they say Coke helps (SPN, sick!dean, food poisoning, s1 AU)
Summary:
Dean gets food poisoning and Sam deals with the aftermath. S1-ish.
Notes:
for my lovely friend, Tumblr user @stuffndthangsndwhump!
Work Text:
There was a reason Sam often opted for salads over the $5.99 Monday Munchie at Fran’s.
It was your classic burger and fries (comes with lettucepickletomato, add cheese for seventy-five cents, said the matronly waitress), to which Dean replied that’ll do just fine, throw on some pepperjack and bacon and extra grilled onions, will ya? and flashed her a winning smile and a wink, earning a blush in response. Sam, on the other hand, had already glimpsed the kitchen through the pickup window, and after scoping out the grease stains on the back wall (and the unhygienic, gloveless handling of the patties by the even greasier line cook), he’d settled for a Coke and a smile of his own, claiming an upset stomach.
“Aw, sorry to hear that, honey,” the waitress - Marla, her nametag read - clucked sympathetically, collecting their menus. “They say Coke’s good for an upset stomach, anyway.”
Sam managed a sheepish half-smile in response, going for vague nausea. “Yeah, hopefully it’ll help.”
Dean furrowed his brow, giving Sam a look of exasperation after their server’s departure. “Really? Now we gotta stop somewhere else to find something more suitable to your refined palate, Samantha?”
“Not eating here, Dean,” Sam muttered. “The kitchen’s disgusting. You’re gonna get E.coli.”
“No,” Dean insisted. “I’m gonna get full. You’re gonna starve, and I ain’t gonna care one bit.”
The burger came soon afterwards, stabbed through with a knife and towering with greasy melted cheese (Sam had to admit, it did look deceptively tasty), and Dean dove in with gusto, leaving Sam to sip his Coke only a little enviously, but still resolute in his decision. He’d tried to warn his brother, he really had.
--0-
Usually, Sam liked to sit and have a good gloat whenever he was right about something Dean wasn’t. They’d argue about something - fastest route to Wichita, pros and cons of the Godfather trilogy, best way to kill a Wendigo - and Sam’s hypotheses would prove correct and Dean would grumble all pissed-off and Sam would give him a smug told-ya-so and settle back into his seat to bask in satisfaction.
This time, however, Dean was not grumbling in pissed-off defeat, and Sam was not smirking, nor was he gloating. Dean, this time, was currently hanging out of the passenger side of the Impala, heaving violently onto the shoulder, while Sam kept an eye on passing traffic and made sure he found a handful of napkins to hand his brother after he finished puking his guts out.
“Ugh…” Dean moaned, spitting a thick string of mucus and catching his breath in harsh pants, bracing himself against the doorframe. This had hit quickly, and violently, and it didn’t feel over yet.
“Here,” Sam handed him the wad of napkins, fishing a long arm around in the backseat floorboard detritus to search for a water bottle. “Lemme see if I can find some water. You feel better?”
Dean groaned again, palming his belly and hunching over in distress. “Gnnn. N-no -”
Sam looked up in mild alarm as Dean doubled over with a liquid retch, bringing up a mouthful of yellow stomach acid and not much else. “..fffuck s’ comin’out m’nose-”
“Dean,” Sam murmured, reaching out and giving his brother’s back a rub. “It’s okay. Take it easy.”
Another few moments passed, and the worst of the nausea seemed to subside for the time being. Dean sat back and glowered at Sam, eyes watering, tears streaking his pallid cheeks. He wiped his mouth. “Yeah,” he choked, deep voice even more hoarse from his exertions. “Shoulda listened. Fuck Fran’s.”
--0-
Sam found a motel on the outskirts of town that wasn’t too shady - a Travelodge, advertising a weeknight special, $69.99 for two queen beds, had a station wagon and a couple Chrysler minivans with bike racks in the parking lot - and left Dean to his own devices for approximately seven minutes while he checked in. When he returned to fetch his sick brother, Dean had puked again in the parking lot, one arm still clinging to the hastily flung-open passenger door handle. Sam resolved to not worry about that for now, and focused on hauling Dean’s carcass to their (requested) ground-floor room. He’d deposited Dean onto the bathroom floor, lifted the toilet lid, and ran back outside for their bags.
