SPN FIC - Delirium
Have some sick!Dean. With a side order of whining. This proceeds as it does because I Googled "high fever treatment" and found to my surprise that the appropriate treatment for a fever is to let it run its course.
Characters: Sick!Dean and Sam
Pairings: none
Length: 2783 words
Spoilers: not a one
Rating: PG for language
Disclaimer: Still not mine, which makes me whimper and complain.
Dean made a face. Not an emo face. Because if Sam thought driving to Pittsburgh with some coughing and sneezing for musical accompaniment was the short end of this deal, he was wrong, wrong, wrong with a side order of wrong. “Bite me,” Dean told him.
Delirium
By Carol Davis
“Man, what are you watching?”
Dean peered blearily across the room at Sam, then squinted at the TV. Then back at Sam. Midway through that process, the question stopped making sense. “Wha?” he muttered.
“You’re watching a Bridezillas marathon?”
“Yeah. Wha’ever.”
Sam started to laugh, though at what, Dean wasn’t sure. Not that it mattered. The only situation demanding focus right now was how to keep his head from separating from his neck and rolling off the bed like a soccer ball.
Nah, a bowling ball. Seeing that his head felt like it weighed more than the rest of him.
With a groan that didn’t make it all the way out of his mouth, he scrunched and squirmed until he was lying on his back and his head was wedged in between the two stupidly huge foam pillows with which his bed had come equipped. And that was no good either. Since that had not been his original plan. Damn arms and legs just wouldn’t cooperate.
Not that he really remembered what his original plan had been.
“Dean?” Sam said.
“Some chick innerunnerwear.”
“What?”
“There was…”
A sneeze that would have qualified as a low-level nuclear explosion blasted out of him. When his head stopped vibrating from that, it began to throb.
And pound.
And pulse and pound and throb and…
“Fuck that little bastard,” he moaned.
“Hmm?”
“That kid. That freakin’ lil’ rug-muncher who sneezed on me.”
Sam got closer. Dean felt him rather than saw him; buried in between the two enormous pillows, he could see nothing except pillow and a small slice of ceiling. Then Sam’s enormous face loomed into view, all furrowed brow and squinchy eyes. Stupid Sammy emo face.
Dean coughed at him.
Which set off a fit of hacking that Sam had to rescue him from by propping him almost upright with the pillows wedged between his back and the headboard of the bed. When Sam pressed a cup of water into his hand he stared into it for a moment, then took a sip that went down the wrong way and produced another coughing jag.
After what seemed like an hour, and a round of thumping himself on the chest that made his head ring like the Liberty Bell, he quieted down.
“I’ll get the stuff,” Sam told him.
“Huh?”
“The bags. Out of the car. And I’ll tell the desk we need the room for another couple nights.”
“Nuuuuuh,” Dean grunted.
“Yeah. Well, you may think you’re ready to hit the road, but I’m not sitting next to you listening to all those noises you make for however long it takes to get to the other end of Pennsylvania.”
Dean made a face. Not an emo face. Because if Sam thought driving to Pittsburgh with some coughing and sneezing for musical accompaniment was the short end of this deal, he was wrong, wrong, wrong with a side order of wrong. “Bite me,” Dean told him.
“Whatever, man. Go back to sleep.”
“Got a job.”
“It’ll wait.”
“Treatin’ me like some girl. Or some stupid” - he sneezed - “li’l kid. Got a cold, is all.”
“You don’t have a cold. You have the flu. That’s what Rodney had; that’s what you’ve got. We’re not going anywhere until you feel better. How the hell are you gonna track something in the woods if you can’t stop sneezing and coughing? The thing’ll hear you coming from two miles off.” Before Dean could respond to that, Sam said, “Yeah, I know. Bite you. You’ve got a fever, man.”
“No I don’t.”
“It’s radiating off of you like you’re a heat lamp. Trust me. You’ve got a fever.”
