A Tickle, an Itch, and a Scratch
Summary: Dean's got an issue. Dean tries to fix it. It doesn't go so well.
No spoilers, a wee bit of language.
Warnings: May cause sympathy itching.
A/N: Yeah…I'm sorry. Really. There is no plot here. I have no idea what happened. Blame the voices in my head for this one. I also have apparently over-used parentheses in this fic. Again, it's the voices, I swear.
A/N 2: More apologies and feel free to ignore this note, but my fellow SPN watcher is not caught up enough with the episodes for me to discuss the new ones with her so I instead am ranting on here. I really am enjoying the direction they've taken this season. Heck, I'm a Dean girl (hehe, couldn't you tell?) and I still have been gushing over what's been going on with Sam…it's like the writers finally started reading fanfic and are taking a page out of the authors' book on h/c and angst. Although, I must say, I'm a stickler for having consistency in the show, and the little slip ups they keep having are driving me crazy (Hell, vamp cure, Grand Canyon ref, anyone?). Seriously, they put so much time into the lore and there are hardly any continuity issues, but to completely forget older parts of storylines? Gah, come on people! All you have to do is hire a fan and we'll happily tell you everything we know about any SPN subject to keep consistency. (Hint hint, wink wink!)
On that note, off to the pointlessness. Enjoy, possibly.
Disclaimer: I die a little inside every time I admit this. Not mine, no infringement intended.
The biggest issue with busted ribs? Not being able to lean forward enough or stretch back enough or otherwise contort one's body sufficiently enough to reach one's feet. Or, more specifically, toes.
And as fate should have it, whenever Dean managed to crack or break a few of those stubborn bones, he always seemed to get a neverending, can't just ignore it, you've-got-to-scratch-me-now-or-so-help-you itch on his feet.
Or, more specifically, his big right toe.
It wasn't as though he had typically itchy feet or anything. Most of the time he was fine. Those things were tough, could handle bare terrain with finesse just as easily as they could handle boots or fancy shoes or any other getup they needed to make themselves at home in (a pair of heels one time, don't ask). There was nothing special about his big right toe either; it was just as handsome and perfect as the other nine toes. No particular reason for it to itch.
But without fail, every time he was laid up with a rib injury, that little bugger would itch away, daily and nightly.
And despite all his pleading, threats and bribes, Sammy just flat-out refused to scratch it for him. (Might have something to do with Dean being a bit ticklish and kicking him in the face once. But it had been an accident. Honest.)
And so here they are, Sam sitting with his eyes slowly crossing in aggravation as Dean continues to moan about the horrors of the Almighty Itch coming from his rebellious big right toe.
"Sam…"
"No."
"Hey, I haven't even said anything yet!"
"That's not true. You said Sam. In that voice of yours. I know what you want, and I'm not doing it for you."
"But dude—"
"No. Jeez, man, after all this time, how do you still get a kick out of this?"
"Heh heh, kick."
Sam huffs and goes to stand, leaving Dean sprawled out on the bed, a few sheets tossed over his legs. It's around noon and they're holed up to recuperate after the last hunt. They've got the TV on, some mindless show to occupy their time for a bit.
"I'm gonna grab some food, alright? Anything you want in particular?"
"You're gonna leave your poor injured brother alone? Sammy, I'm hurt."
"You'll survive. What do you want?" Sam rustles around the room, picking up his jacket and the car keys, and glances back at his brother, deep in contemplation.
"I want you to scratch my toe before it mutates into this big evil toe beast and decides to eat you."
Sam rolls his eyes and continues out. "I'll get you some toe-fu." He smiles as he closes the door and hears the distinctive thunk of what was likely Dean's water bottle being tossed at him.
"Bastard." Dean sighs and looks around the room for a moment, snuggling a bit more into the pillows and feeling the dull ache in his ribs abate a bit as he gets more comfortable. He turns up the volume on the TV and tries to get lost in the intricacy of Friends, failing miserably at figuring out who's trying to date who. He switches over to find reruns of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and snorts at the sight of it.
He flips to TMNT—the old ones, none of that B-run new stuff—and settles in, cozied up, mildly drugged up, and ready to relax.
But the damn itch won't stop. It's like a friggen evil mastermind, determined to ruin his day. It feels like it's gotten worse, more insistent as it twinges away, waiting to be satisfied with a scratch. But he can't reach the damn thing, not without bending over, and from personal experience bending over with three ribs out of whack tends to not end so well. He glares angrily at the rogue body part.
