Fic: Taking Some Time (SPN) Chapter Ten
Genre: Sick!fic, Epic, Slightly AU
Category: Gen
Rating: T
Characters: Dean, Sam, Bobby
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.
Disclaimer: They're pretty, but they're not mine.
Summary: Dean is a little worse off coming off a hunt than he let on. He's fresh from hell and caring a lot of scars, physically and mentally. A bad back, bad shoulder, PTSD, insomnia, alcohol abuse, and a nasty virus to top it all off. Maybe the boys need to take a break and try to get Dean back on track. It might be harder than they thought.
Taking Some Time
Chapter Ten
Dean struggled to breathe. Trying so hard to stop the tears that kept streaming from his face. It was like the time he’d told Sam what really happened in hell. All of this weight had been crushing in on him, and he’d tried to build his own walls to keep it all back, but all at once that had failed. And he was drowning. Now. Again.
His hand wrapped in Bobby’s vest, face in he crook of his neck, smelling his cologne mixed with whiskey and old books. He was always weaker with Bobby. No one to hide from anymore. Sam he had to be brave for. Sam he had to watch out for. Bobby… Bobby looked out for him.
“It’s okay, boy. I got you,” Bobby muttered, arms tight around him, not letting him go even though Dean knew his nose was running all over him.
“Bobby…” Dean breathed in through the sobs.
“Shh, Dean. It’s all right… You’re gonna be alright.”
…
Sam let his brother go, sensing his urgent need to escape. He went to the reception counter to pay the bill. Upwards of five hundred dollars. Geez. This was just the start… and they could barely even afford that.
Sam stopped cold dead in the doorway.
Bobby had a hand around Dean’s waist, the other on the back of his neck, pulling him in close. Dean’s hand was clasping at the material of Bobby’s vest, his whole body shaking, racking as he sobbed silently into Bobby’s shoulder. Sam’s face tensed at the sight. Him coming in now, while Dean was so vulnerable, would be the worst thing he could do. Dean would react on fight or flight response… and Dean’s response was always fight. So, he let them be, trusting Bobby could handle it.
…
“Bobby… I can’t…” he set his jaw, pulled his face away so he could look at him, “I need some help.”
Bobby’s hand wrapped around his jawline, thumb reaching round to the other side of his face, “I know, son.”
The tears in Bobby’s eyes made things worse. He didn’t want anyone to worry about him. But at the same time, he loved it that someone did.
Bobby removed his hand, and started undoing buttons on Dean’s shirt, buttoning him up the right way. He gave his shirt a little tug, just to bring them closer together.
Dean sniffed hard and ran a hand down his face, wiping away most of the tears but leaving a mess still remaining. Bobby started on his sling next, buckling it up for him. Then he glanced down at his crotch.
He looked at Dean, “You’re on your own there. I ain’t touching that one,” Bobby smirked.
Dean felt a smile naturally tug at his lips, and even that was exhausting. He reached his good hand down and tugged up his fly.
“Alright, come on, son. I’ll drive you back to the house,” Bobby put a hand on Dean’s good shoulder.
Dean started to glance back to see where Sam was but Bobby steered him towards the car.
“Sam can handle that, boy.”
Dean stuffed his hand in his pocket and allowed Bobby to direct him towards his car. Besides, he didn’t want Sam too have to see him like this.
…
Dean stared out the window sniffling quietly.
Bobby turned the radio on and let ‘The Gambler’ play, just so Dean could sniffle as loudly as he liked.
…
Sam watched Bobby shepherd Dean into his car and drive off towards the house. He let out a breath. He knew things were bad. He knew Dean was hanging on by a thread. He’d grown complacent waiting for it to break. He wasn’t ready for it to happen now. It wasn’t going to be easy, for him, or Bobby, least of all Dean.
Sam took his time getting home. He stopped in at a supermarket for a cheap toaster, a few washcloths, and some reusable ice packs. There had to be other things he was forgetting, but they were tight on cash, their phony credit cards almost maxed. And he didn’t know how much more Dean would need to get him through this. His medications alone were costing an arm and a leg.
He drove twice around the block before pulling into the garage, Bobby’s car parked on the street in front of the house.
Sam opened the front door, bags hanging off his wrists.
“Hey, Bobby,” he smiled, dumping his purchases, and the large envelop containing Dean’s MRI images on the kitchen counter.
Bobby turned from the stove to give Sam a hug.
“How you doing, boy?” he asked, turning back to stir the pot on the hotplate.
