A/N: You guys have no idea what it took to get this chapter up. My laptop is on strike yet again, and things may still get ugly.
Hmmm, notes. Okay. If you follow either of my AU's, they both updated late Tuesday. My canon project, "Confession's of a Boy King" now has two chapters, please check it out if you never have because I really love it, but it doesn't seem to get much screen time.
As for "How To Fix A Winchester". This chapter is in response to the prompt I got from Shannanigans, who suggested something with a "drunk/drugged/concussed/confused Sam and awesome big brother Dean", so here you go!
I hope you like my take on it. I obviously made up some leprechaun lore to suit my purposes here, so forgive me. If you'd like to send in a prompt, please do, just keep it something basically cannon. No missing limbs or anything, please. Also, no smut in this story, and no ships. No offense, this project simply isn't meant to be a romance.
Also, the joke Sam makes about the towels is not mine, I based it off a joke I saw on Pinterest. It was something along the lines of "I'd get out of bed, but the blankets have accepted me as one of their own, and if I leave now, I may lose their trust." Just wanted to get that out there, in the interest of full disclosure. Not trying to steal it, just borrow it because it's funny.
I would peg this anytime in season's one or two, no later. Since I wrote it in response to a prompt, I didn't worry about tying it to a specific episode.
Reviews are love!
As Always,
EverReader
Disclaimer: Not my sandbox
How To Fix a Winchester- Chapter Five
"The Unfortunate Thing About Leprechauns"
Sam dodged around the corner, his prey a dull gray blur ahead of him. They didn't usually hunt leprechauns, they were more of a nuisance than a hazard, but for all the things the legends got wrong, they got one thing right.
Leprechauns loved gold.
Real gold, fool's gold, gold foil, gold paint. The small, monkey-ish creatures loved any and all things shiny.
They had startled a nest of the creatures while they they were investigated allegations of an old house haunted by a poltergeist. The poltergeist rumor hadn't panned out, but the leprechauns were certainly real enough. Unfortunately, they had discovered that little fact when one of the sticky fingered bandits had whisked Dean's amulet right off his neck.
Dean had reacted predictably, pulling his gun and threatening to blast it straight back to Ireland, but Sam had appealed to him to at least let Sam try before Dean killed it. Several of the other Leprechauns appeared to be infants, and if Dean killed their mother, they would all die.
Supernatural or not, Leprechauns were mostly harmless, and nearly extinct, after hundreds of years of their nests being destroyed for the valuables within.
Sam finally cornered the wily creature, trapping it beside a towering stack of boxes in the corner of one dim room.
The creature scurried back in forth, like a squirrel or a chipmunk, and Sam readied himself to pounce, reminding himself not to land on the creature and squish it.
Sam lunged, and in the ensuring scuffle, the tower of boxes (thankfully empty)crashed down around them, sending up clouds of dust.
"Sam?" Dean's voice was more irritated than alarmed as he strode through the door, gun still ready in hand.
He wanted his damn amulet back, and he'd shoot the whole damn nest if that was what it took.
Sam was sitting in the center of the scattered boxes, dusty and dirty, holding up Dean's amulet with a grin that could have rivaled any triumphant eight-year old at that moment, and Dean chuckled despite himself.
"Well, at least you won." Dean grumbled good naturedly.
He stepped forward when Sam suddenly wavered a little, starting to list to one side before straightening.
"Uh-oh." Sam said, staring at his wrist, where three small spikes protruded.
"Shit!" Dean cursed, lunging forward as Sam listed again, this time nearly going over, giggling just a little.
"Guess it wasn't the Mama..." Sam said, giggling again.
Well, this was just swell.
While infant and female leprechauns were completely harmless, the males (who were much more rare) had the unfortunate ability to shoot aggressors with sharp, pointed spikes that were dipped by a substance somewhere between acid and morphine.
Sam had just wrestled Daddy Leprechaun.
