeable. “Nothing a little duct tape won’t fix.”
“Duct tape?” Sam repeats, amused. He looks up at him from his spot on his bed and smiles. “Just say your goodbyes, Dean, and throw it away.”
“I liked this shirt,” Dean mutters, knowing he sounds a little pathetic, but also knowing the tone is necessary for the situation.
His brother rolls his eyes and stands up. “You’re such a girl,” he declares, before snagging the shirt from his hands. He tosses it onto his bed and moves to his duffel to grab the small sewing kit, an annoyed frown secure on his face the entire time.
Dean wants to remind him that in most cultures it’s the girls who handle the sewing, but he saves the comment for later. He really does like the shirt, and that kind of comment will guarantee that Sam will use bright pink thread for stitching.
“Thanks Sammy,” he says instead.
Sam waves him off and sits back down on the bed, pulling the shirt onto his lap. “Yeah, yeah. Go fix the car, or something.”
Dean just smiles.
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