Sam sighed, “Been better. What’re you making?”
“Chili,” Bobby said over his shoulder.
Sam raised an eyebrow, “We had enough stuff for that?”
“I improvised,” Bobby grinned, “Your neighbour’s awful nice.”
“Maxine?” Sam said, “Yeah, we were lucky… Where’s Dean?”
Bobby tilted his head in the direction of the hallway, “He’s passed out. Got him to take his meds and a shower.”
Sam smiled, looking down, “Bobby, is he, uh… is he…”
“He’ll be okay, Sam. I know it looks pretty bad now. But this is Dean we’re talking about.”
“I don’t know, Bobby. This time it’s different,” Sam closed his eyes, and blew out a breath, leaning heavily on the counter, “I feel like I’m losing him.”
“Sam,” Bobby took the pot off the heat, turning off the stove, and turned to face him, his hand landing on Sam’s shoulder, squeezing tight, “Just give him some time to adjust. He’s got a lot going on.”
Sam nodded, rubbing a hand through his hair.
“When was the last time you slept, boy?”
Sam shook his head, “I’m fine.”
Bobby raised an eyebrow, “Bull… You’re wound so tight you’re about to snap, or fall in a heap. Take your pick.”
Sam hung his head, felt Bobby’s hand dig into his shoulder, massaging away the knots of worry.
And right on schedule...
"HELP! HELP ME!"
Sam and Bobby raced into Dean's room. His head was whipping back and forth against the pillow.
Sam went to his side.
"Dean! Dean, wake up. It's okay..."
Dean was panting, eyes clamped shut like he was afraid to open them.
Sam's hand stroked Dean's sweaty forehead, pushing back his damp hair.
"Oh, Jesus. He's got a fever again..."
"S'mmy?"
"Hey, Dean? You awake?"
"Bobby?" He asked, voice grating like his throat was dry.
"I'm right here, son."
The corner of Dean's mouth turned up and his breathing evened out. And he was asleep again.
Sam pinched the bridge on his nose, holding onto his brother’s forearm to let him know he was still there.
“Alright,” Bobby blew out a breath, “Bed time for you, kid.”
Sam shook his head, “Someone’s gotta watch him.”
“What am I? A piece of furniture?” Bobby grumbled, looking offended, “I wasn’t asking you. Go get some sleep. I’ll handle this.”
Sam stood up, arching his back in a stretch, “Don’t suppose there’s enough chili for me?” he smirked.
Bobby smiled, “Sure there is. Bring us a bowl in here and I’ll get Dean to have some dinner.”
“Okay,” Sam said. He paused at the doorway, holding onto the doorframe and looking at a very interesting spot on the wall, “Thanks, Bobby.”
“… Don’t mention it.”
…
“Dean? Come on, son. I made your favourite, so you better wake up and have some.”
Dean’s head pounded, his nose was stuffed up, and his chest felt heavy. He was hot and cold, and sore and numb. Mostly his eyes stung, and his lips were cracked and dry, in the aftermath of his breakdown.
“Aw, come on. You used to love my chili.”
Bobby was chattering in his ear and he wanted to open his eyes but he was in that empty void between sleep and consciousness and he couldn’t even move his eyelids enough to open them.
“Dean.”
He drew enough energy from somewhere to moan.
“There he is. Come on, boy.”
Dean’s eyes flitted open and Bobby’s scruffy face came into view. Dean reached his right hand up to rub at his eyes with the back of his hand.
“Ain’t that a face to wake up to.”
“Shut up, idgit,” Bobby said, lightly.
Why was he sleeping anyway? He though he swore off sleep…
“Time for dinner. Then you can go back to sleep,” Bobby said.
“I’m not eating in bed,” Dean grumbled.
“Why not?”
“’Cause I’m not a cripple,” Dean bit, trying to heave himself up, “Give me a hand.”
Bobby helped Dean to sit on the edge of his bed.
“How did this get so bad, Dean?”
“It was always this bad,” Dean grumbled, coughing against his fist.
“It was this bad when it first happened, when I had you hobbling around my place for 3 months. I thought things got better. You haven’t mentioned it in years.”
“Just getting old,” Dean shrugged.
“Naw, that ain’t it…”
Bobby stared at Dean in silence, and Dean was too tired to fight.
“I got thrown,” Dean sighed, defeated.
Bobby furrowed his brow, “By what?”
“Does it matter?” Dean looked up at him, “Stirred things up. But, uh, it’s been getting worse for a while now… I let my guard down, gave the vamp the jump on me. That’s how this happened,” he gestured to his shoulder.
