On the Stroke of Midnight

[dizzojay]

As we are heading toward the end of 2018, here's a little fic I wrote a few years ago!

The Boys are celebrating new years in their own unique way.  Here's wishing you all have a wonderful new year in your own unique way (and preferably better than this one!)

ON THE STROKE OF MIDNIGHT

Rating: K+
Genre: Hurt/comfort
Characters: Sam and Dean
Spoilers/warnings: None
Word count: 300
Disclaimer: I don't own them

*flinch*

"Keep still Dean."

Sam gently closed another suture.

Outside, faint strains of singing drifted through the room's paper-thin walls as a crowd of new year revellers passed by.

"How many more?" Dean peered over the icepack pressed against his bruised cheek.

Sam studied the wound; "two, maybe three?"

Dean nodded, sighing bitterly.

Reaching into his trusty first-aid kit, Sam felt his sprained ankle stiffening as he swabbed Dean's shoulder with antiseptic.

Working silently and patiently, he felt Dean's every flinch, heard every groan.

He bit his lip as a distant chorus of laughter rang around them and tried to ignore it.

xxxxx

"There, all done."

Patting Dean's shoulder, Sam stood stiffly and closed the first-aid kit. He glanced through the window into the moonlit night as the town clock began to strike.

One ...

"Midnight dude," he stated pointlessly, amidst the crackle and flashing thunder of fireworks.

Two ...

"And they're all celebrating and having fun," Dean sighed glumly as a tuneless rendition of Auld Lang Syne drowned out the third strike.

Three ...

Sam limped to the refrigerator, his pained steps matching each resonant clang;

Four ... five ... six ...

and grabbed two beers.

Seven ...

"It's bubbly, kind of," … he shrugged, handing one to Dean.

xxxxx

Eight ...

Dean took the bottle, canting his head as he heard a giggle, and a woman's voice outside, calling to someone called 'Tommy, baby'.

Nine ...

"Tommy's gonna get laid tonight, I bet ya a dollar to a nickel," Dean snorted sourly, taking a long sip on the icy beer.

The tenth chime sounded.

Ten ...

"Yeah, but I bet he hasn't saved a life tonight; Dean," Sam smiled; packing their kit away; "I bet none of them have."

Eleven ...

Dean's battered face stretched into a weary smile and he clinked bottles with Sam as the twelfth stroke rang out.

Twelve...

"Happy New Year bro'.

xxxxx

end

Comments

[be-my-precious.livejournal.com]

awww

[dizzojay.livejournal.com]

:)

[kinkthatwinked.livejournal.com]

Perfect. Our heroes deserve so very much more, and yet this was perfect. They have each other, they're both okay(ish), and someone's alive because of them. It's not all they want, but it's always been what they need.

Kudos.

[dizzojay.livejournal.com]

Perfectly put. Thank you :)

[borgmama1of5.livejournal.com]

Ah, this is lovely--perfectly bittersweet and rewarding simultaneously :)

[dizzojay.livejournal.com]

Thank you :)