Fall Down On Me
Title: Fall Down On Me
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 1800
Disclaimer: Not my boys. I didn't even really break them all that much this time.
Summary: Dean has sunstroke, but Sammy's being the whiny little bitch. Obviously.
Written for the Summer Fun Meme on, spn_bigpretzel which yes, this is a genuinely happy sort of hurt!Dean. Sorry for all the swearing. I'm drunk It's Dean's fault.
Sam is being a whiny bitch.
No, seriously, he is. It’s not like Dean doesn’t get it because dude, he’s the one with the stupid, sensitive complexion that burns in any weather that isn’t Minnesota in the middle of the freakin’ winter. Dean’s the one with the lobster red face and the peeling nose and the forearms that are itching and itching and itching so bad he wants to hack them clean off and be fucking done with them.
Sam gets his forehead singed and suddenly he’s acting like some humanitarian aid group needs to start raising money for his suffering.
Boo-freakin’-hoo.
“It hurts, okay?” he hisses when he catches the tail-end of Dean’s eye roll. “It’s…ow. Fuck. It hurts.”
Dean would get up and slap him upside the head just to show him, but of course Dad chooses that moment to come back from the parking lot (with not a single trace of sunburn on him. Asshole.)
“You. Stay.”
He’s even pointing and using that Dad Voice that really shouldn’t do anything to Dean anymore, but of course it does. He's twenty-one years old, for Christ's sake.
Dean makes a face instead of saying yes, sir. Because he’s got heatstroke and he can fucking get away with it.
The other side of the room is sort of blurry, but he can make out Dad taking Sam’s chin in his hand and turning it so he can see his pink forehead and he doesn’t even really need any eyes to know Sammy is twisting his face into that stupid frown that looks like he’s sucking on a lemon.
“It’s your fault,” Sam mumbles, which, great, Dean knew this was coming. “If you hadn’t attacked me with that razor, I would be fine.”
Dad sighs and Dean is glad he’s not going to take the bait and let Sam lead them all headfirst into another fight over his goddamn hair.
“You needed a haircut. What’s done is done.”
“There was nothing wrong with my hair. I never wanted to look like a fu-“
“You looked like a fuckin’ girl,” Dean calls across the room because boy, does he not want to listen to this shit again.
“I looked fine,” Sam grumbles and shifts uncomfortably on his squeaky mattress. His hand comes up to run over his new crop cut.
Kid looks miserable, but then again, he usually does when he’s not busy looking pissed.
“How are you doing,” Dad asks. Dean’s bed squeaks even worse than Sam’s when Dad flops down next to him and it kind of makes his head feel like he’s floating.
“Good,” Dean lies. He tries to sit up against the headboard and groans, which maybe, possibly clues Dad in just a tiny little bit.
Dad doesn’t even try to hide his smug grin when he turns Dean’s head slightly to the side and God, he’s burned his ears too, hasn’t he? Now that he’s thinking about it, he has most definitely burned his ears. They hurt like hell. Tiny little ants, stinging, burning, fuck, he needs to -
“No scratching.”
Dad swats his hands away from his face and they’re heavy and sore and fall right back onto his itchy sheets.
“Oooww, Dad.”
Somewhere behind Dad’s head, Sam snickers at the ceiling.
“Shut up, Sam.”
God, his voice sounds awful. All rough and thin and congested, all from spending the day in the sun instead of in a dusty library or the forest or whatever.
Dean hates his stupid skin.
“You want another Advil?”
Dean shrugs and turns onto his side, away from Dad. He regrets it immediately when half his face gets mashed into his pillow but he manages to stay pretty much still until Dad gets up again.
“I’m gonna take a shower,” he sighs and Dean is sure he can hear a hint of that stupid, smug smile in there. "You, don’t get up. Sammy, try and be civil, son.”
Like Sam’s even capable of being civil. Hasn’t been for years now. Dean wonders if there’s some place where people can turn in their teenage spawn and pick them back up when they get their heads out of their asses. Except for Dean, because Dean has always been awesome.
“Great,” Sam mumbles darkly once he’s sure Dad’s got the water running. “Now he’s locked the door.”
Dean knows he’s going to regret this, but he turns back around and looks at Sam. “Huh?”
