Fic: Taking Some Time (SPN) Chapter Eleven
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.
A/N: So sorry for the late posting! I had technical issues and such this is a few days late. The next chapter will be up on Monday (Australian Eastern Standard Time) as long as there's no more issues with logging in (dammit, livejournal). Anywho, hope you like it. It is a bit short this week as I was swamped with other work. Next week's will be longer, and on time. Sorry again.
Taking Some Time
Chapter Eleven
Sam sat at the breakfast bar with the envelope containing Dean’s MRI images in front of him. It was sealed with a little sticker that said ‘To be opened by the referring doctor’. Sam’s thumb ran across it. He didn’t know how to read an MRI anyway. Surely, it would just be lines and squiggles and shapes he couldn’t understand. But then he and Dean had had their share of x-rays and CT scans. Broken ribs, concussions, etc. etc. etc. He had an idea of anatomy. And the rest he could figure out. He’d called the doctor as soon as they’d opened to make Dean another appointment to have his scan reviewed. He wasn’t so lucky this time. Dean couldn’t get in to see him for another week. A week before they knew what was really wrong. A week.
So… Sam had 7 days to figure out how to read an MRI.
He opened the envelope and pulled out one of the sheets of film, holding it up in front of the window. It was a sagittal view of Dean’s lower back.
“Jesus,” Sam inhaled, feeling his chest tighten.
He wasn’t a doctor, but the issue seemed to be obvious.
“What are you doing?”
Sam spun around, trying in vain to hide the image behind his leg.
Dean’s voice was harsh, gruff, and his brow was intensely furrowed.
“Nothing, I was just… Where’s Bobby?”
“He’s sleeping in a chair. What are you doing?” Dean took a few more steps towards him, bare feet padding on the polished timber floors.
“I was just going to see if I could… read them.”
Dean’s eyebrow went up.
“But, you know, man, we should just wait for the doctor to look them over,” Sam began stuffing the film back into the envelope.
“Well, let me see,” Dean reached his hand out, stepping closer again.
“No, Dean, I think we should wait…”
“Sam, what’s wrong?” Dean’s eyes were greener than usual, the whites reddened from pain and sickness, and they were wide, Dean’s version of angry. Which Sam knew just meant he was scared.
“Nothing,” Sam forced a small smile, “It’s just squiggles to me. We’ll wait until the doctor can take a look. I got you in next week.”
“Fantastic,” Dean said, to Sam’s relief, dropping it.
He leant over the kitchen counter like he was trying to stretch his lower back, and came to rest on his right elbow. He sucked a breath in, only to cough it out, briefly rattly but clearer towards the end. He sniffed and closed his eyes, like he was collecting himself.
Sam ran a hand across his chin, trying to calm how fast his heart had been beating, at first from seeing the state of Dean’s spine, and second from Dean catching him red handed.
Dean blew out a long breath.
Sam got himself together.
“Hey, sit down. What do you want for breakfast?” Sam pulled out the barstool for Dean to sit down in.
Dean looked sideways at the chair and straightened.
“I can stand.”
So, it was gonna be one of those days.
“You want toast? New toaster,” Sam beamed, nodding towards the box on the counter.
Dean gave a weak attempt at a sideways smile, “Not that hungry, Sammy.”
Sam furrowed his brow, “You need to have something to eat before you have your medication.”
“In that case, I’m starving,” Dean grinned, obviously growing tired of the charade and slumping into the barstool.
He coughed again, wetter this time.
Sam glanced at him as he unboxed the new toaster, “That cough still bugging you, huh.”
“What gave it away?”
Gee, Dean was in fine form today. This was going to be fun.
Sam set the toaster on the bench and started grabbing the bread, deciding to ignore Dean when he was like this. He sighed when he heard Dean stifle a sneeze, snuffling quietly behind him. It wasn’t Dean’s fault he felt like crap, and that’s why he was acting like such a jerk.
