Under the Bed, [PG-13] 7/12, John, Sam, Dean
Title: Under the Bed
Author:deanie_mcqueen
Rating:PG-13
Genre:Humor/Family
Characters:John, Sam, Dean
Word Count: 1,457
Spoilers/Warnings:Spoilers through S1, just to be safe.
Summary:In which the boys find themselves unnaturally fearful of childish things, like monsters under the bed and inside closets. Set in S1. Limp!Sam, Limp!Dean, Protective!Daddy John.
Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12
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Chapter Seven - Sick
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John feels like the walking dead. Which, in a really terrible way, is kind of funny because now he's feeling guilty about all those zombie heads he's cut off in his day. Not that there's been that many, but there's been a few. And now he understands that it wasn't fair game - not if being a dead man walking really feels like this, with this head full of cotton and eyelids that are far too heavy to stay open.
He yawns, but doesn't cover his mouth. His hand is too busy gauging the temperature of his youngest, who is looking to be feeling at least slightly better considering the monstrously pissy expression he's wearing at the moment.
"Don't look at me like that, Sam."
"Well, stop touchin' my head."
"You're still warm."
"Considering you've already determined this, I don't see any reason for you to still have your hand on my forehead."
He's right, John knows. The only reason his hand is still on Sam's forehead is because John's brain is working too slowly at the moment to move it. So he moves it now, letting his hand fall to his side as he considers Sam with stern eyes. "I'm doing my best, you know."
Sometimes John is certain this boy is still fourteen years old, with the way he still crosses his arms and huffs and slouches in that sulky way of his, the way he mutters, "Whatever."
Maybe if he were somewhat better rested, John wouldn't snap so quickly. Well, he probably would, but maybe he wouldn't. "Get back in bed."
"No."
John makes a noise like an angry dog between his teeth, but Sam doesn't seem fazed at all. He just sits there and peers up at his father from his perch on the end of the bed, eyes unimpressed behind his mess of bangs. Dean's in the shower, and John's kind of glad for it at the moment. He always feels bad when his eldest is forced to intervene.
He pushes the hair out of Sam's face with a gruff finger. "You're twenty-two. Quit it with the brat act and do as you're goddamn told for once."
Sam swipes a hand at the intrusive digit. "That made no sense. What you just said made no sense. You never make any sense, Dad!"
John knows it didn't and he knows he doesn't, but he's tired as all fuck and he just wants to get the boys settled in for the day so he can go to sleep. Sam's warm, but he's better than yesterday, which means whatever this is will wear off, just like the wounds, and once they're recuperated, they can get back to solving the problem and then back to what they were supposed to be doing this entire time: finding the fucking demon.
He's too tired for this, though. So he tries a different tactic.
"You're right."
Sam's eyes widen in surprise. "I am?"
"You are." John nods. He gentles his hand and runs it over his son's head. "I'm sorry."
The fever must be fucking with the kid, because he leans into his father's touch for a moment before jerking away. His eyes narrow suspiciously. "Are you possessed?"
"No, Sammy, I'm not pos-"
"Christo." He glares at John for a few seconds, waiting for something to happen, waiting for the demonic flinch.
John sighs and shakes his head. "Sam."
"What's wrong with you?"
John's tired. That's what's wrong with him.
"I'm tired," he admits. "That's what's wrong with me. I'm tired and you're sick and I just want you to get back in bed and rest up while I get some sleep. You can research if you want. Just...please?"
Sam's looking kind of guilty. Good. He should. If he were to keep up this defiance thing, John might finally crack and do something he doesn't want to do, say something he doesn't want to say, something that would make Sam want to leave, something that would turn Dean into the crushed shell of a boy he was not even two years ago.
Dean's never been able to function very well without his brother.
"Can I have my computer?" Sam asks, and John blinks, the polite bid for permission taking him aback. Of course Sam can have his computer. He can get right up and take it. He's just trying to apologize without saying the word, and John's not even sure he has anything to apologize for.
"Yeah," John says. He cups the back of Sam's fevered neck for a moment, gives it a gentle squeeze in silent thanks. Sam smiles slightly in return. They're good. For now at least.
He shuffles a few steps across the room and pulls Sam's laptop out for him, waits for the boy to climb back into bed before reaching down and pulling the covers over Sam's long legs. In a messy, one-handed motion, John tucks the covers around his son's slender waist and sets the contraption down on the covered lap.
"Thanks," Sam says awkwardly, and John merely nods in response before turning and heading for the bathroom door. Dean's been in there for a while and if Sam still has a fever, Dean probably still has a fever. And John doesn't need either of his kids passing out and hitting their heads on hard surfaces. Not now, not ever.
His knock is just heavy enough to be heard over the shower. "Dean?"
No response. John doesn't try knocking again. He just pops open the door. Lucky for him, the lock is broken.
"Dean?" His voice is louder in the bathroom. It plays against the walls and fills the whole space.
