Fic: You're All I Need, Part 2 (SPN)
Someone somewhere said they wanted to know what happened next. It doesn't take much :P Here's a follow up.
Part 2
Dean pulls into the motel parking lot and kills the engine. He breathes a few deeps breaths, trying to ready himself to stand. He’s not feeling any better since their brief pit stop at the service station, in fact he’s feeling worse. And Sam, as bad a shape as he’s in right now, is bound to notice.
“I’ll get us a room,” Dean says, rough in this throat, but makes no move to get up yet.
“You okay?” Sam asks, and he sounds so weak that Dean has to close his eyes, try to force the image of him lying dead on the floor out of his head. Nearly dead, he corrects himself.
“Just tired,” Dean offers him a small smirk and gets out of the car.
They’re not far enough out of the woods yet. In more ways than one. Dean doesn’t like how he can still see forest. But there’s no getting any further, not tonight, not with him behind he wheel.
He tries to pull a push door and almost ends up on his ass on the wet gravel. His movements are sloppy, and his stomach is still roiling. He briefly worries he’s about to decorate the register book, but he swallows thickly, steels himself enough to make some awkward chit chat with the clerk and steady his hand to write his name. Fake name, he has to remind himself.
Sam is still sitting in the car when he wanders out. The sun flashes in his eyes and he blacks out for a second. When he comes back to himself Sam is struggling upright, sweat on his neck.
“Take it easy, man,” Dean mumbles as he puts a hand on Sam’s shoulder.
“I’m good,” Sam says, but his teeth are clenched.
“I’ll grab the bags,” Dean offers.
“What number is it, dude?” Sam asks, confused.
“Uh, here’s the key,” Dean hands him the key with the numbered tag on it.
To be honest he doesn’t remember what number the clerk had told him, and he can’t focus his eyes long enough to read it. So he hands it over to Sam and lets him lead the way.
Dean almost buckles under the weight of the bags, a stab in his chest reminding him ribs.
Sam unlocks the door. Even though he’s the one that’s in the most pain right now, his hands are steadier than Dean’s. He holds out a hand, offering to take one of the bags, probably because Dean’s struggling so much, but Dean just growls.
“I got it. Sit your ass down.”
Sam rolls his eyes a little and makes his way gingerly over to the bed, breathing out slowly as he sits.
Dean dumps everything on the floor by the wall so it’s semi out of the way. He has to close his eyes to stop the world spinning, an action that does not go unnoticed by Sam.
“Dean, you alright?”
Dean feels his breath quickening as the rolling of his stomach increases tenfold.
“You gonna puke?” Sam asks gently, but he doesn’t sound like he’s moving. Probably because he’s the one that injured right now.
Dean hears the word puke and it’s enough to send him over the edge. The delicate grip he’d had on keeping it together lost down the yellowed toilet of a two bit motel room. At least he had enough sense to close the door behind him.
It’s a while before he can stand to wash his face and rinse his mouth. He tries not to look at his own reflection, but he can’t help it. His eyes are red rimmed and glassy, face pale, dripping with beads of water and sweat. If he had any hope of hiding this from Sam, that hope was shattered.
Sam was still sitting on the edge of the bed when Dean pushed the bathroom door open, a hand pressed over his stomach, looking like he’d been thinking about getting up to check that whole time.
“You okay?”
Dean nodded, feeling anything but okay.
“What’s going on with you?”
Dean sits on the edge of his bed, across from his brother and massages his brow with his fingers, “It’s been a rough few days, that’s all.”
“You sick?” Sam asks, quite redundantly.
“I think it’s just exhaustion, you know? I’ll be fine.”
Sam nods, swallowing carefully.
“How you doing?” Dean says, pointing towards Sam’s abdomen.
“Bit sore, bit tired. I’ll live,” he shrugs.
Dean closes his eyes again. In the blackness of his eyelids the world is still spinning.
“Dean.”
When Dean opens his eyes Sam is standing in front of him.
“What?”
“I said lie down before you fall down.”
“Oh.”
Sam’s hand pushes him back and he falls against the pillow, letting out a groan of pain, because ribs.
Dean watches, blinking slowly as Sam rattles out some painkillers onto his palm. Sam’s hands are shaking and he looks pale, he tips a pill into his mouth and swallows it dry, before handing one to his brother.
“Here, medicate.”
Dean swallows it dry too, because he doesn’t want even water in his belly right now. He doesn’t know if it's a bad thing to take painkillers with the barbiturates still in his system but he can’t exactly say that to Sam, besides he’s in pain.
“Should be… looking after you,” Dean slurs, feeling his eyelids droop.
“You can look after me when you can stand up on your own.”
“Sammy…” Dean whines.
He worries that he’s going to be sick again, because the world is still spinning, there’s still two Sams in front of him, and his body feels thick, heavy, shaking, and sick.
“I gotcha,” Sam muttered, groaning his way across the room to grab a trashcan and set it by Dean’s bed.
“Sam,” Dean says, finding his brother’s eyes.
“Yeah, Dean?” Sam is already getting into his own bed.
“I’m glad you didn’t die.”
Sam actually laughs, “Me too, man. Get some sleep.”
Dean scratches his nose and lets his eyes close, “Wake me if ya…”
“I will.”
Dean hears Sam settle, huffing and puffing with pain, but once he stops Dean relaxes. Some sleep and he’ll be fine. They both will. All they need is a little sleep.
