Re: Fill part three
anonymous
August 29 2012, 11:22:55 UTC
They were supposed to head out after breakfast, but Dean fell back asleep while Sam was in the shower and woke up feeling like he was covered in lead weights. He recalls, vaguely, feeling this sick once before, probably when he was eleven or so, and lying in bed, feeling his father’s scorn and Sam’s building annoyance. “Get up, Dean,” he’d said, again and again, but Dean didn’t, just rolled over and dropped back into a restless, snivelly sleep, and he’s not entirely sure that was the first night Dad smacked Sammy, but it might have been. In any case he eventually began to resent feeling like he was missing too much, not to mention shrink all the more under Dad’s disapproval, and after a day or so he dragged himself out of bed and got back to the business of being Dean Winchester-not a position that allowed for much bed rest.
Which was why he and Sam did hit the road by midday, despite Sam’s protests, headed east, to a Massachusetts town beset with bizarre disappearances. He does let Sam drive, which comes back to bite him, as Sam takes this tiny in and runs with it. He shuts off the radio-which is fine by Dean, actually, whose head is still feeling like somebody recently used it as a soccer ball-and takes a deep Sam-has-something-important-to-say breath.
“I think we should try to find a clinic,” he says, and Dean bristles. He’s fine. He says so. Sam shakes his head and presents his case like the almost-law-student he is.
It’s funny, Dean reflects as he stops listening to Sam, because all this arguing about the clinic was just making his head hurt more. He tries not to sniffle, because it makes him seem like a child. Sam is still barreling along, trying to win Dean over, being pissy and holier-than-thou. Or maybe just concerned. Dean is just cold and sleepy and doesn’t really want to hear it.
“It’ll pass, Sam, if you just let me sleep,” he says, and Sam is about to argue with that when Dean suddenly feels his stomach twist warningly and barks, “Pull over.”
Sam does, just in time, and Dean opens the car door and empties his stomach onto the scrubby roadside. He can’t handle whatever Sam’s going to say, so when he’s done he stays hanging there, head by his knees, choking on the smell of vomit, until Sam gets nervous and puts a hand on his shoulder. He flinches.
“Dean,” says Sam, like he’s the big brother all of a sudden.
Dean pulls himself back into the car, drags the door shut. “Just drive,” he says, and Sam for once listens.
•
Dean wakes up just as it’s getting dark, and Sam is pulling into a motel parking lot. He wants to ask why they’re stopping so early, but the effort of talking seems beyond his ken at the moment. He doesn’t want to trigger a full-on coughing fit, because that would make Sammy nervous.
Sam, who is right now waiting by the passenger door, all impatient and nervous or maybe kind of pissed, which leaves Dean wondering when they parked and when Sam got out of the car. He sees no reason to get out of the car, this car is decently warm and he could sleep here if he wanted, in fact that seems a more appealing option than moving.
He hears a muffled “Dean?” before Sam has opened the car door and is pulling him forward, and the sudden urge to go utterly boneless in Sam’s arms is powerful enough to startle Dean. Pull yourself together, Winchester, he recites to himself, and he might have actually said it aloud because Sam shoots him a strange look as he straightens and stumbles across the mostly-deserted motel parking lot on his own power. He’s alright.
Sam checks them in, and normally finding a cheap place with good air conditioning is an absolute blessing, but they’ve got this place set to arctic temperatures and Dean is wondering how the girl behind the counter is surviving in just her jeans and loose t-shirt. He thinks idly about asking her, but before he can gather the resolve to actually talk Sam is steering him to the room, his face set in that way it gets when he thinks he’s all alone, the only sane man.
Which he’s never gonna be, but Dean doesn’t bother trying to tell him that just now, because if he opens his mouth he’s going to puke everywhere.
Re: Fill part four
anonymous
August 29 2012, 11:23:43 UTC
He doesn’t remember getting into the room, or into bed, but he must have, because he’s awoken by his own hacking coughing. His whole body is becoming involved, jerking and bucking as he coughs and coughs and-
“Dean, you need to sit up.” Somebody’s pulling him up and he’s not entirely certain he agreed to it, but up he goes, and then an arm is around his shoulder and a big hand is landing gently on his back. He doesn’t know how long he coughs. He’s cold and squirmy and sweaty, for some reason. His tongue feels swollen and rubbery. His throat is closed tight. He couldn’t talk if he wanted to, which he doesn’t. He doesn’t have anything to say, he just wants to curl up and sleep for a while, really sleep, no nightmares and no injuries and he’d really like to sleep the sleep of the dead, as they say, as dangerous a line of thought as that is to pursue. He hates his body for failing him like this.
