Fic: Picking up the Pieces (SPN) Chapter Four
Genre: Sick!fic, hurt/comfort, Epic, Slightly AU
Category: Gen
Rating: T
Characters: Dean, Sam, Bobby, Cas, a few OCs
Warning: Very mild language. Descriptions of Hell. Can be considered slightly AU as Dean is not healed from his old wounds when Castiel raised him from perdition. Angst. Descriptions of panic attacks and mental health content.
Disclaimer: They're pretty, but they're not mine.
Summary: Sequel to the story 'Taking Some Time'. Sam and Dean have found a little piece of normality in their messed up world, but Dean's still healing, physically and mentally.
Chapter Four
Dean was a friggen wreck. There were a lot of questions Sam wanted to ask, a lot of things he wanted to know about what had happened that evening, but just looking at his brother was enough to silence him. He didn’t need to know, not now. Dean didn’t need to tell him, didn’t need to justify himself, didn’t need to open up. Sam just had to be there for him. He just needed to look after him now. Pick up the pieces. At least that’s what Sam was good at.
“You’re sick…” Dean mumbled, as Sam helped him to bed.
“Yeah, well, you can look me over when we get you horizontal,” Sam joked, happy to see a smile tug at Dean’s mouth.
Dean cleared his throat, “Been a long day,” his voice was croaky. Pain and sorrow and guilt…
“I’ll bet,” Sam left it at that, seeing how Dean’s face hardened.
Sam helped lower Dean to sit on the bed, he winced and carefully rolled his shoulder.
“Shoulder hurting?” Sam nodded, sniffling, dragging the back of his hand under his nose.
“A little,” he shrugged.
Sam couldn’t believe the lines on Dean’s face. He looked like he’d aged years in the last few months. He’d lost muscle mass from not being able to mobilise. He was gaunt, lacking colour, except for around his eyes, which was a tender pink, fading into deep purple bruises to show the lack of sleep. Sam took a deep breath. Maybe Dean was worse off than he thought… much worse.
“You gonna stare at me all night?” Dean flicked his eyes up to Sam, annoyance evident in his gaze.
“Sorry, dude. You need anything?”
Dean sluggishly reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved a bottle of pills. His hands were shaking as he popped one in his mouth.
“Nah, I’m good.”
Sam recognized the bottle as Dean’s heavy duty painkillers and knew he’d be asleep in a few minutes, which was good because he definitely needed it.
Sam turned to the side and sneezed into his hands. When he looked back Dean was studying him.
“I’m fine,” he sniffed.
Dean grunted, “Yeah, sure.”
Sam helped Dean out of his jacket and jeans and pulled back the covers for him.
“Ice? Heat? Food? Anything?” he listed off, as Dean crawled under the covers, letting out a deep, weary sigh.
“Just tired…” he mumbled, closing his eyes.
Sam knew that was the end of the conversation.
…
Dean slept for ten hours. When he woke up his throat was dry and his nose was itchy. He didn’t know who it was. If it was Riley that got him sick, or Sam. It didn’t really matter anyway. All that mattered was this time he keep it under wraps, because if Sam was good at anything, it was feeling guilty. And Dean couldn't put that on him. Plus, the kid had enough to worry about as it was.
His whole body was sore. It was different to the usual pain in his back. Now it was all over. An ache in his muscles, needles of pain stabbing into his bones, his joints. And his head felt like the size of Texas.
When his eyes focused he could see Sam standing at his bedroom door.
“Thought you were never gonna wake up,” he smirked. His voice was husky.
“Did I…” Dean waved a hand.
“Nah, man. You slept like a baby.”
Dean snorted, “Well, what do ya know.”
Sam walked towards him, “You feeling okay?”
Geez, Sam had a nose on him like a bloodhound.
“I’m fine. Need more drugs…”
“I’ll grab ‘em. Sit tight.”
