Double Trouble 2/2
Dean wanted nothing more than to sink even further in to the dark unawareness from which he could feel himself slowly slipping away. His body ached fiercely and there was a ball of fire centered on his groin. "Oh... gaww... what happened?" He whispered, opening a slit of his eyes to peak at the concerned face of his kid brother.
oo..1994, Gulf of Mexico..oo
"Dean... Dean... Dean, please wake up," the young voice pleaded over and over again.
Dean wanted nothing more than to sink even further in to the dark unawareness from which he could feel himself slowly slipping away. His body ached fiercely and there was a ball of fire centered on his groin. "Oh... gaww... what happened?" He whispered, opening a slit of his eyes to peak at the concerned face of his kid brother.
"Dean, can you tell us exactly what you're feeling?" A voice much older than Sam’s asked him.
Dean tried to make an inventory of all the aches and pains in his body. It wasn't something unfamiliar to him, this assessment of life threatening conditions, this prioritizing of what was wrong so that his father could made an educated decision. This was, however, very different from anything he'd ever felt. He felt sick, weak, fragile he couldn't even stand the touch of the waistband of his swim trunk shorts on his waist "I'm fine... just-"
He just needed to get up, needed to show everyone that, whatever weakness they'd thought he had, they were wrong. He could even prove it.
Despite being pretty sure that that would be a terrible idea, Dean tried to sit up.
It was embarrassing enough to have his younger brother looking at him like that -like he was some fragile glass flower that might shatter away at any moment- when he was hurt on a hunt. It was downright pathetic to be looked at like that when he knew that the most dangerous thing he'd done lately was peeling potatoes with a blunt knife the day before.
As expected, using his stomach muscles for anything other than lying flat hurt like a mother. Dean screamed out before he could help it, sweat breaking anew on his face, color draining away like someone had flushed all the blood away from his head. It certainly felt like that, anyway.
“What the hell is wrong with him? Do something!”
The words sounded kind of far away, but Dean was pretty sure that was Sam’s changing voice doing the shrill ups and downs, demanding answers. The rest of room was pretty quiet.
He could feel the purr of the boat’s engines under his body, the cot he was lying in paper-thin and sending every vibration and bump cursing like a knife through his aching stomach. Who the hell would’ve thought that plain water was that damn bumpy?
“Sam, please, calm down... we’ve already radioed ahead -an ambulance will be on the docks, waiting for your brother,” someone, an older man answered the younger Winchester.
The mention of an ambulance only served to rally the nerves on both Winchesters.
There had been only two occasions in their young lives where an ambulance and urgent transportation to a hospital had been needed. And in both they thought they were going to loose their father forever.
The first one had been a poltergeist in New Mexico. The thing had started playing with the kitchen knives, throwing them at anything that moved. Unfortunately for John, he was the only moving thing then, the owners of the house long gone. The blade that managed to hit him had buried itself in their John’s chest to the hilt.
Dean, who was keeping guard outside, watching over a sleeping Sam, would never forget the hissing sound that came from that wound, as air escaped his father’s lungs alongside with the rivers of blood running down his shirt.
John had almost died on the way to the hospital that time.
The second time was just a couple of months before and the memories were still too fresh for either brother. A couple of werewolves, in Tennessee, hunting in pairs. The thing had flat out killed a fellow hunter that John was working with and clawed the hell out of their dad’s leg before John managed to put them down.
Dean hadn’t been with them then. But he was the one that drove a stolen car all the way to the forest where his father was bleeding to death and was forced to call in for help because he could stop the red from pooling on John’s groin.
John had died on the OR that time, or so the doctors told Dean, when all was over and John was back amongst the living and breathing through a tube.
"No... please... I-" Dean started, the pain growing stronger just from the memory of those long, miserable days that he’d spent looking at his father through a glass window.
Sam seemed to read his brother's mind. "Can't you do something for him here? When my stomach's upset I usually take this pink medicine and it fixes me right u-"
"Sam-" someone, a woman this time, tried to cut in.