Bobby shook his head.
“You didn’t… tell Sam, did you? About the accident?”
“No, Dean, I didn’t say nothin’. It’s not doing either of you any good keeping it from him though.”
“He doesn’t need to know, Bobby. Trust me. It’s better for everyone…”
“Whatever you say, son. But you’re shouldering a lot on your own here. Sam and I are here for you. Whatever you need.”
Dean squinted at Bobby, “We done sharing and caring?”
Bobby laughed, “Yeah, ya idgit.”
“Alright, cause I can smell chili that’s yet to be eaten.”
…
Dean sneezed his was through dinner, the crying from earlier shifting something loose in his sinuses. That combined with the spice from the chili and he was off and running.
“Ya alright, boy?” Bobby asked, hand on Dean’s shoulder, as he hunched into a tissue, sneezing for the eighth time.
Dean sniffed, “Yeah… giving me a headache though.”
“You almost finished?” Bobby leaned over to check his bowl.
There was still about half left, “Yeah, maybe. Not feeling so hot.”
Dean crumpled forward into the tissue again.
“Alright, come on, sneezy. Back to bed.”
…
Sam woke and it was dark outside, his phone clock reading close to 2am. He rubbed his face and got up to check on Dean.
He popped his head in the room and saw Bobby passed out with his chin to his chest, slumped in the armchair by Dean’s bed. He was snoring lightly.
Dean… Dean wasn’t in his bed.
Sam saw there was no one in the bathroom and headed out to the lounge. Not there. Not in the kitchen either.
Sam sighed, knowing where Dean would be and made for the front door. The garage door was open and he’d closed it when he’d got home yesterday.
Dean startled when Sam came in, almost choking on the mouthful of Johnny Walker he just tipped into his mouth.
"Where'd you get that from?" Sam gestured to the bottle Dean held in his hand.
"Uh," Dean cleared his throat, "Bobby's pack."
"You ask first?" Sam said.
"It's Bobby," Dean shrugged, lifting the bottle to take another swig. Meaning no.
Dean was probably waiting for the onslaught but Sam didn't rise to the bait. What could he do?
He looked surprised when Sam leaned up on the workbench next to him, but he took another drink. Sam noticed his hand shaking like a leaf and it must have registered on his face because Dean lowered the bottle to his hip, so it wasn't directly in Sam's eye line.
“You’re not supposed to…” Sam pointed to the still shaking bottle.
Dean cleared his throat, “I know.”
He brought the bottle to his lips again, as if in defiance, gulping down a shot and a half.
“Look, what happened today…”
“I don’t wanna talk about it, Sam… I can’t,” he shook his head, licking his bottom lip then drawing it into his mouth with his teeth.
Sam wondered how long it would take for Dean to rebuild his walls. The walls he used to hide behind.
“Okay… But I’m here for you when you do.”
Dean smirked, “You two are as bad as each other.”
Sam smiled, looked down at his feet, “How’re you feeling?”
Dean cleared his throat again, coughed a little through closed lips, “Maybe you should stop asking that.”
Sam frowned, “Dean…”
“Relax, Sam. Just a little sore. Had to get up and move around.”
"You can have Tylenol," Sam offered.
Dean grinned but his eyes didn't get the memo.
"Sammy, Tylenol hasn't worked in 3 years."
"It might not touch your pain, but it'll ease your fever back. That'll make it easier to sleep."
Dean smirked but it was a sad smirk, a smirk that said 'Sammy, you don't understand’ was playing in his head.
“Just come back inside. I need to get some sleep and I can’t do that knowing you’re freezing your ass off out here.”
Playing the little brother card.
“Fine, ya giant baby.”
Works every time.
…
Unfortunately when Dean was back in bed he coughed, and coughed, and coughed, waking Bobby, keeping Sam up, breaking a sweat. Until eventually Sam came in and wordlessly set up his nebuliser, handing him the mask with a long suffering look and heading back to his bedroom. Bobby smiled and shuffled down in the chair, crossing his arms in front of him.
“You know this place has four bedrooms, right?” Dean rasped, taking the mask off to talk.
“Mmhm,” Bobby groaned, his eyes closed, “Now put that mask back on, before I slap you upside your head.”
…
Dean dreamed of coffins, and dirt, and knives, and hooks, and the blackness, and the screams, and the blood in his throat.
When he woke Bobby was still in the chair. He could hear Sam in the kitchen. There was no darkness and no screams, and no blood in his throat.
