http://thenameissam.livejournal.com/ (
thenameissam.livejournal.com) wrote in
trans_92009-04-18 01:09 am
Entry tags:
On Your Feet, Soldier [R for Cussing] [Closed]
After driving himself crazy with the hand-eye coordination work--i.e. tracing shapes--that Dr. Grey had given him to work on, Sam needed a break. Unfortunately, when you have been injured, are in recovery, and your last name just so happens to be Winchester, a 'break' means getting your butt working on something else so that you hurry up and get better. The fact that he was trapped on an insane ship full of life-threatening situations around every corner--Yeerks? Giant Roaches?--just made it all the more imperative that Sam recover even more quickly.
So, instead of hand-eye coordination, Sam was on his feet--in a sense--working on coordinating his walking. The medbay had somehow grown a set of railings for Sam to use for this very purpose. While he wasn't completely incapacitated--he could move his legs rather easily, after all--it was still difficult for him to control just where his feet landed, or how they landed. So it made balancing on his own two feet a struggle. This is what he was working on.
He moved in the space between the railings with his hands hovering over the beams--ready to catch himself if he stumbled--while he took slow, gradual steps, focusing his attention on controlling his stride. Dean sitting on one of the beds, staring, didn't help.
"Dude, you're doing it again," Sam said, slightly irritated.
So, instead of hand-eye coordination, Sam was on his feet--in a sense--working on coordinating his walking. The medbay had somehow grown a set of railings for Sam to use for this very purpose. While he wasn't completely incapacitated--he could move his legs rather easily, after all--it was still difficult for him to control just where his feet landed, or how they landed. So it made balancing on his own two feet a struggle. This is what he was working on.
He moved in the space between the railings with his hands hovering over the beams--ready to catch himself if he stumbled--while he took slow, gradual steps, focusing his attention on controlling his stride. Dean sitting on one of the beds, staring, didn't help.
"Dude, you're doing it again," Sam said, slightly irritated.

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"It is the fucking point! You wanna know why?" Dean fumes, doing everything to stop himself from shoving Sam. "Because it's not fucking worth it! You die, Sammy, I got no point, nothing! Dad's dead, Mom's gone-- you're the only family I got left."
Dean's not as tall as Sam, but he's still managing to stand his ground. "Go ahead, do it. If you think you can punch me because of something you know you'd do if you were in the same position, do it."
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"Yeah, and you're all I got left, too. So where the hell does that leave me?"
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"I don't know," Dean finally says. "I don't know, Sammy, but I'd rather go to Hell than watch you die again. You'd do the same. You are doing the same. Either way, one of us dies. There's no way out of it."
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"You should be resting, Sammy."
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"Get the fuck back into bed or I'll fucking knock you out, do you hear me?" Dean says loudly, losing his patience.
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Just like a little brother."Yeah, that's real mature, Dean."no subject
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