"No! He doesn’t to go to a hospital! No hospitals! People die in them!"
Dean searched the room for his brother, not liking the sobs he could hear in Sam’s voice. Looking around for the first time, Dean could see that they'd brought him to the boat's cabin. And now that he looked closely, he could also see that there were too many people in there.
He could see Sam, wrangling his hands on the seat next to Dean's cot; Clara, the one who had, apparently, pulled his sorry ass from the water; there was Jim, the camp monitor responsible for his group; and the group of curious heads, peaking out through the window to the deck. All looking at him. Dean felt like digging a hole and crawling inside.
"Sam-" The woman repeated, this time grabbing the young boy's shoulder. "This seems to be a bit more than just an upset stomach, sweetie. He needs to see a doctor, someone who can figure what’s wrong and help him.”
“We’ll reach the shore in twenty minutes,” another man said. The captain, Dean figured.
Just his luck. Not only was he the freak at fat camp, he’d also managed to be the solely responsible for cutting short the one truly fun thing that all of them had been eagerly awaiting for ever since they got there. And if Dean ended up in the hospital, they would probably try calling his dad, which meant dragging John away from a hunt... if they could reach him at all.
Visions of the hospital failing to contact their father and their family being torn apart by Child Protection Services flashed in to Dean’s feverish brain, stealing whatever was left of color in his face. Bile was rising up in his throat at the same rhythm as words poured out. “It’s ok... I’m feeling better already... used to have this things all the ti-“
Dean wasn’t able to finish his blatant lie. The second he rolled over to pull himself up and off the cot, pain exploded on his right side, a hot, sharp pain that traveled like an electric shock all the way down his right leg and all the way up his spine, detonating in a million bright lights inside his brain. “Oh, G-“ he managed to whisper, just as the world slipped from view and Dean hit the ground with the weight of a man ten times his size and all the grace of a man ten times his age.
oo..2009, Gein Farm, Plainfield, Wisconsin..oo
“Dean... Dean, wake up.”
The insistent voice in itself wasn’t so bad. It sounded familiar and had a sense of safety and love attached to it. It was the repeated jerking of his right shoulder that accompanied each ignored plea that was pissing him off. And hurting like hell.
Every time the huge hand he could feel holding his shoulder would shake his bones, his entire body ached. Dean cracked one eye open, firmly intended to send the annoying person away, only to be faced with the very concerned face of his brother, looming over him.
“What the hell happen?” Dean asked, looking right and left to confirm that, yes, he was sprawled over the filthiest floor he’d come across in the past decades. “Help me up,” he demanded, one hand reaching for Sam’s arm.
Sam pulled away, grabbing Dean’s hand instead. “You were moaning, rolling over the floor like your back was on fire... I don’t think getting up is such a good idea.”
Dean glared. Granted, he felt sick as a dog and his back did feel on fire, but it was his stomach that was giving him fits. All he wanted to do was crawl back to the Impala, drive back to some motel and curl asleep on a soft bed. Or a hard bed. Didn’t really matter, just as long as it was flat.
The feeling was all too familiar and he really, really hoped he was wrong, but Dean was starting to get a pretty good idea of what was wrong with him. “I don’t moan,” he eventually said, slightly offended by Sam’s description of whatever had happened while he was out. “Did we get the Colt?” He asked, his gaze traveling up and not seeing the weapon where it’d previously been. He didn’t remember actually touching the Colt and getting it down, but maybe they’d gotten lucky and the thing had fallen down at the same time they did.
Sam shook his head, almost curly hair dancing over his ears. “There was no Colt,” Sam said.
“What?!” Dean jumped in, his intent to sit up cut short by the pain in his stomach. “Goddamit!”
“Take it easy,” Sam offered, his eyes sympathetic but his forehead creased in a concerned frown.
“I’m not taking it easy... what the hell happened here?”