With a loud, snotty snuffle, Dean mumbled, “Who th’ hell names a kid Rodney?”
Then he coughed again.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” Sam sighed. “There’s a drugstore across the road. I’ll get you some stuff.”
“F’rget that. Go kick Rodney’s ass.”
He watched Sam go out and close the door behind him.
“Got a cold,” he muttered, and sank back into the pillows.
* * * * *
Her cheek was cool against his forehead. “It’s all right, love,” she whispered. “You go to sleep now. You’ll feel better soon.”
She settled him gently down into his bed and tucked the covers around his shoulders.
Then she moved away.
A cry rose up inside of him. It wasn’t a noise a big boy would make, but he couldn’t stop it from getting out. He struggled against the covers, tried to push them away, but he wasn’t strong any more, wasn’t Daddy’s little soldier. He was little, that was all, and when the wail burst out of him it brought her back to him right away, so it was good.
She gathered him close to her, held him against her soft blue sweater and stroked his hair. “It’s all right, love. It’s all right.”
* * * * *
The room was quiet. No more TV. Soft rattle of the air conditioner.
* * * * *
They were all sick, all three of them.
It hit Sammy first, because he was little. Right? Little kid. Didn’t have much resistance to stuff. But then it hit Dad. Maybe because he hadn’t slept much the last couple of weeks - spent most of his nights tracking the werewolf and his days doing research. Caught a few naps here and there.
Then Dean got it, and there was no good reason for that.
He was old enough to be strong. Got lots of sleep every night, because there wasn’t much else to do in that armpit of a town.
Place even smelled like an armpit.
Nope, no good reason.
Dad had possession of the toilet, and Sammy had the wastebasket alongside his bed. Dean found himself a big plastic salad bowl.
* * * * *
He lay sprawled on his belly like a nearly-drowned swimmer who’d washed up on the beach.
A cough inched its way up through his gut and fought its way out, followed by about seven thousand of its cousins, making him squirm and struggle and try to push himself up so he could breathe.
Cough? More like machine-gun fire.
Something gave in his back and he let out a thin shriek.
“Dean? Here, man.”
Sam. Sitting him up, holding onto him, not letting go when the pulled muscle in his back seared and screamed stop moving me, you stupid son of a bitch! Tapping his face to make him open his eyes long enough to gulp down a spoonful of cough syrup.
“Don’ wan’ tha’ stuff,” he complained.
But it was like freaking miracle elixir. Took a minute, but it quieted things right down, enough for him to slide back under the surface and sleep.
* * * * *
“You should try to get some rest,” she said.
He quirked up the corner of his mouth. Did his best to look cool. Sophisticated. What was the word? Debonair.
Very George Clooney-like.
Yeah, right.
Trying not to look obvious about it, he tweaked the covers up a little further. There wasn’t much point in that; she knew he was wearing one of those sorry-ass hospital nighties and no underwear. But still - getting the damn nightie out of sight as much as possible was a plus. The room was dark enough that the top of it could look vaguely like a shirt.
“Stupid bed’s like a big slab of concrete,” he said, trying to make it sound conversational instead of a whine.
Because, no whining allowed. Not in front of chicks who looked like that.
“Tell me about it,” she replied. “I had my appendix out a few months ago. Those beds are hideous. And the pillows are worse.”
“Appendix, huh?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Got a scar?”
She blinked. “It’s pretty much gone. They did it laparoscopically.”
“Figured you were too perfect to mess up?”
“Suuuure.”
She took hold of his wrist, held it in cool fingers to take his pulse. Which wasn’t her responsibility; the wake-you-up-every-four-hours-to-take-your-vitals guy had been in maybe forty minutes ago. Dean slid his hand down, laced his fingers into hers and tickled her palm with his thumb. “’S quiet now,” he murmured.
“It’s two-thirty in the morning.”
