It Ain’t Freddy Krueger
SPN Rare Ship CC: Round 22 | otrera-kicks-ass vs. @truthfulnomad
Prompt: Freddy Krueger
Ship: Sam/Mick (Sammick)
Word Count: 2272
Summary: Sam and Dean take Mick on a case. It has an unexpected outcome.
Notes: Thanks to the mods of @rareshipcreationschallenge for allowing me an extension!
AO3
There was exactly one thing Sam disliked about the Impala, and it was the fact that it had lap belts instead of regular seatbelts. Every single time Mick rode in the car with them on the way to the bunker or the Men of Letters' base, the lap belt let him lean forward until his chin was practically on Sam's shoulder as they listened to a podcast or Mick read lore books over Sam's shoulder. Mick's breath tickled the edge of Sam's collar and his hair, leaving goosebumps and a tingly sensation in its wake.
It was very distracting.
"So, uh," Sam stuttered, trying to keep his mind off how close Mick was, "this looks like a baku."
"The hell is that?" said Dean.
"It's a Japanese chimera-type creature. It kills people in their dreams," said Mick.
"Like Freddy Krueger?"
"Not quite," said Sam. "It doesn't kill people in their dreams, it kills people by stealing their dreams. Apparently, it's pretty common in Japan for children to ask a baku to take away their nightmares, but if you summon it too many times, it starts taking all of your dreams. And without dreams, people can't get a deep enough sleep, which leads to sleep deprivation and eventually death.”
"But none of the vics in the article died from sleep deprivation. They all killed themselves."
"Baku can steal metaphorical dreams, too," said Mick. "And without dreams... there isn't much to live for."
Dean scoffed, like he usually did after Mick spoke. "Yeah? What're your dreams, Harry Potter?"
Sam couldn't see him, but he could imagine Mick's lips tightening as he bit back a rude response.
"They're similar to most people's, I would imagine. To be happy."
"Real textbook answer," Dean remarked.
"Dean," Sam said quietly.
"Yeah, yeah." He pressed harder on the gas. "We're almost there. Say something if you see a motel."
Sam frowned. "Hey, I know cash is kinda,low right now, but are you sure you want to stay in a motel? With, ah..." He tilted his head subtly in Mick's direction.
"Hell no, Sam, we are not changing our whole lifestyle for the Queen of England over here. He'll just have to deal with it. See how real hunters live."
"I'll manage, Sam," said Mick. "It can't be too bad."
Sam chewed on his lower lip and refrained from saying anything else.
Dean pulled into the parking lot and got out of the car to book rooms. Sam got out to stretch and leaned against the car to wait for Dean. He was back in a few minutes and tossed Sam a key.
“You're in room twelve.”
“You got us separate rooms?”
“You're sharing with him,” Dean jerked his thumb at Mick. “I'm getting some company after this is over, and I'm not gonna let either of you complain about it.”
Sam rolled his eyes.
“Hey, I deserve it for putting up with him.”
Sam tapped on the window of the Impala. Mick looked up. Sam gestured for him to get out.
“I’m gonna be in room fourteen. I’m thinking we get some takeout, do a little research on this Freddy Krueger thing, then go to sleep and interview the vics’ families tomorrow?”
“Sounds like a plan,” said Sam said as Mick got out of the car.
They went their separate ways to their respective rooms.
“Okay, I know this isn’t exactly what you’re used to,” Sam told Mick, “so don’t take off your shoes, don’t sleep on the covers - actually, maybe just don’t touch the covers at all - and, uh, if you see any weird stains don’t think about where they came from.”
“Right,” said Mick, looking a little queasy.
The room was small, like most motel rooms. One of the beds was so close to the door that they could barely get into the room. There was a small, old, staticky television on a table directly across from the other bed. The carpet was a hideous electric green.
Sam took the duvets off both of the beds and put them on the floor in the corner, then dropped his stuff on the bed closest to the door. Mick did the same with the bed by the television and began to unpack. All the clothes Mick was taking out of his duffel bag were suits.
“Hey, did you bring any casual clothes?” Sam asked.
Mick raised his eyebrows. “This is casual.”