End.
Part 2
Dean pulls into the motel parking lot and kills the engine. He breathes a few deeps breaths, trying to ready himself to stand. He’s not feeling any better since their brief pit stop at the service station, in fact he’s feeling worse. And Sam, as bad a shape as he’s in right now, is bound to notice.
“I’ll get us a room,” Dean says, rough in this throat, but makes no move to get up yet.
“You okay?” Sam asks, and he sounds so weak that Dean has to close his eyes, try to force the image of him lying dead on the floor out of his head. Nearly dead, he corrects himself.
“Just tired,” Dean offers him a small smirk and gets out of the car.
They’re not far enough out of the woods yet. In more ways than one. Dean doesn’t like how he can still see forest. But there’s no getting any further, not tonight, not with him behind he wheel.
He tries to pull a push door and almost ends up on his ass on the wet gravel. His movements are sloppy, and his stomach is still roiling. He briefly worries he’s about to decorate the register book, but he swallows thickly, steels himself enough to make some awkward chit chat with the clerk and steady his hand to write his name. Fake name, he has to remind himself.
Sam is still sitting in the car when he wanders out. The sun flashes in his eyes and he blacks out for a second. When he comes back to himself Sam is struggling upright, sweat on his neck.
“Take it easy, man,” Dean mumbles as he puts a hand on Sam’s shoulder.
“I’m good,” Sam says, but his teeth are clenched.
“I’ll grab the bags,” Dean offers.
“What number is it, dude?” Sam asks, confused.
“Uh, here’s the key,” Dean hands him the key with the numbered tag on it.
To be honest he doesn’t remember what number the clerk had told him, and he can’t focus his eyes long enough to read it. So he hands it over to Sam and lets him lead the way.
Dean almost buckles under the weight of the bags, a stab in his chest reminding him ribs.
Sam unlocks the door. Even though he’s the one that’s in the most pain right now, his hands are steadier than Dean’s. He holds out a hand, offering to take one of the bags, probably because Dean’s struggling so much, but Dean just growls.
“I got it. Sit your ass down.”
Sam rolls his eyes a little and makes his way gingerly over to the bed, breathing out slowly as he sits.
Dean dumps everything on the floor by the wall so it’s semi out of the way. He has to close his eyes to stop the world spinning, an action that does not go unnoticed by Sam.
“Dean, you alright?”
Dean feels his breath quickening as the rolling of his stomach increases tenfold.
“You gonna puke?” Sam asks gently, but he doesn’t sound like he’s moving. Probably because he’s the one that injured right now.
Dean hears the word puke and it’s enough to send him over the edge. The delicate grip he’d had on keeping it together lost down the yellowed toilet of a two bit motel room. At least he had enough sense to close the door behind him.
It’s a while before he can stand to wash his face and rinse his mouth. He tries not to look at his own reflection, but he can’t help it. His eyes are red rimmed and glassy, face pale, dripping with beads of water and sweat. If he had any hope of hiding this from Sam, that hope was shattered.
Sam was still sitting on the edge of the bed when Dean pushed the bathroom door open, a hand pressed over his stomach, looking like he’d been thinking about getting up to check that whole time.
“You okay?”
Dean nodded, feeling anything but okay.
“What’s going on with you?”
Dean sits on the edge of his bed, across from his brother and massages his brow with his fingers, “It’s been a rough few days, that’s all.”
“You sick?” Sam asks, quite redundantly.
“I think it’s just exhaustion, you know? I’ll be fine.”
Sam nods, swallowing carefully.
“How you doing?” Dean says, pointing towards Sam’s abdomen.
“Bit sore, bit tired. I’ll live,” he shrugs.
Dean closes his eyes again. In the blackness of his eyelids the world is still spinning.
“Dean.”
When Dean opens his eyes Sam is standing in front of him.
“What?”
“I said lie down before you fall down.”
“Oh.”
Sam’s hand pushes him back and he falls against the pillow, letting out a groan of pain, because ribs.
Dean watches, blinking slowly as Sam rattles out some painkillers onto his palm. Sam’s hands are shaking and he looks pale, he tips a pill into his mouth and swallows it dry, before handing one to his brother.
“Here, medicate.”
Dean swallows it dry too, because he doesn’t want even water in his belly right now. He doesn’t know if it's a bad thing to take painkillers with the barbiturates still in his system but he can’t exactly say that to Sam, besides he’s in pain.
“Should be… looking after you,” Dean slurs, feeling his eyelids droop.
“You can look after me when you can stand up on your own.”
“Sammy…” Dean whines.
He worries that he’s going to be sick again, because the world is still spinning, there’s still two Sams in front of him, and his body feels thick, heavy, shaking, and sick.
“I gotcha,” Sam muttered, groaning his way across the room to grab a trashcan and set it by Dean’s bed.
“Sam,” Dean says, finding his brother’s eyes.
“Yeah, Dean?” Sam is already getting into his own bed.
“I’m glad you didn’t die.”
Sam actually laughs, “Me too, man. Get some sleep.”
Dean scratches his nose and lets his eyes close, “Wake me if ya…”
“I will.”
Dean hears Sam settle, huffing and puffing with pain, but once he stops Dean relaxes. Some sleep and he’ll be fine. They both will. All they need is a little sleep.
End.