“Jesus, Dean, you’re burning up,” says Sam, somewhere close but Dean can’t be bothered to turn and look. Sam means a fever, he figures, but can’t help but picture himself on fire, Sam on fire. Burning alive without any hope of respite. These are not nightmares, these are not feverish hallucinations. These are things that have been done to them, and Dean wants to struggle away from the hands that are prying at his forehead and trying to coax him into sitting back up-when did he lie down?-but he doesn’t have the energy. He needs to go to sleep.
“Dean, open your eyes,” says Sam, and now he sounds scared, which is the ugliest sound Dean can imagine-a scared Sam, without a monster in sight-and so he forces his eyes open and finds Sam’s big open face, hovering worried and fretful above him. Sam needs to understand that he’s okay, that he’s really just a nap and a good manning-up away from being absolutely fine.
“Sammy,” he says, “go to sleep. I’m absolutely fine.”
“You need a doctor, Dean,” says Sam, from far away.
“Go to bed, Sam. That’s all you need, it’s all I need.” He’s impressed with himself, if he actually managed to say all that. It sounds firm and elder brotherly.
Sam must agree, because he sighs and moves away from the bed. Dean takes just long enough to note the absence of his warmth and weight before he drops back to sleep.
•
He wakes up again and it’s light out, and Sam is dead to the world, burrowed in his sheets like a little kid. Dean smiles and pulls himself out of bed, nearly tumbling back down twice. Jesus, he’s shaking. He needs a shower.
He makes it to the bathroom, stumbling and unsteady, and as he pulls of his clothes he finds himself seriously considering just lying in the tub and turning the shower on. Would that accomplish the same effect? Could he drown doing that?
In the end he showers and gets dressed and emerges from the bathroom to find Sam sitting on the edge of his bed, drinking coffee and looking worried. His eyes go wide when he spots Dean, and he’s on his feet in a second and crossing the room to reach out and grab Dean, like he’s about to fall. He has been swaying somewhat alarmingly.
“Dean, you need a doctor,” says Sam again, but Dean manages to roll his eyes and cross the room to pour himself a cup of coffee.
“Are you packed?” he asks Sam, and Sam nods eagerly, because he probably thinks Dean is agreeing to go to the doctors. He sniffs. “Awesome. Let’s go. We’re still a long way from Weymouth.”
Sam looks scandalized, like the hunt doesn’t matter because Dean’s got some kind of psychosomatic sniffles-and he’d rather just not think too much about what exactly has got him this miserable as a result-but Dean nods and crosses the room, gathers his duffle, and heads out to the car. He’s even pretty steady on his feet. He’s doing just fine. After a little while Sam emerges as well, and they check out and hit the road, Sam at the wheel. Dean considers falling asleep, but there’s a chance Sam would seize the opportunity to detour to a free clinic while Dean was unable to protest, so he stays awake.
Re: Fill part five
anonymous
August 29 2012, 11:24:52 UTC
He doesn’t know what he dreamt, but he wakes up like he’s been electrocuted, jerking up so fast he smacks his head on the car’s ceiling before he sinks low in his seat, shaking and breathing shallow, some echo of blood and someone screaming rattling in his head. God, everything hurts, not sharply or urgently but endlessly, his body one persistent, thudding ache.
It takes him a minute to register than Sam has stopped driving and is staring at him. He wants to say something about this but can’t remember what. They’re supposed to be going somewhere. He tries to tell Sam so, but he doesn’t think he actually manages it. Sam is suddenly closer, handsy and fretful. He doesn’t want Sam to touch him right now, or to talk to him, he wants to be alone like when animals curl up somewhere quiet to die, he just wants-just wants a minute, and Sam is talking and Dean tries to listen but it’s useless, and nausea and exhaustion and pain are coming at him in waves.
“I’m okay, Sammy,” he says, or tries to, and then there is fumbling and talking and the car is moving again, and Dean is asleep. •
Someone is telling him to get up, but he needs a little longer. Five more minutes. He never asked for five more minutes, to roll over and sleep a little longer, not that he can remember. Someone is pleading with him to get up. This might be a trick, or a dream. He doesn’t move.