“They did,” Sam said, jerking his head towards the front door and stepping aside to allow Dean to see. “The Colt was an illusion, created by them to draw us here.”
There were at least seven shimmering figures standing behind Sam, all with varying degrees of disfigurement. Three men were missing their noses and all the skin in their upper bodies; there was one particularly gruesome woman whose breasts had been cut away and replaced by candlesticks. The rest, some were missing their heads, some were missing their limbs. Gein’s victims, all of them.
“What the fuck-“
“They want to made a deal,” Sam explained, wearily turning his back on the spirits once again. “With the angels... they keep us trapped in here until the angels come and get us and in return, they’re hoping that the angels will let them enter Heaven.”
“Angels don’t have that kind of p- are they insane? Who buys that load of crap?” Dean exploded once again. Fat beads of sweat pooled all over his face and his eyes screwed shut in pain and his hands clasping the muscle around his stomach. “Dammit!”
“They’re dead, Dean. Logic flew out the window the minute they were dragged away from eternal rest, whatever that means,” Sam said with a sigh. He didn’t really care what the ghosts’ reasons were. He was just worried about the consequences for Dean.
Sam could see his brother trying to swallow the pain away. He’d already checked, while Dean was passed out, looking for anything that their ungraceful fall might’ve broken or bruise. There was nothing that would explain the level of pain Dean was in. Nothing that Sam could see, anyway. “Will you just tell me what the hell is wrong with you?” Sam finally asked when he couldn’t stand silent any longer. His face pale and his nostrils were flaring in frustration. If Dean opened his mouth to say he was fine one more time...
Dean tried to glare once again, silently point out all that was wrong in there and that had absolutely nothing to do with him, but he was growing cold and nauseous and sarcasm took a forced step back. Instead, Dean found himself taking in the honest concern in his brother face and, instead of his usual reaction of denial and soldier on, allowed that concern to surround him and keep the pain at bay.
Dean needed Sam. If there was one thing that he had learned from his forced trip to the future, was that he needed Sam just as much as Sam had needed him his whole life.
“Remember when you were about... ten or eleven, I guess -- that summer we spent in that Camp... in Texas, near the Gulf of Mexico?” Dean eventually said.
Sam nodded, his clueless face clearing stating that he had no idea why Dean was bringing that up now. “What does that ha-“
“Remember how... the fishing trip... ended?” Dean asked, biting his lip bloody to stop himself from screaming. He didn’t recall it hurting so bad before. It was surprising for Dean to realized that, after all he’d been through ever since those summer camp days, something this ordinary could still make his eyes water so badly.
It was easy to catch the moment realization dawned on Sam’s face. His eyes grew round and his lips formed a perfect ‘O’ shape, right before color bleed away from his face and Sam’s eyebrows joined over the bridge of his nose. “That’s impossible... you already had yours taken out,” he pointed out, as if logic would make everything right and set all straight. “No one has appendicitis twice... it’s impossible, Dean.”
The older hunter looked at the group of ghosts, apparently content in just waiting by the door, waiting for a redemption that Dean knew the angels could not and would not deliver. “Impossible?- Really?” He asked over a pointed look. “I told you, Sam... when they brought me back... no broken bones... no scars... no-“
“Dammit!” Sam said, watching his solid logic run out the window and being left with a brother writhing in pain on a filthy floor, held hostage by a group of ghosts, waiting on the angels to show up and screw their lives for good. “That’s just-Dammit!”
oo..1994, St. Mary’s Hospital, Galveston..oo
The smell of the disinfectant was so strong he could taste it in his mouth and the sheets were rubbing against his skin in all the wrong ways. But he was finally cooler and there was absolutely no pain and Dean didn’t really wanted to question the first two too much, afraid that the last two would run away.
“You awake?” Sam’s voice cut in through the fog of bliss that Dean was experiencing.
“No,” Dean whispered, his voice sounding grave and detached from his mouth. He sounded like the over-dramatic guy who always does the voice-over for movie trailers.