The shower turns off. The sound of the plastic rings sliding over the metal shower rod assaults his ears as Dean slides the curtain back. His hair is plastered to his face and his skin is pink. He blinks slowly at John. "Dad? Dude, not to sound like a bitch or anything, but there's this thing called boundaries."
John wonders if his skin is pink from just the hot water or if it's from the fever, too. Probably both. Dean looks like he's having trouble keeping his eyes open and he's leaning with his shoulder against the wall to support himself.
John pulls a towel off the rack and hands it to him, waits for Dean to wrap it around his waist and then he's helping his son out of the shower, lending his own shoulder for Dean to lean on. The kid's legs are trembling and he's radiating heat.
"You're not feeling well, Dean Bean," John says, pulling the nickname out of two-decade old memories, days of Daddy-look-what-I-dids and tomato rice soup and "Hey Jude."
"M'not feeling well," Dean agrees. "Shower prolly should've been colder. M'not puking though, that's...that's something, right?"
"That's something." John deposits his son on the bed. He rummages through Dean's duffel, pulls out a clean set of boxers and a T-shirt that's clean enough that it doesn't smell.
"Dean, you look like Hell," Sam says.
"Thanks, Sammy. You look like a prissy little girl."
"Boys," John says, and they mumble something that might or might not be an apology. They're probably cursing him out under their breaths, but John decides he's okay with that. He's too tired to not to be okay with that and now he's too worried, too. Not to mention that assload of sadness that comes with thoughts of Mary and how sweet her voice was when she used to sing. "Dean...put them on here so you don't collapse. Sam and I will turn around."
Dean shrugs and tugs on his clothes, follows John back to the bed where Sam's spread out, where he allows himself to be tucked in though he regards the action with the same sort of awkwardness and suspicion his little brother held only a few minutes earlier.
"Will you be okay?" John asks, indicating with his eyes that he's talking about the mystery of what's under the bed.
Dean looks like he did when he was four and telling his mother that he was big enough to sleep without the nightlight - when he really wasn't. "Yeah. It's not as bad in the daytime."
John accepts it. He goes back to the bathroom and wets a washcloth with cool water, places it on his son's forehead.
"Wake me up if you need to," he says. "Order a pizza if you get hungry."
"Okay."
John pats him on the shoulder and walks away without another word. He falls into a shallow slumber in the unoccupied bed to the sound of Dean's sleepy fraternal insults and Sam's fingers lightly tapping the keys.
Next
Author:deanie_mcqueen
Rating:PG-13
Genre:Humor/Family
Characters:John, Sam, Dean
Word Count: 1,457
Spoilers/Warnings:Spoilers through S1, just to be safe.
Summary:In which the boys find themselves unnaturally fearful of childish things, like monsters under the bed and inside closets. Set in S1. Limp!Sam, Limp!Dean, Protective!Daddy John.
Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12
_______________________________________
Chapter Seven - Sick
_______________________________________
John feels like the walking dead. Which, in a really terrible way, is kind of funny because now he's feeling guilty about all those zombie heads he's cut off in his day. Not that there's been that many, but there's been a few. And now he understands that it wasn't fair game - not if being a dead man walking really feels like this, with this head full of cotton and eyelids that are far too heavy to stay open.
He yawns, but doesn't cover his mouth. His hand is too busy gauging the temperature of his youngest, who is looking to be feeling at least slightly better considering the monstrously pissy expression he's wearing at the moment.
"Don't look at me like that, Sam."
"Well, stop touchin' my head."
"You're still warm."
"Considering you've already determined this, I don't see any reason for you to still have your hand on my forehead."
He's right, John knows. The only reason his hand is still on Sam's forehead is because John's brain is working too slowly at the moment to move it. So he moves it now, letting his hand fall to his side as he considers Sam with stern eyes. "I'm doing my best, you know."
Sometimes John is certain this boy is still fourteen years old, with the way he still crosses his arms and huffs and slouches in that sulky way of his, the way he mutters, "Whatever."
Maybe if he were somewhat better rested, John wouldn't snap so quickly. Well, he probably would, but maybe he wouldn't. "Get back in bed."
"No."
John makes a noise like an angry dog between his teeth, but Sam doesn't seem fazed at all. He just sits there and peers up at his father from his perch on the end of the bed, eyes unimpressed behind his mess of bangs. Dean's in the shower, and John's kind of glad for it at the moment. He always feels bad when his eldest is forced to intervene.
He pushes the hair out of Sam's face with a gruff finger. "You're twenty-two. Quit it with the brat act and do as you're goddamn told for once."
Sam swipes a hand at the intrusive digit. "That made no sense. What you just said made no sense. You never make any sense, Dad!"