And he should have felt grateful… but he didn’t feel a thing.
Category: Gen
Rating: T
Characters: Dean, Sam, Bobby
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.
Disclaimer: They're pretty, but they're not mine.
Summary: Dean is a little worse off coming off a hunt than he let on. He's fresh from hell and caring a lot of scars, physically and mentally. A bad back, bad shoulder, PTSD, insomnia, alcohol abuse, and a nasty virus to top it all off. Maybe the boys need to take a break and try to get Dean back on track. It might be harder than they thought.
Taking Some Time
Chapter Ten
Dean struggled to breathe. Trying so hard to stop the tears that kept streaming from his face. It was like the time he’d told Sam what really happened in hell. All of this weight had been crushing in on him, and he’d tried to build his own walls to keep it all back, but all at once that had failed. And he was drowning. Now. Again.
His hand wrapped in Bobby’s vest, face in he crook of his neck, smelling his cologne mixed with whiskey and old books. He was always weaker with Bobby. No one to hide from anymore. Sam he had to be brave for. Sam he had to watch out for. Bobby… Bobby looked out for him.
“It’s okay, boy. I got you,” Bobby muttered, arms tight around him, not letting him go even though Dean knew his nose was running all over him.
“Bobby…” Dean breathed in through the sobs.
“Shh, Dean. It’s all right… You’re gonna be alright.”
…
Sam let his brother go, sensing his urgent need to escape. He went to the reception counter to pay the bill. Upwards of five hundred dollars. Geez. This was just the start… and they could barely even afford that.
Sam stopped cold dead in the doorway.
Bobby had a hand around Dean’s waist, the other on the back of his neck, pulling him in close. Dean’s hand was clasping at the material of Bobby’s vest, his whole body shaking, racking as he sobbed silently into Bobby’s shoulder. Sam’s face tensed at the sight. Him coming in now, while Dean was so vulnerable, would be the worst thing he could do. Dean would react on fight or flight response… and Dean’s response was always fight. So, he let them be, trusting Bobby could handle it.
…
“Bobby… I can’t…” he set his jaw, pulled his face away so he could look at him, “I need some help.”
Bobby’s hand wrapped around his jawline, thumb reaching round to the other side of his face, “I know, son.”
The tears in Bobby’s eyes made things worse. He didn’t want anyone to worry about him. But at the same time, he loved it that someone did.
Bobby removed his hand, and started undoing buttons on Dean’s shirt, buttoning him up the right way. He gave his shirt a little tug, just to bring them closer together.
Dean sniffed hard and ran a hand down his face, wiping away most of the tears but leaving a mess still remaining. Bobby started on his sling next, buckling it up for him. Then he glanced down at his crotch.
He looked at Dean, “You’re on your own there. I ain’t touching that one,” Bobby smirked.
Dean felt a smile naturally tug at his lips, and even that was exhausting. He reached his good hand down and tugged up his fly.
“Alright, come on, son. I’ll drive you back to the house,” Bobby put a hand on Dean’s good shoulder.
Dean started to glance back to see where Sam was but Bobby steered him towards the car.
“Sam can handle that, boy.”
Dean stuffed his hand in his pocket and allowed Bobby to direct him towards his car. Besides, he didn’t want Sam too have to see him like this.
…
Dean stared out the window sniffling quietly.
Bobby turned the radio on and let ‘The Gambler’ play, just so Dean could sniffle as loudly as he liked.
…
Sam watched Bobby shepherd Dean into his car and drive off towards the house. He let out a breath. He knew things were bad. He knew Dean was hanging on by a thread. He’d grown complacent waiting for it to break. He wasn’t ready for it to happen now. It wasn’t going to be easy, for him, or Bobby, least of all Dean.
Sam took his time getting home. He stopped in at a supermarket for a cheap toaster, a few washcloths, and some reusable ice packs. There had to be other things he was forgetting, but they were tight on cash, their phony credit cards almost maxed. And he didn’t know how much more Dean would need to get him through this. His medications alone were costing an arm and a leg.
He drove twice around the block before pulling into the garage, Bobby’s car parked on the street in front of the house.
Sam opened the front door, bags hanging off his wrists.
“Hey, Bobby,” he smiled, dumping his purchases, and the large envelop containing Dean’s MRI images on the kitchen counter.
Bobby turned from the stove to give Sam a hug.
“How you doing, boy?” he asked, turning back to stir the pot on the hotplate.
Sam sighed, “Been better. What’re you making?”
“Chili,” Bobby said over his shoulder.