Re: Fill part six (last part)
anonymous
August 29 2012, 11:27:03 UTC
Sam pulls him across another parking lot and into another unfamiliar room. He’s so dizzy he feels like he just got off a fairground ride. He loved those, as a kid, but Sammy hated them. If there was anything in his stomach, he thinks he’d probably puke right now.
He spots a bed and lurches for it, but someone holds him back and he doesn’t like that, let me go let me go, he tries to struggle and probably only flails. Someone is talking right into his ear, Dean, Dean, it’s me, Dean, relax, and then he’s being pulled into the bathroom and before he knows what’s going on he’s been deposited on the toilet while Sammy fills the tub with water. He’s talking, Sam is, but Dean can’t hold onto the words.
Then Sam is pulling his clothes from him, and he considers a witty comment but can’t produce one and anyways it’s so cold, he’s shivering and coughing and Sam is guiding him and talking to him, pushing him into the tub and Jesus it’s cold, it’s so cold it actually feels like it’s going to burn him, like his skin will steam like a demon confronted with holy water, and there’s a thought, why have they never thought of holy water baths? Holy water boarding, he thinks, and nearly giggles, thinking of choking and gurgling noises. Bath salts, he thinks, remembering this phrase from Lisa, who always smelled sweet and bright and clean, rock salt would be the bath salts. This is hilarious. He wants to tell Sam but Sam has gone from the room, and so Dean sits in the freezing cold and tries not to imagine that ice is spreading up his skin, expanding like veins, encasing him. He has never been fully frozen, though he has been entirely engulfed in fire more times than he can count, back in those decades that earth hasn’t seen yet, down in the pit. Thinking of that now he dreams of a way to combine fire and ice-freeze someone, light them on fire, freeze them again just as the flames dissolve the ice and begin licking their skin. Again and again, for days. Not possible up here, he knows, but down there there aren’t really limits. Where there’s a will, there’s a way, and that’s funny too, somewhat more desperately.
Sam has reappeared, which Dean honestly didn’t expect-he never seems to expect Sam to come back-carrying an arrangement of pills and syrups, he supposes from the somewhat impressive collection of medical supplies they’ve amassed over the years. His head is feeling a little clearer, but heavier. Sam is talking to him and he shrugs. He wants to tell Sam about the holy water bath, and about the fire and ice idea.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been talking when big hands grab his face. He doesn’t like that and flinches away, but the hands hold him steady and someone is saying look at me, Dean, just for a second, and he thinks it’s probably Sam so he looks. His little brother looks scared again, and he feels sorry for it, and then Sam is hauling him up out of the tub and he feels limp and rubbery but allows Sam to help him dry off and pull his clothes back on, and he takes the meds and staggers to bed.
•
When next he wakes up he feels washed out and shaky, like he’s been vomiting or sobbing, but clear headed. Sam is already awake and on the laptop, but he shuts it when Dean sits up.
“You okay?” he asks, and Dean nods and stands, desperate for some coffee. Sam purses his lips, seems to take this as a sign that Dean is well enough to be lectured. “You know your fever was over 104. So, you know, clearly just stress.”
Dean turns to look at Sam then, and there’s a lot of things he means to say-well it probably was, and I’m sorry I keep falling apart, and thank you for taking care of me and I’m sorry about that too-but what he arrives on is, “Yeah, well, summer colds are a bitch. But we gotta job to do.” It’s not a lie. People really are vanishing in Massachusetts, and Dean honesty doesn’t know what to do with himself if he isn’t heading out there to find out why.
“It’s your turn to drive,” says Sam, and he’s also saying you need to tell me if you’re still sick and you need to tell me if you’re not okay and you scared me and don’t do that anymore and probably a whole lot more. “That okay?” he asks.