John knows it didn't and he knows he doesn't, but he's tired as all fuck and he just wants to get the boys settled in for the day so he can go to sleep. Sam's warm, but he's better than yesterday, which means whatever this is will wear off, just like the wounds, and once they're recuperated, they can get back to solving the problem and then back to what they were supposed to be doing this entire time: finding the fucking demon.
He's too tired for this, though. So he tries a different tactic.
"You're right."
Sam's eyes widen in surprise. "I am?"
"You are." John nods. He gentles his hand and runs it over his son's head. "I'm sorry."
The fever must be fucking with the kid, because he leans into his father's touch for a moment before jerking away. His eyes narrow suspiciously. "Are you possessed?"
"No, Sammy, I'm not pos-"
"Christo." He glares at John for a few seconds, waiting for something to happen, waiting for the demonic flinch.
John sighs and shakes his head. "Sam."
"What's wrong with you?"
John's tired. That's what's wrong with him.
"I'm tired," he admits. "That's what's wrong with me. I'm tired and you're sick and I just want you to get back in bed and rest up while I get some sleep. You can research if you want. Just...please?"
Sam's looking kind of guilty. Good. He should. If he were to keep up this defiance thing, John might finally crack and do something he doesn't want to do, say something he doesn't want to say, something that would make Sam want to leave, something that would turn Dean into the crushed shell of a boy he was not even two years ago.
Dean's never been able to function very well without his brother.
"Can I have my computer?" Sam asks, and John blinks, the polite bid for permission taking him aback. Of course Sam can have his computer. He can get right up and take it. He's just trying to apologize without saying the word, and John's not even sure he has anything to apologize for.
"Yeah," John says. He cups the back of Sam's fevered neck for a moment, gives it a gentle squeeze in silent thanks. Sam smiles slightly in return. They're good. For now at least.
He shuffles a few steps across the room and pulls Sam's laptop out for him, waits for the boy to climb back into bed before reaching down and pulling the covers over Sam's long legs. In a messy, one-handed motion, John tucks the covers around his son's slender waist and sets the contraption down on the covered lap.
"Thanks," Sam says awkwardly, and John merely nods in response before turning and heading for the bathroom door. Dean's been in there for a while and if Sam still has a fever, Dean probably still has a fever. And John doesn't need either of his kids passing out and hitting their heads on hard surfaces. Not now, not ever.
His knock is just heavy enough to be heard over the shower. "Dean?"
No response. John doesn't try knocking again. He just pops open the door. Lucky for him, the lock is broken.
"Dean?" His voice is louder in the bathroom. It plays against the walls and fills the whole space.
The shower turns off. The sound of the plastic rings sliding over the metal shower rod assaults his ears as Dean slides the curtain back. His hair is plastered to his face and his skin is pink. He blinks slowly at John. "Dad? Dude, not to sound like a bitch or anything, but there's this thing called boundaries."
John wonders if his skin is pink from just the hot water or if it's from the fever, too. Probably both. Dean looks like he's having trouble keeping his eyes open and he's leaning with his shoulder against the wall to support himself.
John pulls a towel off the rack and hands it to him, waits for Dean to wrap it around his waist and then he's helping his son out of the shower, lending his own shoulder for Dean to lean on. The kid's legs are trembling and he's radiating heat.
"You're not feeling well, Dean Bean," John says, pulling the nickname out of two-decade old memories, days of Daddy-look-what-I-dids and tomato rice soup and "Hey Jude."
"M'not feeling well," Dean agrees. "Shower prolly should've been colder. M'not puking though, that's...that's something, right?"
"That's something." John deposits his son on the bed. He rummages through Dean's duffel, pulls out a clean set of boxers and a T-shirt that's clean enough that it doesn't smell.
"Dean, you look like Hell," Sam says.
"Thanks, Sammy. You look like a prissy little girl."
"Boys," John says, and they mumble something that might or might not be an apology. They're probably cursing him out under their breaths, but John decides he's okay with that. He's too tired to not to be okay with that and now he's too worried, too. Not to mention that assload of sadness that comes with thoughts of Mary and how sweet her voice was when she used to sing. "Dean...put them on here so you don't collapse. Sam and I will turn around."
Dean shrugs and tugs on his clothes, follows John back to the bed where Sam's spread out, where he allows himself to be tucked in though he regards the action with the same sort of awkwardness and suspicion his little brother held only a few minutes earlier.
"Will you be okay?" John asks, indicating with his eyes that he's talking about the mystery of what's under the bed.
Dean looks like he did when he was four and telling his mother that he was big enough to sleep without the nightlight - when he really wasn't. "Yeah. It's not as bad in the daytime."
John accepts it. He goes back to the bathroom and wets a washcloth with cool water, places it on his son's forehead.
"Wake me up if you need to," he says. "Order a pizza if you get hungry."
"Okay."
John pats him on the shoulder and walks away without another word. He falls into a shallow slumber in the unoccupied bed to the sound of Dean's sleepy fraternal insults and Sam's fingers lightly tapping the keys.
Next