Sam raised an eyebrow, “We had enough stuff for that?”
“I improvised,” Bobby grinned, “Your neighbour’s awful nice.”
“Maxine?” Sam said, “Yeah, we were lucky… Where’s Dean?”
Bobby tilted his head in the direction of the hallway, “He’s passed out. Got him to take his meds and a shower.”
Sam smiled, looking down, “Bobby, is he, uh… is he…”
“He’ll be okay, Sam. I know it looks pretty bad now. But this is Dean we’re talking about.”
“I don’t know, Bobby. This time it’s different,” Sam closed his eyes, and blew out a breath, leaning heavily on the counter, “I feel like I’m losing him.”
“Sam,” Bobby took the pot off the heat, turning off the stove, and turned to face him, his hand landing on Sam’s shoulder, squeezing tight, “Just give him some time to adjust. He’s got a lot going on.”
Sam nodded, rubbing a hand through his hair.
“When was the last time you slept, boy?”
Sam shook his head, “I’m fine.”
Bobby raised an eyebrow, “Bull… You’re wound so tight you’re about to snap, or fall in a heap. Take your pick.”
Sam hung his head, felt Bobby’s hand dig into his shoulder, massaging away the knots of worry.
And right on schedule...
"HELP! HELP ME!"
Sam and Bobby raced into Dean's room. His head was whipping back and forth against the pillow.
Sam went to his side.
"Dean! Dean, wake up. It's okay..."
Dean was panting, eyes clamped shut like he was afraid to open them.
Sam's hand stroked Dean's sweaty forehead, pushing back his damp hair.
"Oh, Jesus. He's got a fever again..."
"S'mmy?"
"Hey, Dean? You awake?"
"Bobby?" He asked, voice grating like his throat was dry.
"I'm right here, son."
The corner of Dean's mouth turned up and his breathing evened out. And he was asleep again.
Sam pinched the bridge on his nose, holding onto his brother’s forearm to let him know he was still there.
“Alright,” Bobby blew out a breath, “Bed time for you, kid.”
Sam shook his head, “Someone’s gotta watch him.”
“What am I? A piece of furniture?” Bobby grumbled, looking offended, “I wasn’t asking you. Go get some sleep. I’ll handle this.”
Sam stood up, arching his back in a stretch, “Don’t suppose there’s enough chili for me?” he smirked.
Bobby smiled, “Sure there is. Bring us a bowl in here and I’ll get Dean to have some dinner.”
“Okay,” Sam said. He paused at the doorway, holding onto the doorframe and looking at a very interesting spot on the wall, “Thanks, Bobby.”
“… Don’t mention it.”
…
“Dean? Come on, son. I made your favourite, so you better wake up and have some.”
Dean’s head pounded, his nose was stuffed up, and his chest felt heavy. He was hot and cold, and sore and numb. Mostly his eyes stung, and his lips were cracked and dry, in the aftermath of his breakdown.
“Aw, come on. You used to love my chili.”
Bobby was chattering in his ear and he wanted to open his eyes but he was in that empty void between sleep and consciousness and he couldn’t even move his eyelids enough to open them.
“Dean.”
He drew enough energy from somewhere to moan.
“There he is. Come on, boy.”
Dean’s eyes flitted open and Bobby’s scruffy face came into view. Dean reached his right hand up to rub at his eyes with the back of his hand.
“Ain’t that a face to wake up to.”
“Shut up, idgit,” Bobby said, lightly.
Why was he sleeping anyway? He though he swore off sleep…
“Time for dinner. Then you can go back to sleep,” Bobby said.
“I’m not eating in bed,” Dean grumbled.
“Why not?”
“’Cause I’m not a cripple,” Dean bit, trying to heave himself up, “Give me a hand.”
Bobby helped Dean to sit on the edge of his bed.
“How did this get so bad, Dean?”
“It was always this bad,” Dean grumbled, coughing against his fist.
“It was this bad when it first happened, when I had you hobbling around my place for 3 months. I thought things got better. You haven’t mentioned it in years.”
“Just getting old,” Dean shrugged.
“Naw, that ain’t it…”
Bobby stared at Dean in silence, and Dean was too tired to fight.
“I got thrown,” Dean sighed, defeated.
Bobby furrowed his brow, “By what?”
“Does it matter?” Dean looked up at him, “Stirred things up. But, uh, it’s been getting worse for a while now… I let my guard down, gave the vamp the jump on me. That’s how this happened,” he gestured to his shoulder.