Sam bit back a laugh. “You ever try to fight in a suit?”
Mick shook his head.
“It’s not exactly easy. It’s fine, we can pick you up a few outfits or something tonight. Come on.”
They went over to Dean’s room and Sam knocked on the door. Dean opened it.
“Hey, can I borrow the keys to the Impala? Mick needs some clothes.”
“What?”
“He only brought suits.”
Dean snorted. “Smooth. No way am I letting you drive my baby if I have a choice, though. I’ll drive and we can get some food on the way back.”
They all got back in the car. Dean turned the key in the ignition and pulled out of the motel parking lot.
“Either of you know if there’s a Goodwill nearby?”
“Dean, don’t make him get clothes from a thrift shop. He’s already had enough culture shock.”
“No way in hell are gonna go to, like, J. Crew or LOFT or somewhere to spend a million dollars on hunting clothes,” Dean growled.
“We don’t have to go somewhere high-end, just, like - I don’t know, Target.”
Dean rolled his eyes like going to Target was the worst store imaginable. “Fine.”
When they arrived at Target, Dean stomped through the store to the men’s section with Sam and Mick hurrying to keep up. Dean grabbed a bunch of flannels and some t-shirts off the racks and shoved the bundle at Mick. “Try these on, see if any of them fit.”
Mick took the clothes. “Where are the fitting rooms?”
Dean jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Back of the store.”
Sam and Dean hung around the outside of the dressing rooms while they waited for Mick to try on the shirts. Dean tapped his foot impatiently and checked his watch every five seconds.
“Well?”
Sam turned around. Mick was standing behind him with his arms spread out, like have at it, then. His shirt was buffalo plaid and buttoned up all the way to the neck. “How do I look?” he prompted.
“Uh, good,” said Sam, who couldn’t help but notice the way the flannel accentuated his narrow hips. “Like a hunter.”
Dean snorted. “He’s got a long way to go.”
Sam ignored him. “Will other shirts fit under it? It gets cold at night sometimes, so hunters tend to layer up.”
“I dunno. Give me a sec.”
He disappeared into the fitting room and came back out a minute later, looking the same as before.
“Did it fit?”
Mick nodded and tugged at the collar a bit. “But I must say, it’s quite warm with all these layers.”
Sam stifled a laugh. “Mick… are you… wearing another shirt under that one right now?”
“Yes, why?”
“You should unbutton the flannel, it’ll be a lot more comfortable.”
Sam stepped forward and unbuttoned the top few buttons without thinking. Mick stilled, and Sam realised that it was probably weird to help someone unbutton their shirt unless they - well. It would be weird to keep unbuttoning. Would it be weirder to stop? Sam kept going, feeling the heat of Mick’s body as he did so, until he’d unbuttoned every button and revealed the white t-shirt underneath the flannel.
Sam rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly and took a couple steps back.
Mick seemed as thrown as Sam was. “Thanks,” he said, his face redder than usual.
“No problem,” said Sam.
“Hey, Harry Potter, do they fit or not?”
Sam rolled his eyes as Mick answered. “They fit.”
“Cool. Hurry up and change back so we can by them and get out of here.”
“He still needs some jeans,” Sam reminded him.
Dean snorted. “Wanna help him unbutton those, too?”
“Dean!”
Mick went oddly quiet, his fist balling in the bottom of the flannel.
“Ignore him, he’s just being a dick,” Sam muttered. “Come on, let’s go find you some pants.”
Mick ended up choosing some yoga pants over jeans because he liked how flexible they were - and they were flexible indeed. They moulded to his lower half the way Dean’s memory foam mattress moulded to his body. Every time Sam thought about it, he face heated up and he got tingly all over.
The baku leaped forward, its claws outstretched, ready to scratch Mick’s face off. Sam barrelled into it from the side, knocking in over. It bared its teeth at him and screeched horrifically,
“Sam!” Dean shouted. “You help Mick, I’ll keep it away!” He began herding it out the door.
“Dean! Wait!” But Dean ignored him and chased it out of the room, so Sam scrambled over to Mick. Tears streamed down his face as he clutched at his bloody leg.