Sam gives him a pissy look that only manages to look pathetic without the ridiculous boy band bangs falling into his eyes.
“He’s locked the door. What if someone wants to go in there?”
“Uh...you wanna watch Dad in the shower?”
“What? NO!”
“Pervert.”
Sam tries for his favorite outraged bitch face, but it all falls apart when he gets to wrinkling his forehead and he opts for hissing in pain instead.
Dean giggles and does definitely not flinch at all. His head is barely swimming away from him, anyway.
“I’m not -“
“Sure you’re not, Sammy.”
“I’m NOT,” Sam insist and he sounds every bit like he did when he was six and Dean was trying out insults he'd learned from Caleb.
Dean grins. Grinning doesn’t hurt any of the burned parts of his face, which is nice.
“Spill.”
“No.”
Oh, so there is something to spill.
“What, you got lotion in there or something?”
Sam glares. Not a bitchy, disgusted face, but a glare, which…which--
“Oh my God, you do!”
“I don’t!”
“Does it smell like coconut?”
Sam looks over his shoulder. His eyes flash panicky for a second and then he hurls a pillow at Dean’s head. It hits him right in the face, on top of his sore nose and cheeks and everything. Dean’s sure he’s been in worse pain before but right now he can’t think of any examples.
“Son of a bitch!”
That’s when the water stops running. Other people probably wouldn’t notice, but growing up a Winchester, boys get used to listening out for that kind of thing.
It takes Dad less than ten seconds before he’s in the doorway with a towel barely wrapped around his waist. It’s one of those small towels too. The ones you use to dry off your hands and on anyone else it’d look laughable, but John Winchester can pull off intimidating in any outfit.
Dean’s real glad he’s still on his bed at least.
“Shit, what don’t you boys understand about being civil?"
There's just about enough of Dean's brain still working to know that any answer to a question in that kind of tone would be a bad idea, so he picks at his sheets, tries to look as small and pityful as possible. He hears Sam sigh softly in the back of his throat and Dad's huge exhale as he goes from pissed back to mild annoyance.
"Dean, think about what you’re fucking saying when you curse,” he says and it takes Dean a minute, but okay, that sort of stings because fuck, Dean wasn’t thinking about that kind of thing at all.
He considers apologizing, but opts for pouting instead because historically speaking, Dad’s been known to buy into that kind of crap when one of his boys is hurt or sick and finally Dad nods and walks back into the bathroom.
“Sammy’s got coconut lotion in there,” Dean yells after him, just as the door closes.
Sam looks like he’s contemplating throwing his second pillow if it didn’t mean losing his second pillow. Dean’s got the first one stuffed behind his back where it’s sort of uncomfortable, but whatever, Sam isn’t getting it back.
“Bet that turned you on, huh?”
Sam breathes out through his nose like he’s trying very hard to stay calm.
“Dad all wet and angry, fresh outa the shower with that tiny, tiny - “
“Dude, seriously, shut up, that’s just fucked up!”
“Keep telling yourself that, Soon-Yi.”
That’s when Sam does throw his second pillow. But Dean is prepared and doesn’t even yelp when it smacks against his hands and forearms.
“Lotion-boy.”
Dean waits for another yell, but Sam has opted to silently mope and touch his forehead instead, so he turns on the TV. Dad never said anything about not watching TV.
It’s summer and it’s a weekend, so most of the programs suck. There’s loads of re-runs, 80’s movies with all the good scenes cut out to make them acceptable for the soccer mom crowd, the same old evangelical broadcasts that make Dean’s head hurt when he isn’t dealing with the sun killing half his brain. He finds an old Beavis and Butthead episode, but Sam objects. Says it's because of the crude humor, but really it's only because he knows Dean likes it. Dean doesn't quite feel up to getting yelled at by Dad again, so he rolls his eyes and keeps on going through the channels until--hello!
“The fuck?” Sam mumbles from the other bed. “That’s…”
“Yeah.”
Dean tries to blink the white out of his vision because yes, they’re definitely watching porn. Not soft porn either, but the kind of thing you have to steal from a video store or pay good money for.
“Ugh, turn that off.”
“Did we pay for this? We didn’t pay for this, did we?”
Sam shoots him a disgusted look.
