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shallowseeker · 2 years ago

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Fic idea: Dean's adventures in physical therapy

Working title: Weak in the knees

Start of a Post-13x22 ficlet, with the knee pain and the stretching

Idea: As the Apocalypse World refugees settle into the bunker, Sam and company draw up a very detailed training regimen for all who seek to become official hunters. (Basically, Sam starts a puketacular morning jogging group and Not-Bobby and Mary hog the bunker gym.)

Dean tries his darnedest to become invisible, but on one particular "sore-knee day," a refugee named Jules corners him against the punching bag. Turns out she's a former physical therapist. Her directive? "Work on your tight hips and weak abductors." She makes it a whole friggin' routine.

But the stretches and strengthening exercises are easier said than done, especially when an exuberant Jack takes an interest the subject. If his poking and prodding ain't bad enough, he drags Cas into the madness, and Dean's hope of "relaxing into the stretch" are blown to smithereens.

///

Dean startles awake and gets that uncomfortable, topsy-turvy, where-the-Hell-am-I feeling.

Oh. Bunker's library.

Holy shit. They really did make it home.

Not still in Not-Bobby's refugee camp, wringing their hands over how to get fifty folks through a quickly vanishing rift.

Dean looks around. Doesn't recognize half the people strewn about in library chairs. Two of them are flanked by small piles of vomit. Gross. Like a made-for-TV college party film.

His gaze lands on not-Charlie, and even though it's not her, his heart swells up like a balloon. She's rubbing her eyes and yawning, and when her eyes meet Dean's, she looks cagey and unsure.

"Well, that was some party," pipes Arthur-freakin'-Ketch from somewhere near her feet. He sways to his feet, then nudges his elbow into her ribs, like they're friggin' besties or somethin.

"If there were less clothes in the fray, you'd think a spectacular orgy had taken place here." He throws an arm around her waist and cackles, squeezing her faux-gentlemanly.

Which is weird. That's weird, right?

Maybe they are besties.

Charlie rolls her eyes and extricates herself.

"You're not my kinda pretty," she rasps. She too gets unsteadily to her feet. "God. This is not where my ten-year college plan put me."

"Stranded in an entirely unfamiliar world and hungover from the world's most smashing victory party?" Ketch asks, too happily and not at all like the Arthur Ketch Dean had been acquainted with during his British Men of Letters run.

"Ung," Charlie answers, screwing up her eyes and massaging her temples.

Sam chooses that moment to enter, looking fresh and definitely not hungover like the rest of them.

Asshole.

Dean wonders where Cas and Jack are. Or Mom.

They'd all really made it back. It feels surreal, like they've finally caught a real break.

"Oh, geez," Sam sniffs, taking in the state of the room and sniffing like the princess he is. "I offered to get you guys set up in rooms last night--"

Several of the guys raise their hands and groan hopefully, little white flags of desperation waving in the air.

"---and the offer's still open, if any of you can walk."

Most of the guys make it to their feet, but a coupla the the blackout drunks fare pretty badly. Dean sees Sam shiver in disgust when he notices the vomit.

"You get to clean that," Sam says to Arthur Ketch. "That is, if you want to stay."

"That's not proper fair, now is it?" Ketch huffs, and when Charlie nods at him, he actually relents and gives Sam an acquiescent shrug.

"Yes. Why not?"

It's strange to see how much sway this Charlie has over him.

Finally, Dean nods a morning greeting to his brother and gets to his feet.

Chive and smoked cheddar pancakes are on the menu for a quick hangover cure, but damn if his knees aren't sore as Hell. He limps towards the kitchen. The Apocalypse world terrain had not been kind to any of his joints.

///

"So, let me get this straight," Mary says later, swiveling her orange juice over a plate of simmering bacon. "You plan to lecture these guys on the ways of this world, and then turn them loose?"

"Relocate them," Sam corrects. "And whoever wants to, can stay here, in the Bunker with us. That's what it was originally for."

Dean tries not to balk. It's true. This had been a communal hideaway for hunters--

"And what if they have legal doppelgangers?" Mary presses.

"We're already on that," Sam sighs, "and most of them don't, by the way."

"Funny how the butterfly effect works like that," Dean calls from where he's bent low over the stove, so close that the heat from the pan dampens his cheeks.

Not-Bobby is quiet and surly in his corner seat, back to the wall.

"I thought you told us we'd still be in the fight," he grouses finally, turning hard eyes on Sam. "I thought you told us we'd be looking for a way to save our world. To go back and gank that sonuva-bitch-Michael."