Hey, he’d addressed Dean from the doorway. I got the TV on, and a water bottle right here. There’s a Rite-Aid about a mile back, d’you think you can hang in there while I go get some medicine?
Dean had given him an “OK” symbol with thumb and forefinger, not opening his eyes to reply. Go for it, he’d croaked, and Sam’s heart gave a twist at the thought of leaving his brother in his current state - but their stash of Pepto and related stomach-woes survival kit was seriously depleted, and Dean was seriously fucking sick. Sam knew if he couldn’t stymie this somehow, couldn’t quell the nausea enough for Dean to keep some fluids down, they’d end up in the ER very soon.
--0-
Sam had been sick like this before, twice. He knew it fucking sucked - he remembered being a slave to his body’s whims; belly clenching and back aching from bending over with convulsive heaves, over and over, for hours on end, drifting in and out of consciousness from dehydration and exhaustion, eventually collapsing on the bathroom floor at the end of the ordeal.
But witnessing it from the outside? Fully conscious and sympathetic? This was a whole new awful.
“Dean,” Sam murmured, brows drawn together in worry, voice soft with sympathy. “For Christ’s sake.”
To see Dean - his badass big brother, dangerous and muscular and cocky and fuckin awesome - be reduced to shivering moans and weak gasps as he hunched over the trash can in his lap, coughing harshly at the end of yet another dry heave (straining, unproductive, terrible, he was gonna tear his fuckin larynx) was more than Sam could handle. But, handle it he did, for Dean’s sake.
Dean trembled in the aftermath, hands visibly shaking. “..God,” he panted, spitting into the can.
Sam, who had now moved to sit beside Dean, reached up and rubbed his back. “This sucks,” he muttered. “I know this sucks, Dean. I’m sorry, man.”
Dean couldn’t answer. Another dry heave gripped him, then, and this time his cough was followed by a harsh sob. Tears dripped into the trash can, mingling with the drool and mucus hanging off his lip. Sam’s heart about ripped in fucking two. His mouth pressed into a thin line, and he steeled his own emotions, reaching up to cup both his hands over Dean’s shoulders, rubbing comfortingly with his thumbs.
“It’s okay, Dean,” he murmured. “’s okay. I’ve got you. I got you.”
“…hurts,” Dean grunted, voice harsh and shaky with pain. He spat again. “Fuck, Sam-”
Sam held his big brother, letting him catch his breath, solidifying his presence, offering support. He glanced at the clock - seven hours, yep, should be winding down by now (hopefully) - and gave into the sudden compulsion to lean down and press his lips to the top of Dean’s head, like Dean did to him one time a million years ago (and Sam had never ever forgotten about it).
Dean was so far gone, he closed his eyes in grateful, tearful surrender and let Sam do that, let him coddle him and rub circles into his burning back muscles, and eventually let him take the trash can away and lie him back down onto the pillow so he could (finally) get some rest.
--0-
Half a bottle of orange Gatorade stayed down.
Pale morning sunlight streaked through the vertical blinds, and the TV trounced some morning cartoon. Dean was sitting up - pasty white, hollow eyed, but mostly alert and more importantly, sipping on the rest of the Gatorade. It was over. The war was finished.
Sam exhaled for the first time in hours, and waited a while to pack up their shit.
--0-
Dean drove past Fran’s Diner on the way out of town, and stuck his middle finger out the window, blaring the horn till they passed.
He wasn’t gonna start ordering salads, not till Hell froze over. But maybe, he’d take a cue from his finicky-ass little brother and start scoping out the kitchens a little more closely before ordering the specials.
AC/DC blared out from the cassette radio. The sun was shining at high noon, and the sky was clear and the most beautiful blue they’d ever seen. Dean took a sip of his Coke, caramel and fizzy and good.
“How many miles till Wichita?”
“Bite me.”