Bobby shook his head.
“You didn’t… tell Sam, did you? About the accident?”
“No, Dean, I didn’t say nothin’. It’s not doing either of you any good keeping it from him though.”
“He doesn’t need to know, Bobby. Trust me. It’s better for everyone…”
“Whatever you say, son. But you’re shouldering a lot on your own here. Sam and I are here for you. Whatever you need.”
Dean squinted at Bobby, “We done sharing and caring?”
Bobby laughed, “Yeah, ya idgit.”
“Alright, cause I can smell chili that’s yet to be eaten.”
…
Dean sneezed his was through dinner, the crying from earlier shifting something loose in his sinuses. That combined with the spice from the chili and he was off and running.
“Ya alright, boy?” Bobby asked, hand on Dean’s shoulder, as he hunched into a tissue, sneezing for the eighth time.
Dean sniffed, “Yeah… giving me a headache though.”
“You almost finished?” Bobby leaned over to check his bowl.
There was still about half left, “Yeah, maybe. Not feeling so hot.”
Dean crumpled forward into the tissue again.
“Alright, come on, sneezy. Back to bed.”
…
Sam woke and it was dark outside, his phone clock reading close to 2am. He rubbed his face and got up to check on Dean.
He popped his head in the room and saw Bobby passed out with his chin to his chest, slumped in the armchair by Dean’s bed. He was snoring lightly.
Dean… Dean wasn’t in his bed.
Sam saw there was no one in the bathroom and headed out to the lounge. Not there. Not in the kitchen either.
Sam sighed, knowing where Dean would be and made for the front door. The garage door was open and he’d closed it when he’d got home yesterday.
Dean startled when Sam came in, almost choking on the mouthful of Johnny Walker he just tipped into his mouth.
"Where'd you get that from?" Sam gestured to the bottle Dean held in his hand.
"Uh," Dean cleared his throat, "Bobby's pack."
"You ask first?" Sam said.
"It's Bobby," Dean shrugged, lifting the bottle to take another swig. Meaning no.
Dean was probably waiting for the onslaught but Sam didn't rise to the bait. What could he do?
He looked surprised when Sam leaned up on the workbench next to him, but he took another drink. Sam noticed his hand shaking like a leaf and it must have registered on his face because Dean lowered the bottle to his hip, so it wasn't directly in Sam's eye line.
“You’re not supposed to…” Sam pointed to the still shaking bottle.
Dean cleared his throat, “I know.”
He brought the bottle to his lips again, as if in defiance, gulping down a shot and a half.
“Look, what happened today…”
“I don’t wanna talk about it, Sam… I can’t,” he shook his head, licking his bottom lip then drawing it into his mouth with his teeth.
Sam wondered how long it would take for Dean to rebuild his walls. The walls he used to hide behind.
“Okay… But I’m here for you when you do.”
Dean smirked, “You two are as bad as each other.”
Sam smiled, looked down at his feet, “How’re you feeling?”
Dean cleared his throat again, coughed a little through closed lips, “Maybe you should stop asking that.”
Sam frowned, “Dean…”
“Relax, Sam. Just a little sore. Had to get up and move around.”
"You can have Tylenol," Sam offered.
Dean grinned but his eyes didn't get the memo.
"Sammy, Tylenol hasn't worked in 3 years."
"It might not touch your pain, but it'll ease your fever back. That'll make it easier to sleep."
Dean smirked but it was a sad smirk, a smirk that said 'Sammy, you don't understand’ was playing in his head.
“Just come back inside. I need to get some sleep and I can’t do that knowing you’re freezing your ass off out here.”
Playing the little brother card.
“Fine, ya giant baby.”
Works every time.
…
Unfortunately when Dean was back in bed he coughed, and coughed, and coughed, waking Bobby, keeping Sam up, breaking a sweat. Until eventually Sam came in and wordlessly set up his nebuliser, handing him the mask with a long suffering look and heading back to his bedroom. Bobby smiled and shuffled down in the chair, crossing his arms in front of him.
“You know this place has four bedrooms, right?” Dean rasped, taking the mask off to talk.
“Mmhm,” Bobby groaned, his eyes closed, “Now put that mask back on, before I slap you upside your head.”
…
Dean dreamed of coffins, and dirt, and knives, and hooks, and the blackness, and the screams, and the blood in his throat.
When he woke Bobby was still in the chair. He could hear Sam in the kitchen. There was no darkness and no screams, and no blood in his throat.
And he should have felt grateful… but he didn’t feel a thing.