Re: Fill part six (last part) kallielAugust 29 2012, 14:39:15 UTC
Haven't read it yet, but omg. Just wanted to let you know, anon, that this is one of the prompts that I really really REALLY wanted to see filled! I am so excited!! :D
Re: Fill part six (last part) kallielAugust 29 2012, 15:19:45 UTC
Yes. Yeeeeeesssssssssss! I will try for something a little more articulate but I'm not sure if I'll manage. I adored every word of this--Dean's internalized Sam, and his interpretations (and revisions) of the real one. The way the narrative tracks Dean's conscious involvement with the rest of the scene vs. his own fevered trains of thought, especially towards the end: Someone is pleading with him to get up. This might be a trick, or a dream. He doesn’t move. *___* <33 The language and all the tiny little micro-descriptions are wondrous, as well. If I had to choose, my favorite parts of this are Dean's assessments of himself. They're painful, but not maudlin, overdone--and their frankness just hurts all the more. There's so much going on even in the short space of this one fic, I just want to read it over and over again. Excellent work! I hope to see you with us many more times in the future, anon. So pleased to see you at the comm! :DD
Re: Fill part six (last part) sparrow_latelyAugust 29 2012, 16:01:29 UTC
Well, shit, this is so sweet I'm not even going to be anon. :P
Thank you thank you! I've never written Supernatural fic before--I only even started watching it this June at the insistence of a friend--so I'm glad I didn't make a complete mess of it. I love Dean to pieces so it makes sense I ended up here. ^^
Re: Fill part six (last part) kallielAugust 29 2012, 16:06:55 UTC
<3333333 Your true identity!! Hello! Just wanted to say again that we're so glad to see you at the comment!meme--IF YOU LOVE DEAN TO PIECES THIS IS THE RIGHT PLACE TO BE. Excuse me while we kidnap you now. XD
Re: Fill part six (last part) honeylocusttreeAugust 29 2012, 17:19:51 UTC
Really awesome--a great fill! Especially Dean's dogged refusal to act, and his casual acceptance of fate. Plus the suggestion that he thinks succumbing even to stress is some kind of personal failure he should be able to overcome--ouch. Yet accurate. Mind-over-matter is such a risky proposition when reality comes to call.
This is really excellent! Thank you so much for the great fill!
Re: Fill part six (last part) maypolesAugust 29 2012, 23:10:40 UTC
Maybe. Maybe around his twenty-sixth birthday.
Deeeean. <333 You had me with those first couple of paragraphs, and I stayed enthralled throughout the story. I love your turns of phrase, the way you write Dean's inner voice/how he feels about himself, the way you have them relating to each other, and also I love how achy the end is.
A million welcomes! ;D I hope very much to see more from you at the comm in the future.
Which was why he and Sam did hit the road by midday, despite Sam’s protests, headed east, to a Massachusetts town beset with bizarre disappearances. He does let Sam drive, which comes back to bite him, as Sam takes this tiny in and runs with it. He shuts off the radio-which is fine by Dean, actually, whose head is still feeling like somebody recently used it as a soccer ball-and takes a deep Sam-has-something-important-to-say breath.
“I think we should try to find a clinic,” he says, and Dean bristles. He’s fine. He says so. Sam shakes his head and presents his case like the almost-law-student he is.
It’s funny, Dean reflects as he stops listening to Sam, because all this arguing about the clinic was just making his head hurt more. He tries not to sniffle, because it makes him seem like a child. Sam is still barreling along, trying to win Dean over, being pissy and holier-than-thou. Or maybe just concerned. Dean is just cold and sleepy and doesn’t really want to hear it.
“It’ll pass, Sam, if you just let me sleep,” he says, and Sam is about to argue with that when Dean suddenly feels his stomach twist warningly and barks, “Pull over.”
Sam does, just in time, and Dean opens the car door and empties his stomach onto the scrubby roadside. He can’t handle whatever Sam’s going to say, so when he’s done he stays hanging there, head by his knees, choking on the smell of vomit, until Sam gets nervous and puts a hand on his shoulder. He flinches.
“Dean,” says Sam, like he’s the big brother all of a sudden.
Dean pulls himself back into the car, drags the door shut. “Just drive,” he says, and Sam for once listens.
•
Dean wakes up just as it’s getting dark, and Sam is pulling into a motel parking lot. He wants to ask why they’re stopping so early, but the effort of talking seems beyond his ken at the moment. He doesn’t want to trigger a full-on coughing fit, because that would make Sammy nervous.
Sam, who is right now waiting by the passenger door, all impatient and nervous or maybe kind of pissed, which leaves Dean wondering when they parked and when Sam got out of the car. He sees no reason to get out of the car, this car is decently warm and he could sleep here if he wanted, in fact that seems a more appealing option than moving.
He hears a muffled “Dean?” before Sam has opened the car door and is pulling him forward, and the sudden urge to go utterly boneless in Sam’s arms is powerful enough to startle Dean. Pull yourself together, Winchester, he recites to himself, and he might have actually said it aloud because Sam shoots him a strange look as he straightens and stumbles across the mostly-deserted motel parking lot on his own power. He’s alright.