Dean grinned and punched the accelerator, heading east. It was good to be back.
Dean gets food poisoning and Sam deals with the aftermath. S1-ish.
Notes:
for my lovely friend, Tumblr user @stuffndthangsndwhump!
Work Text:
There was a reason Sam often opted for salads over the $5.99 Monday Munchie at Fran’s.
It was your classic burger and fries (comes with lettucepickletomato, add cheese for seventy-five cents, said the matronly waitress), to which Dean replied that’ll do just fine, throw on some pepperjack and bacon and extra grilled onions, will ya? and flashed her a winning smile and a wink, earning a blush in response. Sam, on the other hand, had already glimpsed the kitchen through the pickup window, and after scoping out the grease stains on the back wall (and the unhygienic, gloveless handling of the patties by the even greasier line cook), he’d settled for a Coke and a smile of his own, claiming an upset stomach.
“Aw, sorry to hear that, honey,” the waitress - Marla, her nametag read - clucked sympathetically, collecting their menus. “They say Coke’s good for an upset stomach, anyway.”
Sam managed a sheepish half-smile in response, going for vague nausea. “Yeah, hopefully it’ll help.”
Dean furrowed his brow, giving Sam a look of exasperation after their server’s departure. “Really? Now we gotta stop somewhere else to find something more suitable to your refined palate, Samantha?”
“Not eating here, Dean,” Sam muttered. “The kitchen’s disgusting. You’re gonna get E.coli.”
“No,” Dean insisted. “I’m gonna get full. You’re gonna starve, and I ain’t gonna care one bit.”
The burger came soon afterwards, stabbed through with a knife and towering with greasy melted cheese (Sam had to admit, it did look deceptively tasty), and Dean dove in with gusto, leaving Sam to sip his Coke only a little enviously, but still resolute in his decision. He’d tried to warn his brother, he really had.
--0-
Usually, Sam liked to sit and have a good gloat whenever he was right about something Dean wasn’t. They’d argue about something - fastest route to Wichita, pros and cons of the Godfather trilogy, best way to kill a Wendigo - and Sam’s hypotheses would prove correct and Dean would grumble all pissed-off and Sam would give him a smug told-ya-so and settle back into his seat to bask in satisfaction.
This time, however, Dean was not grumbling in pissed-off defeat, and Sam was not smirking, nor was he gloating. Dean, this time, was currently hanging out of the passenger side of the Impala, heaving violently onto the shoulder, while Sam kept an eye on passing traffic and made sure he found a handful of napkins to hand his brother after he finished puking his guts out.
“Ugh…” Dean moaned, spitting a thick string of mucus and catching his breath in harsh pants, bracing himself against the doorframe. This had hit quickly, and violently, and it didn’t feel over yet.
“Here,” Sam handed him the wad of napkins, fishing a long arm around in the backseat floorboard detritus to search for a water bottle. “Lemme see if I can find some water. You feel better?”
Dean groaned again, palming his belly and hunching over in distress. “Gnnn. N-no -”
Sam looked up in mild alarm as Dean doubled over with a liquid retch, bringing up a mouthful of yellow stomach acid and not much else. “..fffuck s’ comin’out m’nose-”
“Dean,” Sam murmured, reaching out and giving his brother’s back a rub. “It’s okay. Take it easy.”
Another few moments passed, and the worst of the nausea seemed to subside for the time being. Dean sat back and glowered at Sam, eyes watering, tears streaking his pallid cheeks. He wiped his mouth. “Yeah,” he choked, deep voice even more hoarse from his exertions. “Shoulda listened. Fuck Fran’s.”
--0-
Sam found a motel on the outskirts of town that wasn’t too shady - a Travelodge, advertising a weeknight special, $69.99 for two queen beds, had a station wagon and a couple Chrysler minivans with bike racks in the parking lot - and left Dean to his own devices for approximately seven minutes while he checked in. When he returned to fetch his sick brother, Dean had puked again in the parking lot, one arm still clinging to the hastily flung-open passenger door handle. Sam resolved to not worry about that for now, and focused on hauling Dean’s carcass to their (requested) ground-floor room. He’d deposited Dean onto the bathroom floor, lifted the toilet lid, and ran back outside for their bags.