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"Row-row-row-row-row-row-"
"Your boat, Sam. The next words are, 'your boat'" Dean said with as much patience as he could muster as he got his drugged little brother folded into the Impala.
It had taken them nearly half an hour to navigate the stairs and front porch of the old house. At some point, his slap-happy little brother had seen something that had triggered his impromptu recital of "Row, Row, Row Your Boat", and if Dean had even the slightest idea of what that evil object had been, he would happily salt and burn that fucker.
"Dean, did we get your necklace back?" Sam asked, pulling up suddenly, nearly toppling both brothers out.
"Yes, Sam." Dean said patiently (for the fifth time).
"Did I get it back?" Sam asked, wide-eyed and grinning.
Dean laughed a little again, despite the irritation of this whole situation. A smaller guy might just sleep through all the venom three spikes would have injected into his system, but not his big-little brother, oh no.
Right now, Sam was the world's happiest drunk. Five hours from now, he might try and barricade himself in the motel, thinking the sky was falling.
Might as well enjoy the happy while he could, he figured.
"I got it back." Sam asserted, watching Dean's face.
Dean took advantage of Sam's inebriation to reach out (and up) and ruffle the kid's hair, something he'd always loved doing but hadn't got much chance to do once Sam hit fifteen or so.
"Yeah, kiddo. You got it back." Dean said affectionately.
"I won." Sam confided with an over exaggerated wink, and Dean reminded himself to get Sammy drunk a little more often.
His kid didn't laugh enough some days.
"Row-row-row-row-row-row-row..."
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"Sam. Sam. Sam." Dean chanted tiredly, banging his head rhythmically against the bathroom door.
Sam had, predictably, locked himself in the bathroom.
Apparently, their motel room had very aggressive bedspreads, and Sam said they were damaging the rooms 'chi' which somehow was damaging his own 'chi' and Dean was about to drown his own personal 'chi' in a bottle of Jack Daniels.
"Sammmyyyy." Dean sang out.
"No." Sam said, a single, stubborn monosyllable that reminded Dean so strongly of when Sam was two that he wanted to cry for just a moment.
"I took them away, Sam. The big, bad MEAN bedspreads are gone, okay Sammy? All gone. It's safe to come out now." Dean cajoled.
"No." Sam's voice echoed again from behind the bathroom door, and Dean pulled in the biggest, most calming breath he could manage.
Okay.
Plan B.
Sam hadn't been stung by a leprechaun in over a decade (the last time being when he was twelve and had decided to capture and train one, for 'science').
It had only been one spike, in the leg, instead of three near a pulse point, and Dean and John (okay, mostly Dean) had only had to deal with loopy Sam for a few hours before the kid had passed out, but Dean still remembered a few tricks Bobby had told them over the phone.
Dean reached over to the table by the bathroom door, picking up one of the candy bars on the table.
He rattled it enticingly, sure to make the action as noisy as possible.
"I'll give you a candy bar." He offered, shaking it again. "You were just saying a little while ago that you wanted some chocolate."
The body reacted to leprechaun venom strangely, speeding up the victims metabolisms, and one of the results was low blood sugar that had the victims not only craving sugar, but sometimes needing it to prevent shock.
Other than the low blood sugar, it was fairly harmless, just uncomfortable. The victim's heart rate and pulse might speed up some, but as long as someone was with them, they usually rode it out fine.
Sam hadn't ate in a couple of hours though, and he'd drained his second soda over an hour later, so he was due to refuel.
Dean just hoped he could use it to bait Sam out of the bathroom. Dean could have simply broke the door down, but the venom often caused victims to feel exaggerated emotions, so startling Sam was something Dean wanted to avoid if he could.
"No." Sam's voice, if possible, grew even more stubborn.
Blowing out slowly, Dean counted to three. Reminding himself he was going with honey and not vinegar, he knelt down and slowly pushed the first candy bar under the door.
It was quickly grabbed up, and Dean breathed out a sigh of relief that at least he wasn't going to have to shove the damn thing down his kid's throat. He'd been worried that his persnickety brother might be the one leprechaun-venom victim in the world who needed candy but wouldn't eat it.
