Fic: Driver Picks the Music 2/2 (SPN)
Part One: http://missbayliss.livejournal.com/16459.html
Part Two
It's in Jacksonville, hunting a vengeful spirit when Dean starts coughing sporadically while driving.
After three or four times, and Dean groaning at himself Sam asks him what's wrong.
"Tickle in my throat," he says and coughs again as if to make a point.
"You getting sick?"
"Don't feel sick, just," he clears his throat, "I dunno. It's nothing. Shut up."
So, Sam shuts up.
The salt and burn only makes it worse and Dean tries to say he stood too close to the smoke, even though it’s never been an issue before.
That night Dean sits at the table in the motel and coughs dry, grating hacks into his fist until 4 in the morning.
"Not sick, huh?"
"Dude, I'm fine. I feel great just..."
"Tickle in your throat?"
Dean glares at Sam, "Yeah."
"We'll get some cough syrup in the morning."
"Like hell."
By Toledo, he's still coughing, so he finally gives in, presumably as annoyed as Sam is by it.
The cough syrup seems to work during the day but he can't get to sleep at night. Sam's more than aware of it but Dean insists he's not sick... but the 'tickle in his throat' excuse only stretches so far.
Still, it doesn't seem to worry him too much, and it doesn't affect his work, so he gets on with it, and Sam let's him.
After Toledo they work another two cases, and Dean's not great at interviewing, or stakeouts anymore because the cough is pretty persistent now.
When they get back to the bunker Dean disappears to his room and there's little to be seen of him for the next few days, which isn’t all that unusual when they’ve been on the road for a while. Sam can hear him coughing from his room, and the library, but Dean comes out and grunts at him every now and again, gets food and wanders back to his room. His face is flushed every time he sees him, pink cheeks like he's been out in the cold.
Now that his face is down on the table and he's radiating heat Sam's a little more than worried. Dean doesn’t stir when Sam puts an intrusive hand on the back of his neck to test for fever, but then he’s so hot Sam realizes that’s probably why he’s out cold. When a cold wet washer on his neck doesn’t rouse him Sam’s already decided he needs to get him to a doctor… ASAP.
"Dean,” he says softly, both hands on Dean’s shoulders, “Wake up, man. Time to go to the doctor.”
Sam tries to wake him several times but doesn’t elicit more than an unamused groan. Sam goes to the kitchen and is bringing back a glass of water when Dean stirs slowly.
Sam tries talking him around, “Come on, man.”
Dean seems to struggle just pushing himself up.
“You alright, man? We’re going to the doctor, Mr I’m not sick.”
Dean blinks at the table and then finally looks up at him.
"Hey, there he is," Sam jokes, realizing Dean spaced on everything he's said so far.
Dean coughs and Sam can’t help the worried expression that takes over his face. It sounds way worse than it did the last time he heard it. It’s ridiculously wet, and there’s an audible wheeze emanating from his chest.
“Geez, how long you been coughing like that?”
Dean rubs at his face, sleepily, and his eyes look a little red.
“Since Toledo.”
Sam tries to tell him he’s had the cough even longer and find out when it turned into this, but Dean’s really out of it.
When he places his hand on his back he’s alarmed because Dean seems even warmer than he was a minute ago.
Eventually he coxes him enough to stand up, contemplating if a hospital is a more appropriate choice.
When Dean announces he’s going to be sick it’s clear he can’t make a move to stop himself throwing up all over the table so Sam grabs a nearby trashcan and shoves it under his chin just in time. Dean doesn’t throw up so much as he coughs and gags strings of yellow bile into the bin, flop sweat running down his face. It’s a sign of how sick he is, and also how little he’s eaten lately, if anything at all.
Sam rubs the washcloth over Dean’s face, trying to steady him where he stands, but soon enough the very little colour he had in his cheeks runs away and his eyes roll back in his head.
Sam could see it coming so he’s prepared to take the weight, hoisting Dean up, with difficulty, until he’s carrying him bridal style.
Dean’s eyes flutter open on the way to the Impala, Sam grunting under the dead weight that is his 6’1” brother.
“When did’you get so big?” he rasps, his voice sounding gruff but childlike.
Sam huffs a breathless laugh and when he glances back down, Dean’s eyes are shut again.
He shoves his brother’s warm, disobedient limbs into the car and sets off for the nearest clinic.
On the way Dean asks about seven times where they’re going. He coughs the whole way, making Sam stop once so he can throw nothing up on the side of the road.
Dean teeter-totters on his feet on the way into the clinic, making Sam think it’d be easier just to punch him out and carry him the rest of the way. It’s obvious at this point though that the cough is a serious problem.