"Well fine then. Bring it on, Itchy. I'll kick your ass Dean Winchester style."
Rubbing one foot against the other doesn't work, he already knows that. The itch needs something more callous than his own feet. He'd settle for rubbing it on a cactus—hey, they had one of those in a motel room once—but sadly there are none in sight. He needs to come up with an alternate plan.
He's able to slide down far enough on the bed to get his feet out from under the sheets and rest them over the baseboard. It's too smooth though, and the itch is currently situated on the top of his toe, so that's no good.
He glances at the remote in his hand. It's smooth, but the buttons might do the trick. He eases his way back up the bed, and carefully tosses the remote down by his feet. The left one makes an easy grab for it, and he fleetingly thinks how good he'd be at picking things up with his feet and wonders if he could write with his toes. Back to business, he carefully situates the remote between the toes of his left foot and lifts it to rub over his right.
And the damn itch moves. Shifts, just like that, from the top of his toe to the side, right next to his second toe. He huffs in frustration and tries to situate the remote to adjust to the change in itch location, but just like that his magnificent toe maneuvering skills fail him and it falls to the floor, clattering in such a way that Dean just knows it's got to be in a few pieces now.
Even worse, the damn thing managed to switch the channel as it hit the ground. Currently the TV is playing greatest hits of the nineties, and Dean groans as Celine Dion lights up the screen.
"You gotta be kidding me." Dean shifts to see if it's possible to salvage the remote, knowing that if he can't he's going to have to try that whole standing up thing. He wonders if he can wait it out until Sam gets back, but the itch is still there, egging him on and he just has to do something about it before he goes crazy.
His eyes drift over to the small table next to the bed. The table has a little plant and a large lamp on it. He wonders…
It only takes him a few seconds to rearrange himself on the bed so the bedstand is easily in reach of his feet. He goes for the plant first, thinking fondly of cacti, but he's too eager and pushes it just a little too much to the edge of the table and with a loud crash it joins the remote on the floor.
Dean groans again, realizing he's making a mess over this little thing. Except it's not a little thing, his friggen toe feels like it's putting up neon signs saying "scratch me" and it's become all he can think about. Screw demon hunting and all that, he's got a more important job to do and it's vanquishing the little devil on his toe. He swears he would see it if he looked down, a little thing frolicking on his foot.
He takes a moment to weigh his options, trying to figure out if it would be better to attempt to clean up the mess on the floor or continue to find a remedy to his current awful, life-threatening, insanity-inducing ailment.
No contest. Sammy can clean the dirt off the carpet later.
Dean looks over at the lamp and decides not to risk it, not after the plant. They can clean up a little plant but shattered bulbs tend to mean higher charges on the room. (Not like they pay for it anyway…shhh, don't tell).
He needs something he can wrap his hands around, something long enough to go from his hand to his foot with just a little bit of bending on his part.
There has to be something in the room. Shotgun? Yeah, that might be long enough. As long as it's not loaded, he'd rather not lose his toes no matter how annoying they may be.
Dean shuffles down a bit more on the bed to avoid the table and angles his body again so that his right side is on the edge. Okay, standing up, that might be doable. Particularly while on painkillers. He takes a deep breath and decides to bite the bullet all at once, standing up with one quick movement.
Except he forgot something. There are sheets on his legs. Sheets that have evidently become tangled in the process of shifting around on the bed to get to various objects for toe scratching. Sheets that have cocooned him and do not like sudden movements. He perches precariously on his feet for a moment, trying to regain his balance, but sure to Winchester luck there's got to be an imaginary breeze in the room that decides to knock him over and down like a sack of potatoes he goes. The crash of the lamp tangled in a handful of bedsheet follows shortly after.
Luckily for Dean, their motel has a shag carpet and there's enough covers underneath him to cushion his fall and make it much less painful than it could have been. His world still whites out for a second as the shockwaves of falling spread from his ass to his ribs, but the ache in his chest is quickly overrun by the goddamn ever-present itch.
Tubthumping by Chumbawamba is playing on the TV. Dean thinks of the irony of that song and wonders if it's acceptable to shoot the TV with the shotgun after he uses it to scratch his foot.
You know, once he can stand up again.
Sam heads into the room, lunch and pie in hand and ready for the next onslaught of complaints. He is instead greeted with the lovely sight of his older brother spread-eagled on his ass on the floor between the beds, remains of a lamp, the TV remote, and the motel room plant scattered around him. Mariah Carey sings on in the background.
"Sammy? 'Zat you? It still itches."
End.