Within seconds, Dean watched as Sam pushed the wrapper back out from under the door.
Well, so far, so good...
"Was that good, kiddo? I got another one for you if you want to come out and get it." Dean called hopefully.
A longer pause, before Sam said, "I'm sorry, but I've made friends with the towels, and if I leave now, I may lose their trust." He actually sounded regretful, and Dean somehow managed to resist tearing out a handful of his own hair.
Slowly, he knelt down and pushed the second candy bar partially under the door.
"I really shouldn't..." He heard Sam say doubtfully, and he choked down a tired laugh.
"Oh, trust me, you really, really should, dude." Dean argued, as calmly as he could. He waggled the candy bar a little, like a kid playing with a cat, and after only another moment, the candy bar was snatched from his hands.
"Getting thirsty yet, Sammy?" Dean called, popping the top on a can of orange soda as loudly as he could.
The water turning on in the tap in the bathroom in response had Dean cussing again.
Alright. Time to bring out the big guns.
He reached over and grabbed the last of his arsenal of candy.
Sam's ultimate, all time favorite of favorites.
Peanut M&M's.
Tearing one corner of the package, he carefully poured out three and set the rest of the bag on the table next to the soda.
Kneeling, he did his best to look under the gap beneath the bathroom door.
He could barely make out his brother, sitting on the bathroom tile with his back against the tub, and Dean hoped he wasn't getting too cold.
Carefully he took aim, shooting the M&M across the floor, under the door, rolling until he could see it rebound off of one of Sam's crossed legs.
The kid pounced on it immediately, and Dean held back a chuckle.
He waited a second before shooting the second, and Sam snatched up that one even faster.
He waited a longer moment before barely rolling the third under the door, wanting to make sure his brother got his point. That candy, too, soon disappeared and Dean stood up, stretching his cramped muscles. He forced himself away from the door, sitting as casually as he could in one of the two dinette chairs.
A long moment passed, and then another, and Dean felt like a man in one of those ridiculous old movies, waiting in the hospital waiting room for his baby to be born.
Slowly, by painful, tedious increments, the bathroom door creaked open and Dean felt his muscles start to relax as he got his first good look at Sam in over an hour.
He was pale, with wild spots of color high up on his cheeks. His hair was disheveled and Dean resisted the urge to take a photo.
"More." Sam said petulantly, like the worlds biggest toddler, and Dean gestured as graciously as he could to the other chair.
Sam approached it cautiously, sitting like he suspected Dean of some nefarious trick.
He settled in quickly enough when he spied the M&M's, soon happily munching on the bag, tossing the candies high in the air and trying to catch them with his mouth, Dean wincing every time he succeeded, images of a desperate Dean trying to perform the Heimlich on his Sasquatch-sized little brother running through his mind.
Sam quickly finished his new soda, and turned pleading, puppy dog eyes on his big brother.
"Oh, man, you're kidding, right?" Dean said, looking at him in exasperation.
"Root beer?" Sammy said hopefully, bottom lip stuck out artfully, and there was no way he didn't practice this when Dean wasn't looking, because how else did a grown man pull shit like that off?
"You owe me. You owe me big. You owe me pie." Dean muttered, pushing out of his chair.
"Stay right there!" He ordered sternly.
He was hesitant to leave Sam in his room, but he had no way of telling if Sam simply wanted the soda because he wanted it, or because his body was signaling to him that he needed it, and Dean couldn't risk it.
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Three minutes.
Three minutes, tops.
Dean would swear by it, and yet, when he returned, Sam was no where to be seen.
"Jesus H. Christ on a frickin' cupcake!" Dean swore, striding to the bathroom.
No Sam.
He went back to the motel, glancing out into the parking lot.
No Sam.
He was about to mount a full scale search when he spied a (Sam-sized) foot sticking out from under the far bed.
"Oh, you have GOT TO BE KIDDING ME1" Dean said, eyes bugging out.