"And I meant it," Sam rushes hastily, turning his eyes over to Dean in a panic, looking for support. "But I think it's only fair to offer anyone who wants an out an actual out."

Bobby stares at all of them, considering.

"Whoever wants to fight can stay in the fight," Sam tacks on, "We'll train them. Rest and recover the rest. Cas can heal whoever's not up to speed, and we can start a fresh training program."

Dean's not sure he likes the sound of that.

He looks over to Mary, and she looks back at him, chewing her lip nervously.

"Fine," Bobby grumps. "That's fair. We recuperate. No sure anyone's gonna let that angel touch 'em though." He raises his eyebrows at Dean, like his opinion matters when it comes to this. "No offense."

Dean purses his lips.

Whatever.

Sam looks unsure at that reaction, but recovers.

"Right. There's a gym here," he says, too proudly, like he wants to impress this Bobby.

"Well, what haven't you got here," Bobby sighs, sounding resigned.

///

After Bobby leaves, trudging off to whatever room he'd been set up in, Mary rounds on his baby bro.

“Sam,” she hisses, “That was…”

She breathes out, trying to get her nerves under control.

“What?” he asks, looking genuinely perplexed by her reaction.

Poor Sam. Sometimes, he just doesn’t get it.

Dean flips another chive-and-smoked cheddar pancake, adding it to his rapidly-growing stack. He throws more batter to the skillet and shoves one of the cooling cakes into his mouth. He chews and continues to watch Mom struggle for words.

He swallows. “What she means is, you’re moving a little fast there, Sammy. Slow the Hell down, yanno? We've not even been back a day."

Sam bristles.

“Having a plan isn’t incompatible with rest,” he protests. “I didn’t mean we weren’t going to rest. I-Bobby sounded like he wanted to jump into hunting for ways to beat Michael. You both heard him.”

“What Bobby says and what Bobby needs are two different things, Sam,” Mary sighs, and she down her glass of OJ.

She’s probably a little hungover, too, Dean realizes, so he slides two pancakes onto a plate and crosses the room to give them to her.

“Thanks,” she says absently, and she grabs one of them bare-handed. She shoves nearly the entire thing in her mouth. Then, “Jesus, Dean.” She turns her attention to the cakes more fully and promptly gobbles more of them them down.

“Don't choke. And hey, these’re good for hangovers,” he explains, winking. "Real savory."

It feels so unbelievably good to have her back here.

And Hell. Maybe Sam’s plan is a good one, after all. With some structure, she might actually��stay here this time. It’d be cool to have not-Bobby, too. Even if it is weird.

“And yeah, maybe a plan is good,” he amends, throwing Sam a bone. “It just needs to be slow, right? No one wants to get up at ass o'clock in the morning and go running with you. Capische?”

The sounds of footsteps breaks the flow of the conversation.

Dean' had 's barely paid attention to the individual refugees, especially with all the angel shit that'd been swinging their way. So, the last group he expects this early in the morning is the adorable little family that waltzes in.

There’s a plain-looking couple and two little girls, and he’s one hundred percent sure they all just heard him say ass o'clock.

The dad’s clad in hunter uniform: blue Henley and green plaid overshirt. Mom’s in a sweater and blue jeans. Little girls're wearing denim overalls and dress.

All look freshly laundered.

“Oh,” sweater-woman says, looking awkward as her eyes slide to Mary in question. “I’m sorry. Are we interrupting?”

“No, no!” Sam hurries to say, flustered in that clumsy Sammy-boy way. “You’re not. You must be--”

“I’m hungry! Mary, pwease,” the littlest girl cuts in, bratty and grumpy in the way that only little kids can be. She tugs on her pink dress, then clutches an old stuffed monkey like she’s trying to suffocate it.

“Lily, shush,” the older sister bosses, grabbing her shoulder and pulling her back.

In reply, the littlest girl, Lily, shoves at her sister angrily. They’re maybe ten and six, Dean thinks, trying to hide his grin at their antics.

Mary seems equally charmed by them.

“Of course you are, Lily,” she says, walking over and crouching down to her eye level. “Don’t worry. We’ll scrounge up something for you.” Then, to the parents: “I don’t think we all met formally. Things were…tough at the camp.”

“It’s fine, Mary,” the man says, looking too earnest, “We owe you everything. You and Jack.”

“Caleb, Billy–these are my sons. This is Dean. This is Sam.”