Dean sat up on the edge of his bed and scrubbed his face with both hands. Like a tidal wave, the memories of the previous night came flooding back. First he was reminded of how friggen useless he’d been at the bar. How the people looked at him like he was broken, weak. How he’d flashed back, lost his grip on reality. How Riley had to be gentle. The way she held his head as his tears stained her arms and chest. How he cried till he was dry, till there was nothing left.
“Here, man.”
Sam was in front of him, holding out a pill and a glass of water.
Dean grabbed it with a grunt and tossed it back.
God, he needed a drink.
Sam ducked to the side, coughing hard into his shoulder. It was phlegmy, harsh.
Dean couldn’t help but stare at him.
You’re not doing your job, he thought to himself.
“Sorry,” Sam mumbled, “I’m okay.”
“You don’t sound okay,” Dean cleared his throat, trying not to sound husky himself.
“I’m fine, it’s just a cough.”
Dean nodded, letting it go for now.
“Heard from Bobby?” Dean asked, because in his state he couldn’t look out for Sam, and he couldn’t expect Sammy to look out for him.
“He’s working a case in Florida, said he’ll swing by when he’s done, shouldn’t be more than a couple’a days.”
Dean sniffed discreetly, “Awesome.”
“I’ll, um,” Sam backed towards the door, “I’ll give you a minute.”
Dean nodded, “Hey, Sam.”
Sam stopped, “Yeah?”
“I missed rehab, didn’t I?”
Sam rubbed the back of his neck “Yeah, I called up for you. They moved you to tomorrow instead.”
“’Kay.”
The second Sam left the room Dean wobbled over to his duffle bag and pulled out a bottle. Two mouthfuls of scotch down the hatch. He winced at it. It burned.
…
Dean was drunk by the time he was showered, dressed, and presentable enough to leave his room. It didn’t matter that it was only 2pm on a weekday. He stumbled on his way down the hall, bracing against the wall as his back spasmed.
“You okay?” Sam came around the corner, hearing the ruckus.
Dean grinned, giving Sam a thumbs up.
Sam laughed, “You’re in a good mood.”
“Come on, Sammy,” Dean chuckled, limping towards him, “Don’t kill my buzz.”
“Alright,” Sam shrugged, “You sure you shouldn’t be using your cane still?”
“Shut up,” Dean whined, pushing past him.
Sam followed him and watched him as he carefully sat down on the couch.
“So, what else did the doctor say yesterday?”
Dean waved a hand, “Nothing. Everything’s fine. Fit as a fiddle.”
Sam narrowed his eyes, “Do you wanna go for a walk before I leave for work?”
Dean rubbed a hand up and down his thigh.
“You’re going to work?” he questioned, “You’re hacking up a lung.”
Sam rolled his eyes, “I’m fine.”
“Well then, get in the kitchen and make me some lunch. I’m starving.”
…
Sam could tell something wasn’t quite right with Dean. He was too… happy. Sam hated himself for thinking it, but it just wasn’t Dean these days. He barely smiled, never laughed, never joked, unless it was at his own expense, and even then it was more sad than anything. He didn’t realize until Dean completely bumped into him in the kitchen, spilling his juice on the bench.
“Dude, what the hell?”
“Sorry, Sammy,” Dean chuckled, wiping the juice up with his sleeve.
“Dean, look at me.”
Dean gave him a quick, annoyed glance, “What’s your problem?”
“Are you drunk?”
Dean snorted, then coughed, “Leave me alone, man.”
“Dean,” Sam grabbed his shoulder, turning him to look at him, being gentle as ever, “You’re drunk, aren’t you?”
Dean shook him off but didn’t answer.
“Dammit, Dean. You can’t do this.”
Dean turned fiery eyes on him and Sam thought he was about to get his head punched in.
“I said, leave me alone.”
“You’re going to kill yourself! You can’t drink like that and take those pills.”
Dean stumbled back towards the couch and sat down, turning the volume of the TV up.
“Dean, please.”