“Mornin’, boys,” Sam turned to see Bobby stumbling in, rubbing his neck and turning his head every which way.
“Mornin’, Bobby,” Sam said, grabbing a couple more pieces of bread out.
“Sit down, Sam. I’ll do that,” Bobby pushed his way into the kitchen, grabbing the carton of eggs out of the fridge.
“Thanks,” Sam smiled, allowing Bobby to take over.
Dean got up off his stool and stumbled, clutching the kitchen bench.
“Whoa, you alright, Dean?” Sam said, coming to his side.
“Quit hovering,” Dean growled, “and help me get this damn thing off so I can take a shower.”
“Breakfast’ll be ready in a minute, Dean,” Bobby said.
Dean grunted, “Just put mine in the oven. I’ll have it later.”
Sam gave Bobby a look, as he stood behind Dean and unclipped his sling. Bobby quirked an eyebrow quickly in acknowledgment and went back to cooking breakfast.
Sam pretended not to notice the sweat on the back of Dean’s neck, or the way he flinched when he touched him, or the low, almost silent, moan he made when the sling was gently removed.
Dean flexed his hand as he lowered the arm to his side, gripping his bicep with his right. He looked down at the bottles and packets of pills on the counter.
“Which ones I gotta take with food?” he asked, as if he didn’t care, when Sam knew he was barely holding it together.
“This one, and the antibiotic,” Sam pointed to the boxes.
“That’s the good one, right?” Dean picked up one of the other packets, with a ‘warning-do not operate heavy machinery’ on it.
“Yeah, that one’s for the pain.”
Dean tried to open the packet with one hand until Sam had had enough watching him struggle and took it from him, popping one out of the blister pack.
Dean dry swallowed it and coughed, holding his arm close to his chest.
“Dean, why don’t you just sit on your ass and wait for that to work. Then you can have some breakfast and the rest o’ your drugs,” Bobby offered, gently.
Dean closed his eyes, a bead of sweat craving a line from his temple to his jaw.
He cleared his throat, “Fine.”
…
Dean’s shoulder burned furiously. It felt twice the size, swollen, hot and throbbing in time with his too quick heartbeat. He wanted to ask for ice, but he didn’t feel like dealing with the coddling today. He was in a bad mood, all right? And he was allowed to be in a bad mood, dammit. He wished his responses didn’t leave his mouth so quickly, so curtly, so cutting. He wasn’t exactly pissed at Sam and Bobby. He didn’t have a reason to be. And yet he was, because he was friggen sore, and friggen sick, and friggen tired, and friggen empty.
He accidently let a high-pitched whimper escape as he sat back against the lounge. He didn’t even look towards the kitchen, hoping they hadn’t heard the small cry.
He had 20 minutes before this wonder pill kicked in. 20 unbearable minutes of pain. He gulped and thought about the hook piercing through his shoulder, stringing him up in the void, as if trapped in a giant spiders web. Ripping through skin, muscle, tendons, shattering bones. Tugging and tearing. Wishing he could pass out from the pain but remaining endlessly alert. Just so he could experience every bit of it.
“Dean!”
Sam was crouched in front of him, hand on his good shoulder, face full of worry.
“Huh?” Dean’s mouth was dry, throat gravelly.
“You with us?”
Dean found strength to nod, wondering how a chunk of time was some how missing.
He cleared his throat, “Yeah, where else would I be,” his eyes flitted from side to side.
“Hell?” Sam asked.
Dean’s eyes filled up, “Don’t.”
“That’s what happened, wasn’t it? You were having some kind of flash back? It’s not the first time it’s happened, Dean…”
“Sammy, I, uh…” Dean looked down, sucked on his bottom lip, “I can’t talk about that.”
“Dean… I want to make this better for you. We both do,” he indicated to Bobby, who was standing over his shoulder.
“How?” Dean squeaked out, “How could you possibly make this better?”