Sam watches the terrible poker face the doctor has as he listens to Dean’s lungs. The fever’s made Dean compliant though, and he doesn’t even flinch when he gets a jab in the arm. Probably because he looks like he’s focusing so hard on keeping the cough at bay while near pointy instruments.
Soon enough they’re back in the car heading home and Dean looks like death warmed over, but then, they’d met Death, and even he had more colour than Dean.
Sam is taking the narrow window of opportunity he has to listen to his music in the car, and surprisingly Dean hasn’t commented on it until now. Still he doesn’t comment, he just reaches a shaking hand towards the radio, a scowl on his face. Sam smiles at the childlike nature of the attempt, and gently nudges his hand away.
“Driver picks the music.”
Dean looks confused for a moment and then coughs for a good minute.
“Don’t quote me to me.”
Sam laughs, and maybe it’s because he’s so relieved, but Dean is still very sick, and even though Sam got him to a doctor before he collapsed a lung, it’s still going to be a tough couple of days ahead.
“Could you,” Dean uncurls from his position against the passenger side door and sinks down in his seat, spreading out his arms and legs, “turn up the a/c.”
“You hot?” Sam asks, but complies.
“Yeah,” Dean coughs.
“Well, maybe that’s a good sign.”
Dean falls asleep after that, lungs crackling and breathing a little too quickly for Sam’s liking.
When they pull back into the bunker garage Dean’s tossing, caught in a fever dream. He’s sweating buckets.
Sam shepherds him from the car, through the bunker and down the hall towards his room. He passes out again along the way and Sam has to carry him the rest of the way to his bed.
“Geez, you’re heavy,” Sam grunts, placing Dean on his sheets.
Sam has to sit down by his brother’s bed and catch his breath after the ordeal. He’s a strong guy and by no means small, but neither is Dean, and the journey leaves him in need of a rest.
The chair is where he sits for the majority of the day.
Dean’s fever reduces as the day goes on and he appears more lucid the next time he wakes up. He coughs long and hard, unable to contain it, so Sam hands him his inhaler. Dean takes a shot and looks a little embarrassed, or it might just be the flush from the fit. He looks down at the inhaler and shakes his head.
“Thanks, Sammy… you know -“ his voice is rough and thick with phlegm.
Sam puts up a hand to stop him, “No chick flick moments.”
Dean furrows his brow, coughs once into his elbow, “Bitch.”
Sam laughs, “Yeah, whatever, jerk.”
End
Part Two
It's in Jacksonville, hunting a vengeful spirit when Dean starts coughing sporadically while driving.
After three or four times, and Dean groaning at himself Sam asks him what's wrong.
"Tickle in my throat," he says and coughs again as if to make a point.
"You getting sick?"
"Don't feel sick, just," he clears his throat, "I dunno. It's nothing. Shut up."
So, Sam shuts up.
The salt and burn only makes it worse and Dean tries to say he stood too close to the smoke, even though it’s never been an issue before.
That night Dean sits at the table in the motel and coughs dry, grating hacks into his fist until 4 in the morning.
"Not sick, huh?"
"Dude, I'm fine. I feel great just..."
"Tickle in your throat?"
Dean glares at Sam, "Yeah."
"We'll get some cough syrup in the morning."
"Like hell."
By Toledo, he's still coughing, so he finally gives in, presumably as annoyed as Sam is by it.
The cough syrup seems to work during the day but he can't get to sleep at night. Sam's more than aware of it but Dean insists he's not sick... but the 'tickle in his throat' excuse only stretches so far.
Still, it doesn't seem to worry him too much, and it doesn't affect his work, so he gets on with it, and Sam let's him.
After Toledo they work another two cases, and Dean's not great at interviewing, or stakeouts anymore because the cough is pretty persistent now.
When they get back to the bunker Dean disappears to his room and there's little to be seen of him for the next few days, which isn’t all that unusual when they’ve been on the road for a while. Sam can hear him coughing from his room, and the library, but Dean comes out and grunts at him every now and again, gets food and wanders back to his room. His face is flushed every time he sees him, pink cheeks like he's been out in the cold.
Now that his face is down on the table and he's radiating heat Sam's a little more than worried. Dean doesn’t stir when Sam puts an intrusive hand on the back of his neck to test for fever, but then he’s so hot Sam realizes that’s probably why he’s out cold. When a cold wet washer on his neck doesn’t rouse him Sam’s already decided he needs to get him to a doctor… ASAP.
"Dean,” he says softly, both hands on Dean’s shoulders, “Wake up, man. Time to go to the doctor.”
Sam tries to wake him several times but doesn’t elicit more than an unamused groan. Sam goes to the kitchen and is bringing back a glass of water when Dean stirs slowly.