Dean strolls back over to the pan and flips another pancake.

“Nice to meet you,” he says, tone just a shade too rough, like Charlie’s had been. “Both of you. And your princesses are--?”

The older sister puffs up her chest, putting proud little thumbs in the straps of her overalls. “I’m Dana. This is Lily.”

“I’m not a princess,” Lily gripes, scowling. “I’m a knight.”

“Of course you are,” Sam throws in, a little awkwardly.

Mary throws a smile over her shoulder at Dean, then turns back to them.

“Do you guys like cheddar pancakes?"

The older girl, Dana, pulls a face, because of course she does. What little girl would want hangover pancakes?

"That sounds gross.”

Lily, on the other hand, seems to take it as a challenge, “Well, I’m not scared of grownup food.” She turns her attention to Dean, “Mom always says Dana’s a picky eater.”

This kid’s got spunk in spades.

Dean laughs.

“Spoken like a true knight.”

Lily beams.

“Lily,” blue-shirt-dad-guy-Caleb admonishes quietly, and then he locks eyes with Dean in apology. “I’m sorry. Cereal or anything would be fine. O-or we can walk to a store if there’s one nearby.”

“I already went grocery shopping this morning,” Sam announces happily. “We’ve got all kinds of cereal: Raisin Bran, Golden Flax, Cheerios.”

Dean shakes his head with a proud smile. Leave it to friggin’ Sammy to get up at the buttcrack of dawn for complete strangers. The family stares at him with a look of total confusion, though, like they haven’t heard of any of these cereals, and Sam’s grin falters.

“What’s cereal?” Lily stage-whispers, and Dean huffs out a laugh.

On the other hand, had things had been so bad over there that the littlest one hasn’t even heard of cereal?

On Sam’s wavering smile and Mary’s nervous frown, they must be thinking the same thing. Dean steps in.

He doesn’t really wanna cook when he’s got a hangover from Hell, but the girls are pretty damn cute.

“Okay, well. How about regular pancakes then?”

Lily squeals.

///

Dean winds up finishing up the stack of hangover pancakes before making regular pancakes, banana pancakes, and cinnamon pancakes.

Mary scrapes together some bacon, and after burning a few strips, she seems to get the hang of the temperature.

Sam is almost useless, except that he puts on a fresh pot of coffee and makes incessant small talk with Caleb and Billy, or “the Sanders family,” as Dean soon learns to call them.

The oldest girl, Dana, seems pretty taken with Sam, marveling at his height and telling him all about how much she’d liked the shower in The Bunker.

Turns out she’d not had a real bath in the entire eight months before coming here.

Lily, on the other hand, scowls at almost everyone and keeps looking expectantly at Dean.

When he brings a stack of pancakes and bacon to the table, she shouts, “Finally!” before digging in.

Turns out, she likes the hangover cheddar pancakes best of all.

///

Before too long, the smell of cinnamon lures Jack into the kitchen, just like Dean hoped it would.

He’s surprised to see that the kid actually looks bad.

Exhausted-like. Exhausted like he’s been fighting a war. Which, of course, Dean reminds himself, he has.

Jack hovers in the doorway for a few moments, like he’s not sure if he’s welcome inside, which is ridiculous. The Bunker is more the kid’s home than any of these friggin’ refugees.

“Jack, come getcha a hot one,” he says gruffly, and Jack shoots him a surprised glance before shuffling over. “Come on,” Dean urges, trying to banish that damn impersonal hesitancy of his. “You like the cinnamon crap, right?”

Jack sniffs the air, like he’s trying his darnedest not to look too excited. “Yes. How did you--?”

“I have eyes. You always eat the sweet stuff. Here.” Dean slides a stack of four onto a plate and shoves it the kid’s way without looking at him directly.

Jack’s eyes grow even bigger, and Dean sees his fingertips flex on the plate. “Th-thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean mumbles. “Welcome home. By the way.”

Jack seizes up. He takes in a quick little breath, and then he nods.

As Jack makes his way over to the secondary table Sam had set up in the middle of the kitchen, Dean sees Mary staring sidelong at him, sappy and happy-looking.

Jeez.

It's not that bigga deal.

She puts on more bacon. Dean pours more batter.

///

It’s quickly apparent how much Lily likes Jack.

She tells Sam loudly all about how Jack can fly and protect them from “sky-fire” and how he can even make special animal shadow shows.