“I thought you were going to work,” he grumbled.
“Can I really leave you like this?” Sam sighed.
Dean glared at him and Sam sighed once more.
Well played, idiot.
“Fine.”
…
Dean sat on the back steps, the inky black sky closing around him. It was a bit cold out. The air hurt his lungs, and the whiskey burnt his throat. Outside he could hear the neighbours, clanging around getting dinner. Kids laughing and crying. Dogs barking. Crickets chirping. The sound of tyres rushing against the road. He tried to focus on that, on those sounds. Not the sounds of his own ragged breathing, of his heart pounding in his chest, his pulse loud in his ears. He felt like crap. His head was thumping and he was snotty and phlegmy. Fresh air was good for that, right?
He coughed loudly and openly towards his knees, took a sip of whiskey to numb the pain in his throat. It didn’t really help.
“Hhh’tscht!” he stifled, head jerking towards his chest.
He took a snotty snuffle and jerked with two more. He panted through his mouth.
“Well, this sucks,” he informed the universe.
He took a moment to clear his throat.
Sam wasn’t home. He could be sick. He could be weak. He could cough out loud. He could blow his nose, and no one would care. No one would care that he was sick.
No one would care.
He was coughing into his sleeve, feeling weak and sweaty, when he heard the front door open. He tensed up. The tension eased when he heard Sam’s barking cough. It was just Sam. He didn’t have to fight. But Sam was home early, and Dean was sitting outside, drinking a bottle of whiskey, next to a pile of snotty toilet paper. Crap.
“Dean?”
Shit, the kid sounded awful.
Dean cleared his throat, tried not to groan out loud as he grabbed the railing of the stairs to stand up, he failed.
“Sam?” he left the evidence on the back steps and got inside as quick as his body would allow, “You’re back early.”
“Ye -“ Sam was cut off when he started coughing again, doubling over.
“Alright, come on,” Dean got straight into big brother mode and pushed Sammy towards his bedroom.
Sam crawled into bed and Dean pulled the cover over him, “You take something?”
Sam nodded, “Yeah. I’m okay.”
“Sure, brother,” Dean patted his head, “Sleep it off.”
Dean began pulling Sam’s door shut behind him.
“Leave it open,” Sam groaned, concern in his voice.
“Alright, dude,” Dean grunted, leaving it open a crack.
He hurried out the back door and lent against the railing as he coughed. It was hard holding it in in front of Sam, and somehow it was already chesty. He glanced down at the things he’d left on the steps and rolled his eyes at how pathetic he was that he could hardly bend to pick them up. He used his foot to push the scrunched up toilet paper off the steps into the garden. He braced himself as he bent to grab the almost empty bottle. He couldn’t waste a drop.
As he screwed the lid back on and shuffled inside he hoped Bobby would be there soon. Because their little life they’d created here was on shaky ground, built on a cracking foundation, and Dean could only wait and watch as everything eventually came crashing down.
…
Bobby was supposed to be there in a few days, but the hunt went sideways, as it often did, and a few days turned into a week… two weeks. Sam was better now, but Dean couldn’t shake it. As he knew it would, his cold settled down deep in his lungs. It could have been the fact that he wasn’t allowing himself to cough when he needed to, or that at night he lay curled on his side choking into a towel he had clamped hard against his face so Sam didn’t hear him. He’d never felt so weak in his life. He’d started drinking more too, if that was possible. Because now that Sam was better he was back at work for longer, leaving Dean alone. Dean couldn’t stand being alone. Somehow Sam hadn’t noticed how sick Dean was. At first Dean thought it was a good thing, but then he started to wonder why, how he couldn’t notice.
Sam was at work when Dean started to sweat, and shake, and feel like he was going to vomit. He hadn’t eaten all day though so why was he feeling nauseous?
Maybe because you haven’t eaten all day, dickhead.
He got up off the couch and doubled over, clutching his midsection. He took a calming breath and straightened as the pain eased. He made it to the kitchen but coughed so hard he ended up with a mouthful of brown mucus.