How the hell had Sam even fit under that bed?
Laying down beside the bed, he saw that Sam had, somehow managed to do just that.
"Hi Dean." Sam said quietly, and this time it wasn't stubborn two-year old Sam, but frightened five-year old Sam, and Dean found that his voice and demeanor changed automatically in response.
"Hey, kiddo, what happened?" He said softly, reaching out to brush his fingers across Sam's dusty forehead.
"You remember that movie when we were kids?" Sam whispered.
Dean opened his mouth, than closed it. Opening it again, he said, "Um, can you be a little more specific?"
"The one where everything talked." Sam said, eyes glancing around nervously.
"Okay..." Dean said, trying to follow his brother's logic. "Something talked?" He asked
"The toaster." Sam confided.
Dean tried not to frown or roll his eyes. "Sammy, our room doesn't have a toaster." He pointed out softly.
"Not scared of the toaster. The toaster was the hero." Sam said, as if Dean were the one making no sense.
"Okay, well if the toaster that we don't have isn't what scared you, then what did?" Dean tried again, vainly fighting against a smile.
"The air conditioner." Sam whispered, as if the unit could hear them. "It always scared me when I was a kid."
"Did it...did it...do something scary?" Dean asked, and he was never, never letting Sam live this down.
"It came on." Sam replied, and Dean finally gave in to the laughter, as his brother tried vainly to blow dust bunnies into Dean's face.
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Dean sat on the flow in the far corner of the room, legs splayed out. Sam's dirty head pillowed in his lap, and Dean stroked Sam's hair by rote, tired fingers combing the tangled locks.
This was the worst part of the venom, when the victim came down from the high.
Sam had thankfully slept through this as a kid, but a decade later, Sam's instincts were too finely honed to sleep through the withdrawal, which had his nerves tingling and jumping, screaming at the same instincts that kept a hunter alive in a normal situation.
Sam was obviously exhausted, but unable to sleep, or to stay asleep, anyway.
His muscles were twitching, hands and legs jumping restlessly every once and a while. They had tried laying on one of the beds, but Sam had complained that he felt like he was falling. Then they had tried the floor right by the bed, but Sam had felt too exposed.
They'd finally settled in the corner, and while Sam continued to get up and prowl the room restlessly every once and a while, working off his jitters, the episodes were coming less and less frequently, and the periods Sam spent laying down, head resting on Dean's thigh were growing longer and longer.
Dean had taken to talking softly to Sammy, saying anything and everything that came to mind. Pointless, trivial, made up, it didn't matter to Sam, who had latched onto his brother's voice like a lifeline.
So Dean talked, for hours, about every stupid thing he could think of, till his voice grew hoarse and tired and his words dried up, and then he started humming Metallica.
Another hour, and Dean thought Sam might finally be over the worst.
He hadn't gotten up since Dean started humming, and though Dean continued to card his fingers through his hair, he wasn't sure which Winchester he was comforting at this point. It had been nearly twenty-four hours since Sam had been stung, and neither brother had slept in that time. The sun was nearly setting again, a whole day lost to Sam's dilemma, and Dean was barely keeping his own eye's open.
He kept humming, stopping and starting sporadically whenever Sam shifted position, like a tired parent and his newborn.
Though, when he thought about it, the last time they had laid on the floor like this, Sam had been bit by a black dog. Black Dog bites could fester like a bitch, and John had shot Sam up with a righteous cocktail of antibiotics and steroids, and Sam had had to ride out a rather rough night, much like this, though that time hadn't been so severe.
Sam had also still been small enough for Dean to carry easily (okay, relatively easily).
Watching Sam's breathing finally even out, Dean leaned back against the wall fully. His back was gonna kill him in the morning, and so was Sam's, but sleep had become a precious commodity, and damned if Dean was waking his kid now.
So they slept right there, tangled together much as they had their whole lives, one beginning where the other ended, and if you asked them right then, they wouldn't have been able to tell you who was who.
They didn't particular care either.