“I don’t care, turn it off.”
Dean snorts, thinks about how for someone so obsessed with Normal with a capital fuckin' N, Sam has some seriously idiotic ideas about how people shouldn't enjoy normal cartoons or cars or food or free fucking porn.
"Turn it off," Sam hisses again, just in time with the money shot and just like that a new one comes on and the girls in this one are wearing Jayhawks jerseys and now it’s just about state pride and Dean isn’t going to turn this off no matter how much Sam bitches.
“Dude…”
Sam‘s voice is kind of distant, further away than it was five minutes ago and Dean figures all the blood rushing south, with his head already all kinds of messed up, might have been a bad idea. Oh God. Shit. The white spots are turning grey, grey, dark grey, black. Fuck, he so does not want to pass out from watching porn. But his head is spinning and the room keeps wobbling up and down and up and down and Sam is calling his name and Dean wonders if it’s possible to die of embarrassment. Is there anything worse than dying of porn?
“Dean?”
Sam sounds concerned and the Jayhawk girls are moaning in the background and it all melts together with the deafening silence that’s pressing against his ears and his heartbeat pushing from the other side.
And then the bathroom door opens again and Dean decides that dying from heatstroke with a goddamn semi is definitely lower on the list than doing the same thing with his father watching.
He tries to focus on getting the blood back up to his brain, but it just isn’t happening. Everything is sort of numb and soft and bluish-grey for some reason.
Then the moaning stops.
“Hey, kiddo.”
Dean tries to focus on Dad’s voice, but it’s not really working. He's sinking, floating, going under -- over sideways and under, that's from some shitty Disney movie, isn't it? -- and then the smell hits him and brings him back like that.
And it’s not coconut but lavender and Dean’s going to give Sam so much shit about this if he’s ever going to be able to get up again.
“Stay still,” Dad says, not exactly unkindly. He drops a wet cloth onto Dean’s forehead and his hands just keep rubbing up and down his arms and neck and Dean lets out a small whimper when Dad gets to his ears and his toes curl and the blood still hasn’t come all the way back up to his brain yet.
Yes, definitely possible to die of embarrassment.
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 1800
Disclaimer: Not my boys. I didn't even really break them all that much this time.
Summary: Dean has sunstroke, but Sammy's being the whiny little bitch. Obviously.
Written for the Summer Fun Meme on, spn_bigpretzel which yes, this is a genuinely happy sort of hurt!Dean. Sorry for all the swearing. I'm drunk It's Dean's fault.
Sam is being a whiny bitch.
No, seriously, he is. It’s not like Dean doesn’t get it because dude, he’s the one with the stupid, sensitive complexion that burns in any weather that isn’t Minnesota in the middle of the freakin’ winter. Dean’s the one with the lobster red face and the peeling nose and the forearms that are itching and itching and itching so bad he wants to hack them clean off and be fucking done with them.
Sam gets his forehead singed and suddenly he’s acting like some humanitarian aid group needs to start raising money for his suffering.
Boo-freakin’-hoo.
“It hurts, okay?” he hisses when he catches the tail-end of Dean’s eye roll. “It’s…ow. Fuck. It hurts.”
Dean would get up and slap him upside the head just to show him, but of course Dad chooses that moment to come back from the parking lot (with not a single trace of sunburn on him. Asshole.)
“You. Stay.”
He’s even pointing and using that Dad Voice that really shouldn’t do anything to Dean anymore, but of course it does. He's twenty-one years old, for Christ's sake.
Dean makes a face instead of saying yes, sir. Because he’s got heatstroke and he can fucking get away with it.
The other side of the room is sort of blurry, but he can make out Dad taking Sam’s chin in his hand and turning it so he can see his pink forehead and he doesn’t even really need any eyes to know Sammy is twisting his face into that stupid frown that looks like he’s sucking on a lemon.
“It’s your fault,” Sam mumbles, which, great, Dean knew this was coming. “If you hadn’t attacked me with that razor, I would be fine.”
Dad sighs and Dean is glad he’s not going to take the bait and let Sam lead them all headfirst into another fight over his goddamn hair.
“You needed a haircut. What’s done is done.”