Dean giggled, imagining what the trailer of his life would sound like.
‘Dean was just an ordinary kid, living his ordinary life. Until one day... something no one could ever imagine happened to him-“
“Dean... are you even listening to me?” Sam insisted, not at all amused by the trailer of Dean’s life that was currently being aired inside Dean’s head.
Dean frowned. Come to think of it, the fact that Dean was seeing it inside his mind would make it a little bit harder for Sam to follow. “Do you wanna see the trailer too?” Dean offered, closing his eyes to better see the pictures being shown.
“Oh, God... you’re baked on painkillers,” Sam let out, sounding annoyed at the fact. “I just had to si-“
Dean ignored him. It was a good trailer. There was mom, baking chocolate muffins in the kitchen and almost burning the whole thing to the ground; there was dad, grabbing him safely under his arms and leaning over the giant Christmas tree, so that Dean could hang the white plastic angel on the top and almost taking the whole thing down when they lost their balance; there was Sam, mostly toothless smile as he wobbled his way across the motel room to reach Dean’s tiny arms, failing epically midway and falling on his diaper-cushioned butt, crying like someone had just-
“-and you almost died. Do you know what that means? D.I.E.D. as in frigging stopping to breath in the middle of surgery, as in a fucking ruptured appendix because you decided that a fever and a swollen abdomen were not worthy of mention and dad would’ve never left us here if he even suspected that something like this was happening and they still haven’t been able to reach him but he’s just going to be so pissed when he hears-“
“Breath, Sammy... please,” Dean finally managed to cut in, Sam rising panic and speeding voice completely drowning any attempt that trailer-voice-guy could have of continuing to narrate anything. “I had surgery?”
Sam blinked, like the fact that Dean was actually there with him was registering for the first time. “Yeah... appendicitis. They had to take it out.”
Dean gingerly raised the thin sheet covering his chest and tried to take a peek at the right side of his stomach. Sure enough, there was a massive white bandage tapped from just bellow his navel to dangerously close to his- “Well... fuck!”
oo..2009, Gein Farm, Plainfield, Wisconsin..oo
“I don’t get it,” Dean whispered from his spot on the floor. He’d flat out refused to let Sam move him to the rat-infested couch and the ghosts heed no pleas to let them out, right after they’d had they ghostly faces blasted by a couple of rock salt shots. The place was under supernatural lock down and there was nothing short of a bulldozer that would provide an exit for the Winchester brothers.
Shooting the ghosts with salt had proved pointless all the same, every single time that Sam had tried it. The spirits of Gein’s victims were just as trapped there as they were, both by the mutilations they had suffered at his hands after dying, effectively binding them to that house, as from the lines of salt that Sam had planted all around the place from the outside.
The ghosts weren’t even attacking them. They just stood there, waiting to be put to rest.
“Get what?” Sam asked, collecting the piece of cloth he’d set by the ghost of the man without arms and with half the skin of his face missing. There was no running water and Dean was running a fever that just kept getting higher and higher. Sam had resorted to use the ghosts’ cold spots to chill his bandana and used it to cool Dean’s forehead in turn.
“Where the hell... are the angels?” Dean said. He closed his eyes and sighed in relief when he felt the cold cloth settle over his forehead. “It’s not like... they need to take the... bus.”
Sam sat back on his heels and gently lifted the edge of Dean’s shirt. After much protest, Dean had finally conceded that he felt slightly better with his belt loose and the his jeans’ button undone. The skin going from his side to his groin on the right was puffy and red, hot to the touch. Even the cotton thin shirt felt like sandpaper, touching Dean’s sensitive skin.
Sam needed to take him out of that place and in to a hospital, where they could get to his infected appendix before that thing exploded inside Dean’s guts and killed him.
Problem was, every single time he’d tried to bully his way out, Sam had ended up flying against the far wall, earning him nothing more than some bruises of his own and, on one terrifying moment when he’d waken up to find Dean lying in a pool of his own vomit because he’d seen Sam get his head smashed against the plaster and had tried to get up to reach him, the realization that if he did nothing, Dean was going to die in there.