Sam tries talking him around, “Come on, man.”
Dean seems to struggle just pushing himself up.
“You alright, man? We’re going to the doctor, Mr I’m not sick.”
Dean blinks at the table and then finally looks up at him.
"Hey, there he is," Sam jokes, realizing Dean spaced on everything he's said so far.
Dean coughs and Sam can’t help the worried expression that takes over his face. It sounds way worse than it did the last time he heard it. It’s ridiculously wet, and there’s an audible wheeze emanating from his chest.
“Geez, how long you been coughing like that?”
Dean rubs at his face, sleepily, and his eyes look a little red.
“Since Toledo.”
Sam tries to tell him he’s had the cough even longer and find out when it turned into this, but Dean’s really out of it.
When he places his hand on his back he’s alarmed because Dean seems even warmer than he was a minute ago.
Eventually he coxes him enough to stand up, contemplating if a hospital is a more appropriate choice.
When Dean announces he’s going to be sick it’s clear he can’t make a move to stop himself throwing up all over the table so Sam grabs a nearby trashcan and shoves it under his chin just in time. Dean doesn’t throw up so much as he coughs and gags strings of yellow bile into the bin, flop sweat running down his face. It’s a sign of how sick he is, and also how little he’s eaten lately, if anything at all.
Sam rubs the washcloth over Dean’s face, trying to steady him where he stands, but soon enough the very little colour he had in his cheeks runs away and his eyes roll back in his head.
Sam could see it coming so he’s prepared to take the weight, hoisting Dean up, with difficulty, until he’s carrying him bridal style.
Dean’s eyes flutter open on the way to the Impala, Sam grunting under the dead weight that is his 6’1” brother.
“When did’you get so big?” he rasps, his voice sounding gruff but childlike.
Sam huffs a breathless laugh and when he glances back down, Dean’s eyes are shut again.
He shoves his brother’s warm, disobedient limbs into the car and sets off for the nearest clinic.
On the way Dean asks about seven times where they’re going. He coughs the whole way, making Sam stop once so he can throw nothing up on the side of the road.
Dean teeter-totters on his feet on the way into the clinic, making Sam think it’d be easier just to punch him out and carry him the rest of the way. It’s obvious at this point though that the cough is a serious problem.
Sam watches the terrible poker face the doctor has as he listens to Dean’s lungs. The fever’s made Dean compliant though, and he doesn’t even flinch when he gets a jab in the arm. Probably because he looks like he’s focusing so hard on keeping the cough at bay while near pointy instruments.
Soon enough they’re back in the car heading home and Dean looks like death warmed over, but then, they’d met Death, and even he had more colour than Dean.
Sam is taking the narrow window of opportunity he has to listen to his music in the car, and surprisingly Dean hasn’t commented on it until now. Still he doesn’t comment, he just reaches a shaking hand towards the radio, a scowl on his face. Sam smiles at the childlike nature of the attempt, and gently nudges his hand away.
“Driver picks the music.”
Dean looks confused for a moment and then coughs for a good minute.
“Don’t quote me to me.”
Sam laughs, and maybe it’s because he’s so relieved, but Dean is still very sick, and even though Sam got him to a doctor before he collapsed a lung, it’s still going to be a tough couple of days ahead.
“Could you,” Dean uncurls from his position against the passenger side door and sinks down in his seat, spreading out his arms and legs, “turn up the a/c.”
“You hot?” Sam asks, but complies.
“Yeah,” Dean coughs.
“Well, maybe that’s a good sign.”
Dean falls asleep after that, lungs crackling and breathing a little too quickly for Sam’s liking.
When they pull back into the bunker garage Dean’s tossing, caught in a fever dream. He’s sweating buckets.
Sam shepherds him from the car, through the bunker and down the hall towards his room. He passes out again along the way and Sam has to carry him the rest of the way to his bed.
“Geez, you’re heavy,” Sam grunts, placing Dean on his sheets.
Sam has to sit down by his brother’s bed and catch his breath after the ordeal. He’s a strong guy and by no means small, but neither is Dean, and the journey leaves him in need of a rest.
The chair is where he sits for the majority of the day.
Dean’s fever reduces as the day goes on and he appears more lucid the next time he wakes up. He coughs long and hard, unable to contain it, so Sam hands him his inhaler. Dean takes a shot and looks a little embarrassed, or it might just be the flush from the fit. He looks down at the inhaler and shakes his head.
“Thanks, Sammy… you know -“ his voice is rough and thick with phlegm.
Sam puts up a hand to stop him, “No chick flick moments.”
Dean furrows his brow, coughs once into his elbow, “Bitch.”
Sam laughs, “Yeah, whatever, jerk.”
End