He glanced over at the other bed. Empty. Blanket folded into a rectangle with a pillow on top. “Woman at the desk said you pride yourselves on quality patient care.”
“We do.”
“Neck hurts. Maybe if you could -“
“If it would help you sleep.”
He beamed at her. “Oh, yeah. Would definitely help me sleep.”
* * * * *
“Dean. Let go, man. Dean.”
“Hunhhh? Whaaaasss…”
“I’m just trying to straighten out your damn blankets, man. You’re all wound up in there. Let go of me.”
“Not doon nothin’.”
“All right, lay there like that, then. Jeez. I’m just trying to help you. I’m going back to bed.”
* * * * *
“Dean. Dean? Stay with me, son.”
“Nuuhh?”
“You’ll be all right. Bobby went to get the truck. You think you can walk? Just up there, to the road.”
“Happened…?”
“Don’t worry about that now.”
His head swam when Dad hoisted him up off the ground. He drooped back toward the dark earth, thinking that sprawling against its cool dampness was exactly what he needed. Nice cool ground, the perfect thing for a body that was all of a sudden way too warm.
And stickywetfunnyshouldn’tbelikethat…
“A little further, son. Come on.”
Dad’s voice sounded funny. Far away. And way too girly. All weird and emo, like Sammy. Must’ve thought he was supposed to take over the emo franchise, now that Sammy was gone.
Y’ big ol’ girl.
I just bumped inta somethin’ ‘n’ fell down. ‘S all.
“We can do it here.”
Bobby. ‘Nother big ol’ girl. All weird and emo. Everybody all emo. Just fell down. Nothin’ to get all stupid about.
“Dean?”
“Come on, son, don’t -“
* * * * *
Wet.
Cold wet.
He moaned. Tried to roll away from the wet, but something held onto him. When he tried again, there was something blocking the roll.
“You’re all right, man. I’m trying to cool you down.”
Not cool. Cold.
Nasty cold wet cold.
He tried to push with hands that didn’t seem to belong to him. Head hurt, body hurt.
“Here. I think you should take these.”
“Nuh?”
“It’ll make you feel better.”
Sam got an arm around him and sat him up. The muscle in his back protested, but it was more a mumbled complaint than a full-out revolution.
“Sammy?”
“Yeah, man.”
“Feel li’ crap on toast, Sammy.”
“Yeah, I figured that. Take these. And see if you can drink some more water.”
He got the pills and a few sips of water down without coughing, which seemed like a miracle worthy of mentioning…ah, wherever the hell those things got mentioned. It was lukewarm and tasted of old metal, like Sam had used one of the guns for a swizzle stick.
“Go back to sleep,” Sam told him.
* * * * *
“What’s the matter with you?”
“Got a cold.” He shrugged. Tried to look sheepish. Apologetic. “If you want to wait till another night -“
“It’s okay, I guess. Are you contagious?”
“Nah. Just sound bad.”
“Okay.”
Okay. Heh.
* * * * *
Wet again. Wet and damp and soggy and smelly. Something was wrapped around his legs, holding him in place.
The hell with that. He made a noise.
Went on making noise until he heard Sam grumble and grunt. The creak of bedsprings said he’d gotten out of his own bed and was looming toward Dean’s. He groped around Dean’s forehead and snuffled a couple of times, then manhandled Dean until the covers came loose. The way he released Dean and let him drop back onto the bed wasn’t exactly nurturing.
“Gon’ kick your ass, too,” Dean muttered.
* * * * *
“Here, love. Drink some of this for Mommy. That’s my good boy.”
Warm milk, in his Superman cup. With extra things mixed in it that were like medicine, she said. It didn’t taste good, not really, but when you were a good soldier, sometimes you had to tough it out. That’s what Daddy said.
She put her hand over his and held the cup so it wouldn’t spill.
“That’s my angel.”