“Crap.”
…
Dean called a taxi and went to the hospital. The cabby kept shooting strange looks into the rear view mirror at him, like he was scared he was going to up and die in his back seat. Dean would have thought it was funny if he wasn’t worrying about the same thing. He supposed he could have asked Dave and Maxine to drive him but they’d tell Sam, and Dean wanted to keep it a secret for now. They’d probably just give him antibiotics and send him home with a pat on the back. He knew it was bad though, hospital bad. That he had bronchitis or the beginnings of pneumonia.
When he entered the hospital and approached the triage nurse she gave him the same look as the cabby and he was seen straight away.
It’s just a cough, lady, was all he could think. But they had him in a bed, hooked up to machines, and taking blood within minutes.
They’d called Dr Reid in and when he walked in with a folder in his hand and a stern look on his face Dean knew something wasn’t right.
“Geez, doc, I’m not dying. It’s just a damn cough.”
“Dean… have you looked in the mirror?”
“What?” he croaked.
“You’re jaundice.”
“In english, please,” Dean huffed.
“You’re yellow.”
“Huh?” Dean raised his arms to look at his skin. His muscles were weak, sluggish, and Dr Reid was right. He was yellow.
“You’re blood test shows high quantities of liver enzymes in your blood.”
“That’s not a good thing, right?”
“You’re liver is severely inflamed, Dean. Does Sam know you’re here?”
“No, and he’s not going to know.”
“Dean…”
“Do not call my brother. Just fix me up and get me out of here by the morning.”
“That’s highly unlikely. You are an incredibly unwell man. You may have done permanent, irreversible damage to your liver.”
“Well, then do what you gotta do, but don’t call Sam.”
Dr Reid sighed, “Dean, is there anyone else I can call for you? Your uncle, perhaps? I think someone should be here with you.”
Dean closed his eyes, “No.”
“Okay,” Dr Reid sounded somber, “Before you sleep though, I need you to cough some mucus into this cup.”
…
Category: Gen
Rating: T
Characters: Dean, Sam, Bobby, Cas, a few OCs
Warning: Very mild language. Descriptions of Hell. Can be considered slightly AU as Dean is not healed from his old wounds when Castiel raised him from perdition. Angst. Descriptions of panic attacks and mental health content.
Disclaimer: They're pretty, but they're not mine.
Summary: Sequel to the story 'Taking Some Time'. Sam and Dean have found a little piece of normality in their messed up world, but Dean's still healing, physically and mentally.
Chapter Four
Dean was a friggen wreck. There were a lot of questions Sam wanted to ask, a lot of things he wanted to know about what had happened that evening, but just looking at his brother was enough to silence him. He didn’t need to know, not now. Dean didn’t need to tell him, didn’t need to justify himself, didn’t need to open up. Sam just had to be there for him. He just needed to look after him now. Pick up the pieces. At least that’s what Sam was good at.
“You’re sick…” Dean mumbled, as Sam helped him to bed.
“Yeah, well, you can look me over when we get you horizontal,” Sam joked, happy to see a smile tug at Dean’s mouth.
Dean cleared his throat, “Been a long day,” his voice was croaky. Pain and sorrow and guilt…
“I’ll bet,” Sam left it at that, seeing how Dean’s face hardened.
Sam helped lower Dean to sit on the bed, he winced and carefully rolled his shoulder.
“Shoulder hurting?” Sam nodded, sniffling, dragging the back of his hand under his nose.
“A little,” he shrugged.
Sam couldn’t believe the lines on Dean’s face. He looked like he’d aged years in the last few months. He’d lost muscle mass from not being able to mobilise. He was gaunt, lacking colour, except for around his eyes, which was a tender pink, fading into deep purple bruises to show the lack of sleep. Sam took a deep breath. Maybe Dean was worse off than he thought… much worse.