They tried calling for help, but that too had proven to be another dead-end. With that many spirits around them, the accumulated energy had burned more than just the EMF reader. Both Dean’s and Sam’s cell phones had been toasted the minute they’d tried to use them. No calling Castiel to get them out; no calling Bobby to help them out. They were truly on their own for the first time in a very long time.
“Maybe they got lost? Got a flat wing?” Sam said, in a feeble attempt at humor. It fell flat. Truth was, he too was wondering why Zachariah wasn’t there already, bragging about his oh-so-clever idea of, not only using questionable humans to work as his spies, but also putting a supernatural bounty on the Winchesters heads.
It was painfully clear to see now, that it hadn’t been Castiel sending them the coordinates there, or if it was him, the angel had been just as tricked as they were. Zachariah knew where they were, and by now their ghostly escort had probably informed him, that they were as trapped as blind mice. Why wasn’t he there already, breaking Sam’s legs again, forcing Dean to say yes?
“It’s like they’re waiting on something,” Dean said, his voice hitching in pain.
Looking at the steadily graying face of his brother, Sam suddenly realized with a frightening clarity exactly what the angels were waiting for to make their appearance. It wasn’t like they hadn’t tried to use a disease before to force Dean to say yes to Michael.
“You think?” Dean asked, his eyes opened once more and fixed on Sam’s face, reading his every expression, guessing his every thought.
Sam nodded, his eyes showing nothing of the powerful being that he’d become just a short month ago. Now, now he was all scared kid brother, faced with an impossible situation and with no way out.
“Those self righteous... dickless... pompous... pric-“
“Wow, there!” A voice jumped in over Dean’s tirade on angelic attributes. “Words hurt too, you know?”
Sam turned on his feet, instinctively standing in front of Dean, gun raised and ready to be used. “Who the hell are you?” He asked the bearded man dressed in ratty drabs, his hair so dirty it hung in fake, dark, dreadlocks around his weathered face.
The homeless man took one step forward, his blue eyes sharp and unnaturally brilliant in the middle of his grubby face. “Guess who?-- I’ll even given you three chances to get it right,” the stranger said with a smile.
It was eerie the way Dean could feel inside his bones the connection with the being in front of them, like thunder and lightening. “Michael,” Dean whispered, his face at the same time worried and defiant. “I was... hoping for... Cate Blanchett,” he said with a spotless smirk. “You came a long way to get... a big fat... no to your face.”
He should’ve guessed that, if Lucifer had managed to grab himself a substitute vessel, Michael would be able to do the same.
The archangel tilted his head sideways, in a gesture too similar to Castiel’s, and smiled. “I didn’t ask any question... yet.”
“So, does that mean that you don’t want a ride in my brother’s skin anymore?” Sam jumped in, his voice rebellious but with a hint of hope, trying to break the tension he could feel building up between the other two like static.
The bearded man studied Sam at length, hard enough to make the taller man uncomfortable under the close scrutiny. Sam felt naked to his very soul.
“You’re Lucifer’s chosen vessel,” Michael finally said, sounding pleased. “My brother always was a bit vain,” he added with a chuckle, turning his gaze once more towards Dean. He took one step forward.
“Stay away from him!” Sam barked, unsure of what he could possibly do to stop the powerful archangel from doing anything, but willing to die trying ever the same. “Stay away, or I swear to G-“
“God does not listen to you, Sam... you should know that already,” Michael said, his words stopping Sam, a simple gesture of his hand sending him flying backwards until he hit the far wall.
Sam closed his eyes against the pain of the impact, the world dimming around the edges for a couple of seconds. When he managed to focus again, it was only to find the other man leaning over Dean. “Please, leave him alone,” Sam begged, his body unresponsive no matter how hard he tried to fight the invisible bonds that trapped him to the wall.