She smiled at him and combed her fingers through his hair. When he finished the milk she set the cup over on the table by his bed. Then she rocked him, back and forth, back and forth, in the chair Daddy had brought in from their room.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
“Mommy,” he murmured.
“Sssh, now. You just rest. You’ll feel better soon.”
* * * * *
The coughing came back, jarring him awake as efficiently as if he’d been thrown on top of a running cement mixer.
And Sam was there.
Ol’ prompt-a-mundo Sammy.
“Time’s it?” he muttered.
“Quarter after nine.”
Sam had the cough syrup and the spoon and wrestled him upright. Dean gulped the syrup down. Licked his lips and grinned muzzily. Nectar of the gods, that stuff. “Ni’time?”
“Morning. You slept straight through. Sort of.”
It took Dean a minute to puzzle that through. “’S tomorrow?” When Sam nodded, he snuffled, “Huh.”
Then something occurred to him. “D’you fluff my pillow?”
“You pushed it off the bed. I stuck it back under your head.”
“Dude,” Dean wheezed. “You fluffed my pillow.”
Sam ignored him and made a show of screwing the cap back on the cough syrup bottle. “Tell me something,” he said dryly. “Who’s Leah?”
“Who?”
“Leah.”
“Leah?” Dean thought it over. “Huh. Leah. Angel of mercy. East Columbus Medical Center. Haven’t thought about her in a long time.” He said her name once more, letting it slide over his tongue. “What, d’ I talk in my sleep?”
Groaning, Sam went back to his laptop, set up on the little table in the kitchenette. “You not only talk in your sleep, you play grab-ass in your sleep.”
“Dude. So not true.”
“Next time I’ll set up the video camera.”
“Did not grab…” A muddled memory drifted through the flotsam in Dean’s head. Blinking half a dozen times made it come through a little clearer - clear enough to make Dean’s eyes open a little wider. “Dude. Did I…”
“You did. Or you tried.”
“No way.”
“Yeah, way.”
Dean jabbed a finger at the cough syrup bottle. “S’ ‘cause there’s drugs in there.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Dude. I… Did I… ?”
“Yes, Dean. You tried to kiss me.” Sam’s eyes narrowed, and when Dean opened his mouth to protest again, Sam jabbed a finger in his direction. “You had a fever, you were seriously out of it most of yesterday and pretty much all night, the fever broke a couple of hours ago, and I don’t think you’re likely to die in the reasonably near future, despite all the whimpering and carrying on you’ve been doing. Because, seriously, man? You piss and moan more than a three-year-old girl when you’re sick. Now can we not discuss this any more? And maybe you could try taking a shower. You’re about six kinds of rank, and I could use a serious break from that.”
Warily, and sulking, Dean slid over to the edge of the bed and got out. He wobbled a little, enough to prompt him to steady himself with a hand on the wall, but was able to shuffle into the bathroom without major incident. Peed with only one wobble. Got his nastily damp t-shirt and shorts off with only one more.
The hot water in the shower? Rainfall of the gods.
When he shuffled back out of the bathroom, feeling fantastically rejuvenated - or, at least, reasonably human - Sam had set out on the table a box of graham crackers, a bowl of applesauce, and a cup of orange juice. “Don’t make that face,” Sam told him. “It’s what you always gave me when I was sick. Dating back to the dawn of time.”
“Mott’s? If it’s not Mott’s -“
“Dude. Please. Do we buy anything else? Mott’s regular. No chunky, no sugar-free, no cinnamon.”
“’At’s my boy.”
“Yeah,” Sam said. “Whatever.”
“Can’t help it if I’m sick.”
“Eat your breakfast.”
With just enough delay to make his point, Dean dragged a chair away from the table and sat down.
Applesauce, graham crackers, juice. Food of the gods. No question.
“Sammy?” he said around a mouthful.
Sam looked up from his computer.
Dean beamed at him.
And Sam had to give in. Shook his head and snorted out a laugh.
Then he sneezed.
* * * * *