“You gonna stare at me all night?” Dean flicked his eyes up to Sam, annoyance evident in his gaze.
“Sorry, dude. You need anything?”
Dean sluggishly reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved a bottle of pills. His hands were shaking as he popped one in his mouth.
“Nah, I’m good.”
Sam recognized the bottle as Dean’s heavy duty painkillers and knew he’d be asleep in a few minutes, which was good because he definitely needed it.
Sam turned to the side and sneezed into his hands. When he looked back Dean was studying him.
“I’m fine,” he sniffed.
Dean grunted, “Yeah, sure.”
Sam helped Dean out of his jacket and jeans and pulled back the covers for him.
“Ice? Heat? Food? Anything?” he listed off, as Dean crawled under the covers, letting out a deep, weary sigh.
“Just tired…” he mumbled, closing his eyes.
Sam knew that was the end of the conversation.
…
Dean slept for ten hours. When he woke up his throat was dry and his nose was itchy. He didn’t know who it was. If it was Riley that got him sick, or Sam. It didn’t really matter anyway. All that mattered was this time he keep it under wraps, because if Sam was good at anything, it was feeling guilty. And Dean couldn't put that on him. Plus, the kid had enough to worry about as it was.
His whole body was sore. It was different to the usual pain in his back. Now it was all over. An ache in his muscles, needles of pain stabbing into his bones, his joints. And his head felt like the size of Texas.
When his eyes focused he could see Sam standing at his bedroom door.
“Thought you were never gonna wake up,” he smirked. His voice was husky.
“Did I…” Dean waved a hand.
“Nah, man. You slept like a baby.”
Dean snorted, “Well, what do ya know.”
Sam walked towards him, “You feeling okay?”
Geez, Sam had a nose on him like a bloodhound.
“I’m fine. Need more drugs…”
“I’ll grab ‘em. Sit tight.”
Dean sat up on the edge of his bed and scrubbed his face with both hands. Like a tidal wave, the memories of the previous night came flooding back. First he was reminded of how friggen useless he’d been at the bar. How the people looked at him like he was broken, weak. How he’d flashed back, lost his grip on reality. How Riley had to be gentle. The way she held his head as his tears stained her arms and chest. How he cried till he was dry, till there was nothing left.
“Here, man.”
Sam was in front of him, holding out a pill and a glass of water.
Dean grabbed it with a grunt and tossed it back.
God, he needed a drink.
Sam ducked to the side, coughing hard into his shoulder. It was phlegmy, harsh.
Dean couldn’t help but stare at him.
You’re not doing your job, he thought to himself.
“Sorry,” Sam mumbled, “I’m okay.”
“You don’t sound okay,” Dean cleared his throat, trying not to sound husky himself.
“I’m fine, it’s just a cough.”
Dean nodded, letting it go for now.
“Heard from Bobby?” Dean asked, because in his state he couldn’t look out for Sam, and he couldn’t expect Sammy to look out for him.
“He’s working a case in Florida, said he’ll swing by when he’s done, shouldn’t be more than a couple’a days.”
Dean sniffed discreetly, “Awesome.”
“I’ll, um,” Sam backed towards the door, “I’ll give you a minute.”
Dean nodded, “Hey, Sam.”
Sam stopped, “Yeah?”
“I missed rehab, didn’t I?”
Sam rubbed the back of his neck “Yeah, I called up for you. They moved you to tomorrow instead.”
“’Kay.”
The second Sam left the room Dean wobbled over to his duffle bag and pulled out a bottle. Two mouthfuls of scotch down the hatch. He winced at it. It burned.
…
Dean was drunk by the time he was showered, dressed, and presentable enough to leave his room. It didn’t matter that it was only 2pm on a weekday. He stumbled on his way down the hall, bracing against the wall as his back spasmed.
“You okay?” Sam came around the corner, hearing the ruckus.
Dean grinned, giving Sam a thumbs up.
Sam laughed, “You’re in a good mood.”