After she finishes her cheddar pancakes, she clambers over to the table where Jack’s at and plops herself into the chair right next to him. She starts asking him a shit-ton of random questions, like: “What’s your favorite color? Have you ever seen a giraffe? Can you fly all the way to the moon?”

“Lily,” Billy-the-sweater-mom warns, and Lily shoot her a guilty gaze.

“Bobby says he’s a good angel,” she fires back, defensive. Sweater-mom jolts. (Almost like "angel" is some kind of filthy swear-word.)

Mary’s eyes cut over to them sharply, shifting rapidly from Jack to Billy, like she’s thinking about inserting herself into the conversation.

Dean catches movement in the corner of his eye, and he’s relieved to see that Cas has finally made his appearance in the doorway. He locks eyes with Dean and gives him a curt, good-morning nod.

Hey, Dean thinks, unnaturally relieved to see him.

Probably because of all the friggin' people.

(It's overwhelming round here.)

Meanwhile, sweater-mom lets out a shaky laugh.

“No, No. Honey, I know. We trust Jack.” She gives Jack a watered down smile, and he tentatively returns it. “That’s not…I just don’t want you to make him tired, that’s all. Jack’s been fighting for us non-stop, and he looks exhausted, Sweetie. Let him eat something.”

Lily squints at Jack, biting her lips.

“Yeah," she whispers. "You do look tired.” On a wave of frantic inspiration, she shouts, “I can help! I’ll get you a drink!” Too exuberantly, she scoots her chair back and trips.

Dean’s not fast enough to get to her.

No one is.

She lands hard on her elbow, and then she gives a little muted cry of surprise. It’s too quiet, like she’s spent an entire lifetime learning not to sound off her signs of distress.

“Oh, Lily!” the sister growls, sounding exasperated. “You’re so clumsy.”

Jack scoots his own chair out in alarm, but Cas beats them all to Lily’s side. He carefully crouches down next to her, dipping his head gently, like a hawk baring its neck to a little bluejay.

Like, I won't hurt you.

But Cas’s superhuman speed has an immediate chilling effect.

The Sanders couple immediately get to their feet, like they're going off instinct. Billy the sweater-mom starts gasping, like she’s fighting down a panic attack, and Dean sees the Caleb the henley-dad wrap a fist aggressively round his fork.

Makeshift weapon. Huh?

Oh.

They don’t like that Cas is a full-blooded, bonafide angel. No matter how much he's helped them so far. Dean taps Mary’s shoulder, silently urging her to man the food, and then he strides over to jump into the fray.

“Hey. Whoa, whoa,” he says, putting himself between them. “It’s just Cas. We trust Cas, too, all right?”

Henley-dad-guy makes a pained noise, and Jack slowly gets to his feet, trying to look unthreatening and in control.

“It’s okay, Billy…Caleb. Cas is my,” he seems to struggle for the right word. “Well, he’s my dad.”

Cas’s head whips up to Jack, something unreadable passing over his face.

Peripherally, Dean sees Caleb put a hand on his wife'e shoulder and nudge her behind him. “That means he’s a-a-?”

“I’m an angel, yes,” Cas says firmly. “I will not harm your daughter, though I can’t blame you for being cautious of me.” His smile turns wry. “I’d say your reticence is very wise.”

Caleb-Henley-dad-guy seems to relax a little bit.

“Okay,” he says cautiously.

“May I see your elbow?” Cas says, turning gentle eyes to Lily. His voice is a deep rumble: “That looks like some bruise.”

Lily winces.

“Yeah, but I’m brave. It doesn’t hurt all that much,” she quips.

When she brings her little elbow forward, Dean hears sweater-mom take in another rattling gasp.

Calm down, Lady. Yeesh.

“You certainly are brave,” Cas agrees, brushing his fingertips just barely along her skin. “You fall scared even me. May I fix your bruise?”

Lily turns her eyes to her frozen parents and licks her lips nervously. Next, she tracks her eyes to Dean, and finally she looks to Jack.

“If he’s Jack’s daddy,” she says, shifting her gaze to her own father and then back to Cas, “Then he’s safe.”

Dean nods at Cas, and Cas sends a flutter of grace into her arm.

Lily’s mouth opens in a small, silent, “oh,” but she doesn’t look afraid. Instead, she seems struck as she stares up into Cas’s eyes. Then, she wiggles her elbow and rotates it around happily.

“Oh,” she whispers. “You did fix it. Thank you.”

Dean grins.

"Yup. That's Cas."

///

#ficlet #training ficlet #weak in the knees

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