On the other side, the group of ghosts just stood and watched, mesmerized by the presence amongst them, any fear or eagerness to see their end of the deal fulfilled completely forgotten. They were as immobile as Sam, silent and patient spectators in a play where only one character moved.
Dean didn’t flinch when the archangel leaned down and crouched next to him, studying his face just as hard as he’d studied Sam’s.
“Lovely,” Michael whispered against Dean’s face, the hot breathe sending goosebumps all over the hunter’s chilled body. One hand with blackened, long and torn fingernails reached out to pull Dean’s sweat-wet hair out of his forehead. “When I do ask the question, you will say yes, and we’ll be wondrously beautiful and deadly frightening to our enemies.”
The strain of keeping still and looking strong while the archangel stood that close to him was taking its toll on Dean’s body. He could feel his limbs trembling from pain and exhaustion. What was worse, he knew Michael could feel it too, standing as close as he was. “If... if you’re not... after a meat suit for... yourself,” Dean said through clenched teeth, “then... why the hell... are you here?”
“Setting things right,” the archangel said, carefully picking up the, now warm, cloth that Sam had abandoned. Holding the bandana near his mouth, Michael blew a gush of air on it and settled the cloth back on Dean’s head. “Regional management can be a pain in the ass when it screws up,” he said with a mischievously wink.
Baffled by the archangel’s words, the hunter couldn’t help but sigh in relief when the wet and cool piece of cloth touched his skin, its freshness and smoothing touch spreading all over him like a healing balm.
“Be safe, Dean” the archangel whispered in his ear. “We’ll be together soon enough.”
oo..1994, Interstate 29..oo
Bobby ended up coming to the rescue, posing as John Winchester and generally saving the day for the two teens and a bunch of paper work for Child Services. Dean repaid him in kind by puking all over his brand ‘new’ Chevelle when he insisted that he could do the whole trip back to the Singer’s Auto Salvage sitting up.
They never went back to the camp to get their things, the risk of someone remembering a different John Winchester too big, not to mention the high possibility of running in to Fred, who actually knew John and was dying to apologize to his old buddy for returning his kid with one less piece inside of him. Granted, it was a rotten piece that had no business being there in the first place, but the man was still feeling guilty.
Be it as it may, they all pretty much agreed that they were done with Camp IndianSpear, even Bobby, who had never set foot inside it but disliked it simply because it was the place where Dean was when he’d gotten sick.
Sam never went back to say good-bye to all of his new friends. And Dean never saw Jules again.
oo..2009, St. Mary’s Hospital, Galveston..oo
“... and then there was this bright, blinding light and next thing I knew, we were here,” Sam said, walking behind Dean.
The older brother paused, gave one quick look around and, failing to see any shiny black cars in that row, turned his gaze on Sam. “Just like that? No big speeches about owing him, or how the fate of the world hung in the balance... nothing?”
“I’m telling you, he just... went away,” Sam finished with a fling of his hand that, from his unsatisfied look, did no justice to the actions of the archangel. “Took the ghosts with him too, I think.”
For a couple of moments back then, Sam had felt like his life had ended. Seeing that bright light surrounding Dean and Michael, he’d figured that the archangel had found some way around the whole consent issue and had just jumped in to Dean. But then he’d felt the grass beneath his hands and found himself in a sitting in a garden, in the middle of a parking lot, looking at a sign that told him he was in St. Mary’s Hospital, Dean lying peacefully right next to him.
Sam remembered that hospital well. He could remember every single hospital and clinic where he’d seen either his father or his brother bleed or being sick. He figured that Michael had to have some twisted sense of humor to bring them here of all places.
Before he could infer any more on angelic humor and reasons why they were there and not surrounded by ghosts in Wisconsin, Dean had sprung to life like a drowning man finding his head out of the water.
“JESUS H. CHIST! What the fuck happened?”