“Dean, I’m trying -“
“No, Sammy… I’m sick, alright? I’m tired. Stop trying to fix me… You can’t fix everything.”
Dramatic storm outs worked more effectively when you could quickly get out of a chair.
Sam’s gentle hand was enough to push him back down.
“I can try.”
…
Sam heard retching from Dean’s bathroom, followed by a toilet flush. He sat on the edge of his bed, google searching how to read an MRI, and what to look for. He tapped his foot impatiently. The more he read what a normal MRI looked like, the more concerned he grew, as Dean’s certainly didn’t look like those. Bobby had gone out shopping, apparently they were lacking in essentials. Sam had offered him one of the credit cards, saying there should be enough on that one for a few things. Bobby shook his head and said he had it under control. And Sam was glad someone did. He sighed when he heard Dean throwing up, again. The gags were desperate, choking, and set him off coughing more than once. Sam hadn’t gone to see if he was okay. Dean had been pretty evasive all day, snapping at both him and Bobby whenever they came near him. But Dean was like that. He got angry from time to time, and usually irrationally so. But Sam figured this time he had a reason to be angry. It would pass, as always. Sam was more worried about what he’d be left with when it did.
The toilet flushed once again and Sam heard the running of a tap before the sound of the door clicking open.
He waiting, looking up from his laptop, for Dean to walk past his bedroom. Dean was loud these days, heavy in his steps, stumbling, halting. His breath rattled as he breathed quickly, shallowly. It was a while before he past in front of Sam’s room. Sam sat up straighter.
Dean was grey. His face slick with sweat. Red-rimmed, sunken eyes, glassy and fiercely green.
“You okay?” Sam asked, watching Dean sway as his gripped the doorframe.
“Yeah,” he grumbled, clearing his throat, “Pills make me nauseous,” he swiped a hand across his brow.
“Maybe you should lie down. You look like you’re about to pass out.”
“’M fine,” Dean muttered, swallowing.
“Oh, you’re no where near fine…”
Dean looked like he was going to fight back… and then he threw up all over himself.
…
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.
A/N: So sorry for the late posting! I had technical issues and such this is a few days late. The next chapter will be up on Monday (Australian Eastern Standard Time) as long as there's no more issues with logging in (dammit, livejournal). Anywho, hope you like it. It is a bit short this week as I was swamped with other work. Next week's will be longer, and on time. Sorry again.
Taking Some Time
Chapter Eleven
Sam sat at the breakfast bar with the envelope containing Dean’s MRI images in front of him. It was sealed with a little sticker that said ‘To be opened by the referring doctor’. Sam’s thumb ran across it. He didn’t know how to read an MRI anyway. Surely, it would just be lines and squiggles and shapes he couldn’t understand. But then he and Dean had had their share of x-rays and CT scans. Broken ribs, concussions, etc. etc. etc. He had an idea of anatomy. And the rest he could figure out. He’d called the doctor as soon as they’d opened to make Dean another appointment to have his scan reviewed. He wasn’t so lucky this time. Dean couldn’t get in to see him for another week. A week before they knew what was really wrong. A week.
So… Sam had 7 days to figure out how to read an MRI.
He opened the envelope and pulled out one of the sheets of film, holding it up in front of the window. It was a sagittal view of Dean’s lower back.
“Jesus,” Sam inhaled, feeling his chest tighten.
He wasn’t a doctor, but the issue seemed to be obvious.
“What are you doing?”
Sam spun around, trying in vain to hide the image behind his leg.
Dean’s voice was harsh, gruff, and his brow was intensely furrowed.
“Nothing, I was just… Where’s Bobby?”
“He’s sleeping in a chair. What are you doing?” Dean took a few more steps towards him, bare feet padding on the polished timber floors.
“I was just going to see if I could… read them.”
Dean’s eyebrow went up.
“But, you know, man, we should just wait for the doctor to look them over,” Sam began stuffing the film back into the envelope.
“Well, let me see,” Dean reached his hand out, stepping closer again.