Sam checks them in, and normally finding a cheap place with good air conditioning is an absolute blessing, but they’ve got this place set to arctic temperatures and Dean is wondering how the girl behind the counter is surviving in just her jeans and loose t-shirt. He thinks idly about asking her, but before he can gather the resolve to actually talk Sam is steering him to the room, his face set in that way it gets when he thinks he’s all alone, the only sane man.
Which he’s never gonna be, but Dean doesn’t bother trying to tell him that just now, because if he opens his mouth he’s going to puke everywhere.
•
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“Dean, you need to sit up.” Somebody’s pulling him up and he’s not entirely certain he agreed to it, but up he goes, and then an arm is around his shoulder and a big hand is landing gently on his back. He doesn’t know how long he coughs. He’s cold and squirmy and sweaty, for some reason. His tongue feels swollen and rubbery. His throat is closed tight. He couldn’t talk if he wanted to, which he doesn’t. He doesn’t have anything to say, he just wants to curl up and sleep for a while, really sleep, no nightmares and no injuries and he’d really like to sleep the sleep of the dead, as they say, as dangerous a line of thought as that is to pursue. He hates his body for failing him like this.
“Jesus, Dean, you’re burning up,” says Sam, somewhere close but Dean can’t be bothered to turn and look. Sam means a fever, he figures, but can’t help but picture himself on fire, Sam on fire. Burning alive without any hope of respite. These are not nightmares, these are not feverish hallucinations. These are things that have been done to them, and Dean wants to struggle away from the hands that are prying at his forehead and trying to coax him into sitting back up-when did he lie down?-but he doesn’t have the energy. He needs to go to sleep.
“Dean, open your eyes,” says Sam, and now he sounds scared, which is the ugliest sound Dean can imagine-a scared Sam, without a monster in sight-and so he forces his eyes open and finds Sam’s big open face, hovering worried and fretful above him. Sam needs to understand that he’s okay, that he’s really just a nap and a good manning-up away from being absolutely fine.
“Sammy,” he says, “go to sleep. I’m absolutely fine.”
“You need a doctor, Dean,” says Sam, from far away.
“Go to bed, Sam. That’s all you need, it’s all I need.” He’s impressed with himself, if he actually managed to say all that. It sounds firm and elder brotherly.
Sam must agree, because he sighs and moves away from the bed. Dean takes just long enough to note the absence of his warmth and weight before he drops back to sleep.
•
He wakes up again and it’s light out, and Sam is dead to the world, burrowed in his sheets like a little kid. Dean smiles and pulls himself out of bed, nearly tumbling back down twice. Jesus, he’s shaking. He needs a shower.
He makes it to the bathroom, stumbling and unsteady, and as he pulls of his clothes he finds himself seriously considering just lying in the tub and turning the shower on. Would that accomplish the same effect? Could he drown doing that?
In the end he showers and gets dressed and emerges from the bathroom to find Sam sitting on the edge of his bed, drinking coffee and looking worried. His eyes go wide when he spots Dean, and he’s on his feet in a second and crossing the room to reach out and grab Dean, like he’s about to fall. He has been swaying somewhat alarmingly.
“Dean, you need a doctor,” says Sam again, but Dean manages to roll his eyes and cross the room to pour himself a cup of coffee.
“Are you packed?” he asks Sam, and Sam nods eagerly, because he probably thinks Dean is agreeing to go to the doctors. He sniffs. “Awesome. Let’s go. We’re still a long way from Weymouth.”
Sam looks scandalized, like the hunt doesn’t matter because Dean’s got some kind of psychosomatic sniffles-and he’d rather just not think too much about what exactly has got him this miserable as a result-but Dean nods and crosses the room, gathers his duffle, and heads out to the car. He’s even pretty steady on his feet. He’s doing just fine. After a little while Sam emerges as well, and they check out and hit the road, Sam at the wheel. Dean considers falling asleep, but there’s a chance Sam would seize the opportunity to detour to a free clinic while Dean was unable to protest, so he stays awake.
•
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It takes him a minute to register than Sam has stopped driving and is staring at him. He wants to say something about this but can’t remember what. They’re supposed to be going somewhere. He tries to tell Sam so, but he doesn’t think he actually manages it. Sam is suddenly closer, handsy and fretful. He doesn’t want Sam to touch him right now, or to talk to him, he wants to be alone like when animals curl up somewhere quiet to die, he just wants-just wants a minute, and Sam is talking and Dean tries to listen but it’s useless, and nausea and exhaustion and pain are coming at him in waves.
“I’m okay, Sammy,” he says, or tries to, and then there is fumbling and talking and the car is moving again, and Dean is asleep.