Hey, he’d addressed Dean from the doorway. I got the TV on, and a water bottle right here. There’s a Rite-Aid about a mile back, d’you think you can hang in there while I go get some medicine?
Dean had given him an “OK” symbol with thumb and forefinger, not opening his eyes to reply. Go for it, he’d croaked, and Sam’s heart gave a twist at the thought of leaving his brother in his current state - but their stash of Pepto and related stomach-woes survival kit was seriously depleted, and Dean was seriously fucking sick. Sam knew if he couldn’t stymie this somehow, couldn’t quell the nausea enough for Dean to keep some fluids down, they’d end up in the ER very soon.
--0-
Sam had been sick like this before, twice. He knew it fucking sucked - he remembered being a slave to his body’s whims; belly clenching and back aching from bending over with convulsive heaves, over and over, for hours on end, drifting in and out of consciousness from dehydration and exhaustion, eventually collapsing on the bathroom floor at the end of the ordeal.
But witnessing it from the outside? Fully conscious and sympathetic? This was a whole new awful.
“Dean,” Sam murmured, brows drawn together in worry, voice soft with sympathy. “For Christ’s sake.”
To see Dean - his badass big brother, dangerous and muscular and cocky and fuckin awesome - be reduced to shivering moans and weak gasps as he hunched over the trash can in his lap, coughing harshly at the end of yet another dry heave (straining, unproductive, terrible, he was gonna tear his fuckin larynx) was more than Sam could handle. But, handle it he did, for Dean’s sake.
Dean trembled in the aftermath, hands visibly shaking. “..God,” he panted, spitting into the can.
Sam, who had now moved to sit beside Dean, reached up and rubbed his back. “This sucks,” he muttered. “I know this sucks, Dean. I’m sorry, man.”
Dean couldn’t answer. Another dry heave gripped him, then, and this time his cough was followed by a harsh sob. Tears dripped into the trash can, mingling with the drool and mucus hanging off his lip. Sam’s heart about ripped in fucking two. His mouth pressed into a thin line, and he steeled his own emotions, reaching up to cup both his hands over Dean’s shoulders, rubbing comfortingly with his thumbs.
“It’s okay, Dean,” he murmured. “’s okay. I’ve got you. I got you.”
“…hurts,” Dean grunted, voice harsh and shaky with pain. He spat again. “Fuck, Sam-”
Sam held his big brother, letting him catch his breath, solidifying his presence, offering support. He glanced at the clock - seven hours, yep, should be winding down by now (hopefully) - and gave into the sudden compulsion to lean down and press his lips to the top of Dean’s head, like Dean did to him one time a million years ago (and Sam had never ever forgotten about it).
Dean was so far gone, he closed his eyes in grateful, tearful surrender and let Sam do that, let him coddle him and rub circles into his burning back muscles, and eventually let him take the trash can away and lie him back down onto the pillow so he could (finally) get some rest.
--0-
Half a bottle of orange Gatorade stayed down.
Pale morning sunlight streaked through the vertical blinds, and the TV trounced some morning cartoon. Dean was sitting up - pasty white, hollow eyed, but mostly alert and more importantly, sipping on the rest of the Gatorade. It was over. The war was finished.
Sam exhaled for the first time in hours, and waited a while to pack up their shit.
--0-
Dean drove past Fran’s Diner on the way out of town, and stuck his middle finger out the window, blaring the horn till they passed.
He wasn’t gonna start ordering salads, not till Hell froze over. But maybe, he’d take a cue from his finicky-ass little brother and start scoping out the kitchens a little more closely before ordering the specials.
AC/DC blared out from the cassette radio. The sun was shining at high noon, and the sky was clear and the most beautiful blue they’d ever seen. Dean took a sip of his Coke, caramel and fizzy and good.
“How many miles till Wichita?”
“Bite me.”
Dean grinned and punched the accelerator, heading east. It was good to be back.