“There was nothing wrong with my hair. I never wanted to look like a fu-“
“You looked like a fuckin’ girl,” Dean calls across the room because boy, does he not want to listen to this shit again.
“I looked fine,” Sam grumbles and shifts uncomfortably on his squeaky mattress. His hand comes up to run over his new crop cut.
Kid looks miserable, but then again, he usually does when he’s not busy looking pissed.
“How are you doing,” Dad asks. Dean’s bed squeaks even worse than Sam’s when Dad flops down next to him and it kind of makes his head feel like he’s floating.
“Good,” Dean lies. He tries to sit up against the headboard and groans, which maybe, possibly clues Dad in just a tiny little bit.
Dad doesn’t even try to hide his smug grin when he turns Dean’s head slightly to the side and God, he’s burned his ears too, hasn’t he? Now that he’s thinking about it, he has most definitely burned his ears. They hurt like hell. Tiny little ants, stinging, burning, fuck, he needs to -
“No scratching.”
Dad swats his hands away from his face and they’re heavy and sore and fall right back onto his itchy sheets.
“Oooww, Dad.”
Somewhere behind Dad’s head, Sam snickers at the ceiling.
“Shut up, Sam.”
God, his voice sounds awful. All rough and thin and congested, all from spending the day in the sun instead of in a dusty library or the forest or whatever.
Dean hates his stupid skin.
“You want another Advil?”
Dean shrugs and turns onto his side, away from Dad. He regrets it immediately when half his face gets mashed into his pillow but he manages to stay pretty much still until Dad gets up again.
“I’m gonna take a shower,” he sighs and Dean is sure he can hear a hint of that stupid, smug smile in there. "You, don’t get up. Sammy, try and be civil, son.”
Like Sam’s even capable of being civil. Hasn’t been for years now. Dean wonders if there’s some place where people can turn in their teenage spawn and pick them back up when they get their heads out of their asses. Except for Dean, because Dean has always been awesome.
“Great,” Sam mumbles darkly once he’s sure Dad’s got the water running. “Now he’s locked the door.”
Dean knows he’s going to regret this, but he turns back around and looks at Sam. “Huh?”
Sam gives him a pissy look that only manages to look pathetic without the ridiculous boy band bangs falling into his eyes.
“He’s locked the door. What if someone wants to go in there?”
“Uh...you wanna watch Dad in the shower?”
“What? NO!”
“Pervert.”
Sam tries for his favorite outraged bitch face, but it all falls apart when he gets to wrinkling his forehead and he opts for hissing in pain instead.
Dean giggles and does definitely not flinch at all. His head is barely swimming away from him, anyway.
“I’m not -“
“Sure you’re not, Sammy.”
“I’m NOT,” Sam insist and he sounds every bit like he did when he was six and Dean was trying out insults he'd learned from Caleb.
Dean grins. Grinning doesn’t hurt any of the burned parts of his face, which is nice.
“Spill.”
“No.”
Oh, so there is something to spill.
“What, you got lotion in there or something?”
Sam glares. Not a bitchy, disgusted face, but a glare, which…which--
“Oh my God, you do!”
“I don’t!”
“Does it smell like coconut?”
Sam looks over his shoulder. His eyes flash panicky for a second and then he hurls a pillow at Dean’s head. It hits him right in the face, on top of his sore nose and cheeks and everything. Dean’s sure he’s been in worse pain before but right now he can’t think of any examples.
“Son of a bitch!”
That’s when the water stops running. Other people probably wouldn’t notice, but growing up a Winchester, boys get used to listening out for that kind of thing.
It takes Dad less than ten seconds before he’s in the doorway with a towel barely wrapped around his waist. It’s one of those small towels too. The ones you use to dry off your hands and on anyone else it’d look laughable, but John Winchester can pull off intimidating in any outfit.
Dean’s real glad he’s still on his bed at least.
“Shit, what don’t you boys understand about being civil?"
There's just about enough of Dean's brain still working to know that any answer to a question in that kind of tone would be a bad idea, so he picks at his sheets, tries to look as small and pityful as possible. He hears Sam sigh softly in the back of his throat and Dad's huge exhale as he goes from pissed back to mild annoyance.