“Come on, Sammy,” Dean chuckled, limping towards him, “Don’t kill my buzz.”
“Alright,” Sam shrugged, “You sure you shouldn’t be using your cane still?”
“Shut up,” Dean whined, pushing past him.
Sam followed him and watched him as he carefully sat down on the couch.
“So, what else did the doctor say yesterday?”
Dean waved a hand, “Nothing. Everything’s fine. Fit as a fiddle.”
Sam narrowed his eyes, “Do you wanna go for a walk before I leave for work?”
Dean rubbed a hand up and down his thigh.
“You’re going to work?” he questioned, “You’re hacking up a lung.”
Sam rolled his eyes, “I’m fine.”
“Well then, get in the kitchen and make me some lunch. I’m starving.”
…
Sam could tell something wasn’t quite right with Dean. He was too… happy. Sam hated himself for thinking it, but it just wasn’t Dean these days. He barely smiled, never laughed, never joked, unless it was at his own expense, and even then it was more sad than anything. He didn’t realize until Dean completely bumped into him in the kitchen, spilling his juice on the bench.
“Dude, what the hell?”
“Sorry, Sammy,” Dean chuckled, wiping the juice up with his sleeve.
“Dean, look at me.”
Dean gave him a quick, annoyed glance, “What’s your problem?”
“Are you drunk?”
Dean snorted, then coughed, “Leave me alone, man.”
“Dean,” Sam grabbed his shoulder, turning him to look at him, being gentle as ever, “You’re drunk, aren’t you?”
Dean shook him off but didn’t answer.
“Dammit, Dean. You can’t do this.”
Dean turned fiery eyes on him and Sam thought he was about to get his head punched in.
“I said, leave me alone.”
“You’re going to kill yourself! You can’t drink like that and take those pills.”
Dean stumbled back towards the couch and sat down, turning the volume of the TV up.
“Dean, please.”
“I thought you were going to work,” he grumbled.
“Can I really leave you like this?” Sam sighed.
Dean glared at him and Sam sighed once more.
Well played, idiot.
“Fine.”
…
Dean sat on the back steps, the inky black sky closing around him. It was a bit cold out. The air hurt his lungs, and the whiskey burnt his throat. Outside he could hear the neighbours, clanging around getting dinner. Kids laughing and crying. Dogs barking. Crickets chirping. The sound of tyres rushing against the road. He tried to focus on that, on those sounds. Not the sounds of his own ragged breathing, of his heart pounding in his chest, his pulse loud in his ears. He felt like crap. His head was thumping and he was snotty and phlegmy. Fresh air was good for that, right?
He coughed loudly and openly towards his knees, took a sip of whiskey to numb the pain in his throat. It didn’t really help.
“Hhh’tscht!” he stifled, head jerking towards his chest.
He took a snotty snuffle and jerked with two more. He panted through his mouth.
“Well, this sucks,” he informed the universe.
He took a moment to clear his throat.
Sam wasn’t home. He could be sick. He could be weak. He could cough out loud. He could blow his nose, and no one would care. No one would care that he was sick.
No one would care.
He was coughing into his sleeve, feeling weak and sweaty, when he heard the front door open. He tensed up. The tension eased when he heard Sam’s barking cough. It was just Sam. He didn’t have to fight. But Sam was home early, and Dean was sitting outside, drinking a bottle of whiskey, next to a pile of snotty toilet paper. Crap.
“Dean?”
Shit, the kid sounded awful.
Dean cleared his throat, tried not to groan out loud as he grabbed the railing of the stairs to stand up, he failed.
“Sam?” he left the evidence on the back steps and got inside as quick as his body would allow, “You’re back early.”
“Ye -“ Sam was cut off when he started coughing again, doubling over.
“Alright, come on,” Dean got straight into big brother mode and pushed Sammy towards his bedroom.
Sam crawled into bed and Dean pulled the cover over him, “You take something?”
Sam nodded, “Yeah. I’m okay.”