Even the two old ladies sitting on the wooden bench near by who, by all rules should be deaf as doors, turned their heads and gave Sam twin disapproving looks. There was no point in trying to explain it hadn’t been him. Sam was simply the biggest target around.
The fact that Dean had managed to jump off the grass and immediately start pacing back and forth around him, told Sam what he’d already suspected. Michael had transported them to the hospital just for the joke. Dean’s appendicitis had, apparently, remained back at the Gein Farm.
“You sure you’re feeling fine?” Sam asked for the tenth time since they’d started their search for the Impala. They were working on the assumption that Michael had been nice enough to ‘beam out’ their car with them, which, for some reason, Dean was sure he had. “I mean, we’re AT the hospital... we might as well make sure...”
Dean gave him a pointed look, resuming his hurried walk around the hundreds of cars parked there. “I’m fine, dude... quite your worrying and use that freakish height to see if you can spot my baby.”
Sam sighted. It was like coming home, Dean dismissing his own health and calling Sam a freak for one reason or another. “So... after all that’s happened, you think Michael’s one of the good guys or just a really smart salesman?” He asked after awhile.
Dean’s steps barely faulted, the only indication he gave that he was pondering the matter. Sam knew that the question had been on his brother’s mind ever since he’d woken up and discovered that his body was still his own. And what was even worse, Sam feared that some sort of connection had been established between the two of them, even if Dean wasn’t saying a word about what Michael had whispered in his ear.
“Good guy, good salesman... he’s a goddamn dead pigeon if I don’t find my car in the next five minutes,” he said, half his outrage from taking so long to find a car that he was sure had to be there, half because he truly couldn’t tell.
“Well, I guess he’s safe then,” Sam said with a smile as he spotted the Impala two rows away. His freakishly high stature did come in handy. Once in while.
Dean dry swallowed. Michael was safe... and he was also coming back. And Dean just could decide if that was a bad or a good thing. “Lead the way, bitch,” he said with an honest smile. Either way, Sam would have his back, he was sure of that now.
Sam turned back, trying to judge the bite behind Dean’s words. He could feel the weight of the world lifting from his shoulders when the sun dipped away ever so slightly and Dean’s relaxed smile was revealed in all its relieving glory. “Jerk.”
The end
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A.N.: This story was written as a birthday gift for my friend, conspiracy partner, writer and all around beta-reader extraordinaire, Jackfan2, also known as Julie.
She’s a sucker for hurt Dean (as am I *g*) so, I figured that the one thing better than hurtDean, was double hurtDean.
This story is my first attempt at two separate time lines (which I hope I haven’t totally screwed up), but I could not resist the idea of playing with poor Dean’s appendix on two separate occasions.
Remember back in season 1, in the episode Bugs, when they needed an excuse to get the kid and his family out of the cursed house? Dean described to the dot all the symptoms of appendicitis without even giving it a name. Now, going out on a limb, I’m gonna assume that -like any other ordinary person- Dean would not know those symptoms so close and well, unless either he or Sam, or even John, had crossed paths with that disease. And, voilá, Dean gets appendicitis on two separate occasions. Because he’s a lucky guy like that, who is brought back from Hell with his appendix intact and all set to get infected again *g*.
And as for chubbySam... please don’t hit me! Sam himself was the one, can’t recall in which episode now, saying that Sammy was a chubby 9?, 11? Year old... so, a part of this story happens exactly in those days.
Last, but certainly not least, I want to point out how awesome Immortal_Jedi was. This story could have never be done on time and with proper beta-reading correction if it weren’t for the lightning fast (we’re talking hours here, people-HOURS!), brilliant efficiency that Immortal_Jedi granted me. Thank you! You were my salvation!
Any mistakes that you might’ve stumbled with during your reading are, of course, my fault alone, because I bug people to beta-read for me and then add more stuff on their backs *g*... it’s a disease, I know. I’m taking my pills, don’t worry ;o)
Julie, I hope you have enjoyed this little pressy. May it have brought at least a smile to your face in this troubled year :oX