"Dean, think about what you’re fucking saying when you curse,” he says and it takes Dean a minute, but okay, that sort of stings because fuck, Dean wasn’t thinking about that kind of thing at all.
He considers apologizing, but opts for pouting instead because historically speaking, Dad’s been known to buy into that kind of crap when one of his boys is hurt or sick and finally Dad nods and walks back into the bathroom.
“Sammy’s got coconut lotion in there,” Dean yells after him, just as the door closes.
Sam looks like he’s contemplating throwing his second pillow if it didn’t mean losing his second pillow. Dean’s got the first one stuffed behind his back where it’s sort of uncomfortable, but whatever, Sam isn’t getting it back.
“Bet that turned you on, huh?”
Sam breathes out through his nose like he’s trying very hard to stay calm.
“Dad all wet and angry, fresh outa the shower with that tiny, tiny - “
“Dude, seriously, shut up, that’s just fucked up!”
“Keep telling yourself that, Soon-Yi.”
That’s when Sam does throw his second pillow. But Dean is prepared and doesn’t even yelp when it smacks against his hands and forearms.
“Lotion-boy.”
Dean waits for another yell, but Sam has opted to silently mope and touch his forehead instead, so he turns on the TV. Dad never said anything about not watching TV.
It’s summer and it’s a weekend, so most of the programs suck. There’s loads of re-runs, 80’s movies with all the good scenes cut out to make them acceptable for the soccer mom crowd, the same old evangelical broadcasts that make Dean’s head hurt when he isn’t dealing with the sun killing half his brain. He finds an old Beavis and Butthead episode, but Sam objects. Says it's because of the crude humor, but really it's only because he knows Dean likes it. Dean doesn't quite feel up to getting yelled at by Dad again, so he rolls his eyes and keeps on going through the channels until--hello!
“The fuck?” Sam mumbles from the other bed. “That’s…”
“Yeah.”
Dean tries to blink the white out of his vision because yes, they’re definitely watching porn. Not soft porn either, but the kind of thing you have to steal from a video store or pay good money for.
“Ugh, turn that off.”
“Did we pay for this? We didn’t pay for this, did we?”
Sam shoots him a disgusted look.
“I don’t care, turn it off.”
Dean snorts, thinks about how for someone so obsessed with Normal with a capital fuckin' N, Sam has some seriously idiotic ideas about how people shouldn't enjoy normal cartoons or cars or food or free fucking porn.
"Turn it off," Sam hisses again, just in time with the money shot and just like that a new one comes on and the girls in this one are wearing Jayhawks jerseys and now it’s just about state pride and Dean isn’t going to turn this off no matter how much Sam bitches.
“Dude…”
Sam‘s voice is kind of distant, further away than it was five minutes ago and Dean figures all the blood rushing south, with his head already all kinds of messed up, might have been a bad idea. Oh God. Shit. The white spots are turning grey, grey, dark grey, black. Fuck, he so does not want to pass out from watching porn. But his head is spinning and the room keeps wobbling up and down and up and down and Sam is calling his name and Dean wonders if it’s possible to die of embarrassment. Is there anything worse than dying of porn?
“Dean?”
Sam sounds concerned and the Jayhawk girls are moaning in the background and it all melts together with the deafening silence that’s pressing against his ears and his heartbeat pushing from the other side.
And then the bathroom door opens again and Dean decides that dying from heatstroke with a goddamn semi is definitely lower on the list than doing the same thing with his father watching.
He tries to focus on getting the blood back up to his brain, but it just isn’t happening. Everything is sort of numb and soft and bluish-grey for some reason.
Then the moaning stops.
“Hey, kiddo.”
Dean tries to focus on Dad’s voice, but it’s not really working. He's sinking, floating, going under -- over sideways and under, that's from some shitty Disney movie, isn't it? -- and then the smell hits him and brings him back like that.
And it’s not coconut but lavender and Dean’s going to give Sam so much shit about this if he’s ever going to be able to get up again.
“Stay still,” Dad says, not exactly unkindly. He drops a wet cloth onto Dean’s forehead and his hands just keep rubbing up and down his arms and neck and Dean lets out a small whimper when Dad gets to his ears and his toes curl and the blood still hasn’t come all the way back up to his brain yet.
Yes, definitely possible to die of embarrassment.