On the seventh day of Christmas, Supernatural gave me
Seven Packs of Band-aids
Six stripping dancers
Five random ghosts
Four fake credit cards
Three yellow-eyed demons
Two sexy brothers
And the keys to an Impala
"Deeeean..." Dean looked up to see Sammy pouting his six-year-old lips at him. "I cut my finger."
"Let me see." Dean leaned over, and the finger was held up for inspection. "It's just a little cut, Sammy. Run it under the cold tap for a minute or so, and it'll get better."
"But it huuurts." Sammy added the puppy eyes, tears trickling out of the sides, for emphasis. Dean was nine, practically grown-up, he wasn't understanding.
"So what do you want me to do about it?"
"It needs a kiss. And a band-aid."
Dean's eyes rolled at that. "That's mother's kisses, Sammy. And besides, that's too small for a band-aid."
"But Deeeeean..." The extra whine did it; Dean took the finger gently and brought it to his lips. The tears dried up immediately. "Band-aid?"
"Yeah, sure." Might as well go all the way, silly six-year-old beliefs. Dean pulled the first-aid box out of the bathroom and dragged it back into the main room of their motel-of-the-week, opened it and looked dubiously at the box of band-aids that was older than he was. Shrugging, he took one out and smoothed it over the finger. "There you go."
"Thank-you!" Sammy's arms were flung around his neck as if he was perfectly better. But then, as Sammy knew, that was the magic of kisses and band-aids.