“You’re gonna be okay,” Sam mumbled, opening the first aid kit, “you’re gonna be fine, hang on, just give me a minute.” Sam pressed a dressing to the cut. “Can you hold this here for me?”
Mick nodded.
Sam began applying the roller bandages. “Do you feel any different? Lightheaded, dizzy, nauseous?”
“Um,” said Mick, “dizzy. Tired.”
“Okay,” said Sam. He tied off the bandages and leaned back on his heels. “Can I look at your pupils for a second?”
Mick nodded, so Sam leaned forward and examined them. “They’re not enlarged, so I don’t think you’re going into shock yet, but you will soon if we don’t close that wound.”
“Sammy!”
Sam looked up sharply. “Dean!”
Dean entered the room, grinning broadly, both he and his angel blade covered in blood. “I got him!”
“By yourself? Do you even know how dangerous that is?”
Dean shrugged. “It worked, didn’t it?”
By the time Sam finished the last of Mick’s stitches, Dean had showered and left to go to a bar.
Sam stands up and stretches leisurely. “You want to get dinner?” Vaguely, he thinks of taking Mick somewhere not too expensive but classier than Dominos.
“How about some takeout?”
“Sounds good.” Mick shouldn’t be going anywhere with his new stitches, anyway.
They order Chinese from a place down the street and ate on their beds, chatting about lore and the case and other trivial topics. When they’re done, Sam takes Mick’s trash for him so he doesn’t have to get up and gets them both beers.
Mick turns on the television and they channel surf for a while before landing on some conspiracy theory show. It was an awkward angle to watch from Sam’s bed, but he was tired and didn’t really care.
Mick patted the bit of mattress next to him. "Come over here. You'll get a crick in your neck."
Sam obeyed silently, heart beating faster as he got closer to Mick.
They clinked beer bottles. "Cheers to a successful hunt."
"Cheers," said Sam.
It wasn't long before he was pleasantly buzzed. The room was warm, the television dimly lit the room, and Mick was slowly leaning on his shoulder. Sam wasn't sure if it was because he was tired or because of... other reasons, but Sam wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. He put his arm around Mick's shoulders and pulled him in closer. Mick went willingly, settling in closer to Sam's body.
The television faded into the background as Sam watched Mick's chest rise and fall. Its rhythm was slow and steady, like Sam's, but probably not because Mick was drunk. Sam didn't even know if he could get drunk, based on that time Mick slept over at the bunker. He had gotten at least a little tipsy, though, with pink spots on his cheeks and lips wet from alcohol. Mick's lips were really pretty when he was drinking. Sam shifted them so he could see if Mick's lips were that pretty right now.
"Sam?"
Sam realised he was staring, but he didn't think to stop. Something somewhere in his brain connected, and he asked, "Can I kiss you?"
Mick looked up at him and Sam was half a second away from retracting his question when Mick said, "Yes."
"Yes?"
"Yes."
Sam leaned over and just kind of... smushed his lips against Mick's. They weren't so much kissing as feeling each other's skin and breath. Sam brought his left hand up to cup Mick's cheek and turn his face to get a better angle. It was chaste and sweet, like teenagers kissing for the first time. Except they were adults and drunk instead of teenagers.
Mick pulled him down to reach him easier until Sam was laying flat on his back with Mick leaning over him. They separated slightly in order to breath and took a moment to just look at each other.
Sam absently stroked his thumb over Mick's cheekbone. “Y’know… you're really cute. And smart.”
Mick thumped his forehead onto Sam's chest and giggled the most un-Mick-like giggle ever. It was adorable.
“So…” Sam absentmindedly rested his hand on the back of Mick’s head. “Do you… like me?”
Mick sighed. “Probably.”
“Probably?”
“I’m not good at people,” he confessed. “Or feelings.”
“Does that mean we’re not going to do this again?”
Mick was silent.
Sam’s heart sank. He nodded, a lump in his throat. “Okay.”
“I didn’t say no.”
Sam tilted his head to look at his eyes. Mick met his eyes and smiled. Sam smiled back.