“No, Dean, I think we should wait…”
“Sam, what’s wrong?” Dean’s eyes were greener than usual, the whites reddened from pain and sickness, and they were wide, Dean’s version of angry. Which Sam knew just meant he was scared.
“Nothing,” Sam forced a small smile, “It’s just squiggles to me. We’ll wait until the doctor can take a look. I got you in next week.”
“Fantastic,” Dean said, to Sam’s relief, dropping it.
He leant over the kitchen counter like he was trying to stretch his lower back, and came to rest on his right elbow. He sucked a breath in, only to cough it out, briefly rattly but clearer towards the end. He sniffed and closed his eyes, like he was collecting himself.
Sam ran a hand across his chin, trying to calm how fast his heart had been beating, at first from seeing the state of Dean’s spine, and second from Dean catching him red handed.
Dean blew out a long breath.
Sam got himself together.
“Hey, sit down. What do you want for breakfast?” Sam pulled out the barstool for Dean to sit down in.
Dean looked sideways at the chair and straightened.
“I can stand.”
So, it was gonna be one of those days.
“You want toast? New toaster,” Sam beamed, nodding towards the box on the counter.
Dean gave a weak attempt at a sideways smile, “Not that hungry, Sammy.”
Sam furrowed his brow, “You need to have something to eat before you have your medication.”
“In that case, I’m starving,” Dean grinned, obviously growing tired of the charade and slumping into the barstool.
He coughed again, wetter this time.
Sam glanced at him as he unboxed the new toaster, “That cough still bugging you, huh.”
“What gave it away?”
Gee, Dean was in fine form today. This was going to be fun.
Sam set the toaster on the bench and started grabbing the bread, deciding to ignore Dean when he was like this. He sighed when he heard Dean stifle a sneeze, snuffling quietly behind him. It wasn’t Dean’s fault he felt like crap, and that’s why he was acting like such a jerk.
“Mornin’, boys,” Sam turned to see Bobby stumbling in, rubbing his neck and turning his head every which way.
“Mornin’, Bobby,” Sam said, grabbing a couple more pieces of bread out.
“Sit down, Sam. I’ll do that,” Bobby pushed his way into the kitchen, grabbing the carton of eggs out of the fridge.
“Thanks,” Sam smiled, allowing Bobby to take over.
Dean got up off his stool and stumbled, clutching the kitchen bench.
“Whoa, you alright, Dean?” Sam said, coming to his side.
“Quit hovering,” Dean growled, “and help me get this damn thing off so I can take a shower.”
“Breakfast’ll be ready in a minute, Dean,” Bobby said.
Dean grunted, “Just put mine in the oven. I’ll have it later.”
Sam gave Bobby a look, as he stood behind Dean and unclipped his sling. Bobby quirked an eyebrow quickly in acknowledgment and went back to cooking breakfast.
Sam pretended not to notice the sweat on the back of Dean’s neck, or the way he flinched when he touched him, or the low, almost silent, moan he made when the sling was gently removed.
Dean flexed his hand as he lowered the arm to his side, gripping his bicep with his right. He looked down at the bottles and packets of pills on the counter.
“Which ones I gotta take with food?” he asked, as if he didn’t care, when Sam knew he was barely holding it together.
“This one, and the antibiotic,” Sam pointed to the boxes.
“That’s the good one, right?” Dean picked up one of the other packets, with a ‘warning-do not operate heavy machinery’ on it.
“Yeah, that one’s for the pain.”
Dean tried to open the packet with one hand until Sam had had enough watching him struggle and took it from him, popping one out of the blister pack.
Dean dry swallowed it and coughed, holding his arm close to his chest.
“Dean, why don’t you just sit on your ass and wait for that to work. Then you can have some breakfast and the rest o’ your drugs,” Bobby offered, gently.
Dean closed his eyes, a bead of sweat craving a line from his temple to his jaw.
He cleared his throat, “Fine.”