“Sure, brother,” Dean patted his head, “Sleep it off.”
Dean began pulling Sam’s door shut behind him.
“Leave it open,” Sam groaned, concern in his voice.
“Alright, dude,” Dean grunted, leaving it open a crack.
He hurried out the back door and lent against the railing as he coughed. It was hard holding it in in front of Sam, and somehow it was already chesty. He glanced down at the things he’d left on the steps and rolled his eyes at how pathetic he was that he could hardly bend to pick them up. He used his foot to push the scrunched up toilet paper off the steps into the garden. He braced himself as he bent to grab the almost empty bottle. He couldn’t waste a drop.
As he screwed the lid back on and shuffled inside he hoped Bobby would be there soon. Because their little life they’d created here was on shaky ground, built on a cracking foundation, and Dean could only wait and watch as everything eventually came crashing down.
…
Bobby was supposed to be there in a few days, but the hunt went sideways, as it often did, and a few days turned into a week… two weeks. Sam was better now, but Dean couldn’t shake it. As he knew it would, his cold settled down deep in his lungs. It could have been the fact that he wasn’t allowing himself to cough when he needed to, or that at night he lay curled on his side choking into a towel he had clamped hard against his face so Sam didn’t hear him. He’d never felt so weak in his life. He’d started drinking more too, if that was possible. Because now that Sam was better he was back at work for longer, leaving Dean alone. Dean couldn’t stand being alone. Somehow Sam hadn’t noticed how sick Dean was. At first Dean thought it was a good thing, but then he started to wonder why, how he couldn’t notice.
Sam was at work when Dean started to sweat, and shake, and feel like he was going to vomit. He hadn’t eaten all day though so why was he feeling nauseous?
Maybe because you haven’t eaten all day, dickhead.
He got up off the couch and doubled over, clutching his midsection. He took a calming breath and straightened as the pain eased. He made it to the kitchen but coughed so hard he ended up with a mouthful of brown mucus.
“Crap.”
…
Dean called a taxi and went to the hospital. The cabby kept shooting strange looks into the rear view mirror at him, like he was scared he was going to up and die in his back seat. Dean would have thought it was funny if he wasn’t worrying about the same thing. He supposed he could have asked Dave and Maxine to drive him but they’d tell Sam, and Dean wanted to keep it a secret for now. They’d probably just give him antibiotics and send him home with a pat on the back. He knew it was bad though, hospital bad. That he had bronchitis or the beginnings of pneumonia.
When he entered the hospital and approached the triage nurse she gave him the same look as the cabby and he was seen straight away.
It’s just a cough, lady, was all he could think. But they had him in a bed, hooked up to machines, and taking blood within minutes.
They’d called Dr Reid in and when he walked in with a folder in his hand and a stern look on his face Dean knew something wasn’t right.
“Geez, doc, I’m not dying. It’s just a damn cough.”
“Dean… have you looked in the mirror?”
“What?” he croaked.
“You’re jaundice.”
“In english, please,” Dean huffed.
“You’re yellow.”
“Huh?” Dean raised his arms to look at his skin. His muscles were weak, sluggish, and Dr Reid was right. He was yellow.
“You’re blood test shows high quantities of liver enzymes in your blood.”
“That’s not a good thing, right?”
“You’re liver is severely inflamed, Dean. Does Sam know you’re here?”
“No, and he’s not going to know.”
“Dean…”
“Do not call my brother. Just fix me up and get me out of here by the morning.”
“That’s highly unlikely. You are an incredibly unwell man. You may have done permanent, irreversible damage to your liver.”
“Well, then do what you gotta do, but don’t call Sam.”
Dr Reid sighed, “Dean, is there anyone else I can call for you? Your uncle, perhaps? I think someone should be here with you.”
Dean closed his eyes, “No.”
“Okay,” Dr Reid sounded somber, “Before you sleep though, I need you to cough some mucus into this cup.”
…