•
Someone is telling him to get up, but he needs a little longer. Five more minutes. He never asked for five more minutes, to roll over and sleep a little longer, not that he can remember. Someone is pleading with him to get up. This might be a trick, or a dream. He doesn’t move.
•
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He spots a bed and lurches for it, but someone holds him back and he doesn’t like that, let me go let me go, he tries to struggle and probably only flails. Someone is talking right into his ear, Dean, Dean, it’s me, Dean, relax, and then he’s being pulled into the bathroom and before he knows what’s going on he’s been deposited on the toilet while Sammy fills the tub with water. He’s talking, Sam is, but Dean can’t hold onto the words.
Then Sam is pulling his clothes from him, and he considers a witty comment but can’t produce one and anyways it’s so cold, he’s shivering and coughing and Sam is guiding him and talking to him, pushing him into the tub and Jesus it’s cold, it’s so cold it actually feels like it’s going to burn him, like his skin will steam like a demon confronted with holy water, and there’s a thought, why have they never thought of holy water baths? Holy water boarding, he thinks, and nearly giggles, thinking of choking and gurgling noises. Bath salts, he thinks, remembering this phrase from Lisa, who always smelled sweet and bright and clean, rock salt would be the bath salts. This is hilarious. He wants to tell Sam but Sam has gone from the room, and so Dean sits in the freezing cold and tries not to imagine that ice is spreading up his skin, expanding like veins, encasing him. He has never been fully frozen, though he has been entirely engulfed in fire more times than he can count, back in those decades that earth hasn’t seen yet, down in the pit. Thinking of that now he dreams of a way to combine fire and ice-freeze someone, light them on fire, freeze them again just as the flames dissolve the ice and begin licking their skin. Again and again, for days. Not possible up here, he knows, but down there there aren’t really limits. Where there’s a will, there’s a way, and that’s funny too, somewhat more desperately.
Sam has reappeared, which Dean honestly didn’t expect-he never seems to expect Sam to come back-carrying an arrangement of pills and syrups, he supposes from the somewhat impressive collection of medical supplies they’ve amassed over the years. His head is feeling a little clearer, but heavier. Sam is talking to him and he shrugs. He wants to tell Sam about the holy water bath, and about the fire and ice idea.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been talking when big hands grab his face. He doesn’t like that and flinches away, but the hands hold him steady and someone is saying look at me, Dean, just for a second, and he thinks it’s probably Sam so he looks. His little brother looks scared again, and he feels sorry for it, and then Sam is hauling him up out of the tub and he feels limp and rubbery but allows Sam to help him dry off and pull his clothes back on, and he takes the meds and staggers to bed.
•
When next he wakes up he feels washed out and shaky, like he’s been vomiting or sobbing, but clear headed. Sam is already awake and on the laptop, but he shuts it when Dean sits up.
“You okay?” he asks, and Dean nods and stands, desperate for some coffee. Sam purses his lips, seems to take this as a sign that Dean is well enough to be lectured. “You know your fever was over 104. So, you know, clearly just stress.”
Dean turns to look at Sam then, and there’s a lot of things he means to say-well it probably was, and I’m sorry I keep falling apart, and thank you for taking care of me and I’m sorry about that too-but what he arrives on is, “Yeah, well, summer colds are a bitch. But we gotta job to do.” It’s not a lie. People really are vanishing in Massachusetts, and Dean honesty doesn’t know what to do with himself if he isn’t heading out there to find out why.
“It’s your turn to drive,” says Sam, and he’s also saying you need to tell me if you’re still sick and you need to tell me if you’re not okay and you scared me and don’t do that anymore and probably a whole lot more. “That okay?” he asks.
“Sure,” says Dean, “sounds good.”
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Thank you thank you! I've never written Supernatural fic before--I only even started watching it this June at the insistence of a friend--so I'm glad I didn't make a complete mess of it. I love Dean to pieces so it makes sense I ended up here. ^^
Thank you so much for your kind feedback!
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Thank you for your lovely fill~
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Clearly I have found a good way to cheer myself up about my own summer cold. :)
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This is really excellent! Thank you so much for the great fill!
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Deeeean. <333 You had me with those first couple of paragraphs, and I stayed enthralled throughout the story. I love your turns of phrase, the way you write Dean's inner voice/how he feels about himself, the way you have them relating to each other, and also I love how achy the end is.
A million welcomes! ;D I hope very much to see more from you at the comm in the future.
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