…
Dean’s shoulder burned furiously. It felt twice the size, swollen, hot and throbbing in time with his too quick heartbeat. He wanted to ask for ice, but he didn’t feel like dealing with the coddling today. He was in a bad mood, all right? And he was allowed to be in a bad mood, dammit. He wished his responses didn’t leave his mouth so quickly, so curtly, so cutting. He wasn’t exactly pissed at Sam and Bobby. He didn’t have a reason to be. And yet he was, because he was friggen sore, and friggen sick, and friggen tired, and friggen empty.
He accidently let a high-pitched whimper escape as he sat back against the lounge. He didn’t even look towards the kitchen, hoping they hadn’t heard the small cry.
He had 20 minutes before this wonder pill kicked in. 20 unbearable minutes of pain. He gulped and thought about the hook piercing through his shoulder, stringing him up in the void, as if trapped in a giant spiders web. Ripping through skin, muscle, tendons, shattering bones. Tugging and tearing. Wishing he could pass out from the pain but remaining endlessly alert. Just so he could experience every bit of it.
“Dean!”
Sam was crouched in front of him, hand on his good shoulder, face full of worry.
“Huh?” Dean’s mouth was dry, throat gravelly.
“You with us?”
Dean found strength to nod, wondering how a chunk of time was some how missing.
He cleared his throat, “Yeah, where else would I be,” his eyes flitted from side to side.
“Hell?” Sam asked.
Dean’s eyes filled up, “Don’t.”
“That’s what happened, wasn’t it? You were having some kind of flash back? It’s not the first time it’s happened, Dean…”
“Sammy, I, uh…” Dean looked down, sucked on his bottom lip, “I can’t talk about that.”
“Dean… I want to make this better for you. We both do,” he indicated to Bobby, who was standing over his shoulder.
“How?” Dean squeaked out, “How could you possibly make this better?”
“Dean, I’m trying -“
“No, Sammy… I’m sick, alright? I’m tired. Stop trying to fix me… You can’t fix everything.”
Dramatic storm outs worked more effectively when you could quickly get out of a chair.
Sam’s gentle hand was enough to push him back down.
“I can try.”
…
Sam heard retching from Dean’s bathroom, followed by a toilet flush. He sat on the edge of his bed, google searching how to read an MRI, and what to look for. He tapped his foot impatiently. The more he read what a normal MRI looked like, the more concerned he grew, as Dean’s certainly didn’t look like those. Bobby had gone out shopping, apparently they were lacking in essentials. Sam had offered him one of the credit cards, saying there should be enough on that one for a few things. Bobby shook his head and said he had it under control. And Sam was glad someone did. He sighed when he heard Dean throwing up, again. The gags were desperate, choking, and set him off coughing more than once. Sam hadn’t gone to see if he was okay. Dean had been pretty evasive all day, snapping at both him and Bobby whenever they came near him. But Dean was like that. He got angry from time to time, and usually irrationally so. But Sam figured this time he had a reason to be angry. It would pass, as always. Sam was more worried about what he’d be left with when it did.
The toilet flushed once again and Sam heard the running of a tap before the sound of the door clicking open.
He waiting, looking up from his laptop, for Dean to walk past his bedroom. Dean was loud these days, heavy in his steps, stumbling, halting. His breath rattled as he breathed quickly, shallowly. It was a while before he past in front of Sam’s room. Sam sat up straighter.
Dean was grey. His face slick with sweat. Red-rimmed, sunken eyes, glassy and fiercely green.
“You okay?” Sam asked, watching Dean sway as his gripped the doorframe.
“Yeah,” he grumbled, clearing his throat, “Pills make me nauseous,” he swiped a hand across his brow.
“Maybe you should lie down. You look like you’re about to pass out.”
“’M fine,” Dean muttered, swallowing.
“Oh, you’re no where near fine…”
Dean looked like he was going to fight back… and then he threw up all over himself.
…