FICLET COLLECTION - "A Tree and Some Boston Market" - Candy Canes and Cough Drops (Ch. 8)
Title: "A Tree and Some Boston Market" - A Supernatural Holiday Advent Calendar
Author: earzwideopen
Rating: PG-13 (unless otherwise noted before a specific chapter)
Pairing: Gen, possible hints of Destiel pre-slash
Warnings: None, except for a little "hunter language"
Genres: Mostly fluff or humor, occasional h/c [THIS CHAPTER'S A SICK!FIC]
Summary: Yuletide can be an interesting time, especially if you're a Winchester. A daily-updated collection of holiday ficlets, one for every day of December up to and including the 25th. Because I couldn't think of a better way to count down to Christmas!
Chapter Summary: Dean's not too happy that the Christmas season and the flu season overlap. Sam is looking for a way to keep his sick brother's spirits up. Sick!Dean, nosy!caring!Sam.
Archived: on AO3
LiveJournal: Read it after the cut!
Additional Parts on LJ: Part 1/25 | Part 2/25 | Part 3/25 | Part 4/25 | Part 5/25 | Part 6/25 | Part 7/25
December 8th - Candy Canes and Cough Drops
Outside a beat-up Iowa gas station, the first snow of the year was falling.
Really, it was more like the first slush of the year was slushing. The sky was gray and murky, and all the wet clods falling through the air were forming piles of mush on the side of the road. Dean was hunkered down in the driver's seat, tapping his fingers listlessly on the window ledge to some light listening ("Master of Puppets"), waiting for Sam to return so they could hit the road again.
And there was Big Bird now, carrying a styrofoam cup of coffee (Dean's), another cup with a little tea string sticking out from under the lid (Sam's), and a thin, colored cardboard box.
Dean couldn't help but notice that none of these things were the pie he'd asked for.
Sam entered the Impala with a rush of cold air and handed Dean his coffee. Dean felt warmth bleed into his frigid palm through the styrofoam. It still didn't fix the lack of pie.
"What's that look for?" asked Sam.
"You know damn-" Dean paused to clear his throat. "You know damn well what it's for."
"Well if you wanted pie, you should've come into the gas station and bought it yourself. I keep telling you I'm not your errand boy."
"Sure y'are, bitch," said Dean, but whatever was jammed in his throat prevented him from lending the insult its usual punch.
Dean would never have made the effort to enter gas station anyway, not today. He felt weirdly heavy, like the crap falling from the sky had dug its way into his body. Nothing a couple swigs of decent booze and a nap couldn't fix, but still not worth getting out of the Impala and into the slush.
Sam held out the colored box he'd brought with him. "Candy cane?" he asked.
Dean squinted at his younger brother. "I thought you weren't into all that Christmas crap."
"You say that to me every year, you know," said Sam with a thin smile. "People can change."
"Fair enough. Are there different flavors or..."
"If you wanna know whether there's a pie flavored candy cane in there, there isn't."
"Ah, what the hell, just gimme one anyway," said Dean. Maybe sucking on it would do something for his throat.
The peppermint coated his throat a little, but it wasn't doing squat for the cloudy heaviness in his bones. Side effect of winter, he supposed. He put his coffee in the cupholder and settled in for a long drive.
"You okay?" said Sam.
"Why wouldn't I be?" asked Dean.
"You're being pretty quiet."
Dean shrugged. "Since when am I Chatty Cathy on the road?"
"I dunno... You haven't asked me anything about the case. Usually you wanna know."
"Fine," said Dean, swallowing around the growing lump in his gullet. "Lay it on me."
"Three women dead in one town, all in a matter of days. They all died sitting inches from their TV sets. But that's not even the weird part-"
"Hhhtchoo!"
Sam stared at Dean, who was preoccupied with wiping snot from under his nose.
"Uh..." said Sam, "Gesundheit?"
"That was not a sneeze," said Dean. "That was a forceful, manly exhale... ah... ah... CHOOFF!"
"Dude, gross," said Sam.
"Oh, I'm sorry," growled Dean, "apparently I can't sneeze in my own friggin' car now."
"So it was a sneeze..."
"Yeah, whatever, Sherlock."
"You sure you're feeling okay...?"
"No, Sam, I'm not. As it turns out, I'm allergic to you," said Dean with a slight eye roll. His felt the beginnings of a headache coming on and fought the urge to pinch his nosebridge. "Yes," he continued, "I'm fine. Now what about the rest of the case?"
Dean was pretty sure it was getting colder in the car. Dusk was coming; the cold made sense. While Sam talked, Dean reached out an oddly shaky hand and cranked the heat up.
By nightfall Dean was sure that the heat in the car was broken. He doubted he'd sense any temperature difference if he stepped outside.
He slammed his palm onto the dashboard to try and dislodge whatever was stopping up the vent.
"Dean, what are you doing?" Sam asked, roused from a light sleep by the smack of Dean's hand on the dash.
"Damn heat's busted," Dean muttered, clamping his teeth shut so they wouldn't chatter.
"Are you serious?" said Sam incredulously. "I was just about to say we should crack a window and get a little cool air in here. It's like a sauna, man."
"Speak for yourself," said Dean. It came out as a strangled croak instead of a coherent sentence.
"Woah," said Sam with a slight chuckle. "When did you turn into Batman?"
"I've always been Batma... ah... CHHFFF!"
"Sounds like," said Sam, "Batman's getting a Bat-manflu."
"Not likely," said Dean - but even as he said it, little knifey stabs of pain flickered across his tonsils.
For the first time since they'd left the gas station, Dean allowed the thought of actual illness to cross his mind. He supposed it was possible; he couldn't keep blaming the weather and the car for everything. It wouldn't do Sammy any good to have to go the case alone, though. So Dean pushed back the tingling in his nose and the pounding in his head and focused his eyes on the road. Mind over matter.
"Mind over matter" didn't turn out to be the best mantra.
As he drove, it was getting harder and harder for Dean to ignore the glass-sharp pain in his throat and the lumpy throbs in his skull. Thick aches travelled in waves from his neck to his tailbone. He kept gripping the wheel tighter to stop his hands from shaking, which was hard to do considering he felt as weak as an overcooked noodle. And to top it all off, his guts had started to seriously reconsider whether they were really all that attached to his dinner.
And... Holy crap, the street lights on the side of road were so damn bright... When did they get so damn bright...
The Impala hit a pothole.
Dean's stomach took the bump as a signal that it was okay to let go of its contents. He slammed on the breaks and barely, just barely kept the rising bile from redecorating the dashboard.
Sam jerked awake again and frowned deeply at what Dean doubted was a pretty sight.
The younger hunter took a good long look at his brother - shaky and pale and fresh from almost tasting his dinner a second time - and shook his sandy head.
"We're stopping at the next motel we see," said Sam. "You don't get to argue."
Lucky for Sammy, arguing was the last thing Dean wanted to do.
"You won't at least take your temperature to see if you need Tylenol or something?"
"There are only two people I go to for medical help," said Dean, pulling the blankets up tighter around his ears. "Dr. Sexy and Jack Daniels... ah-CHFFZZZTZ!"
"That didn't sound remotely human."
"You don't sound remotely human," Dean mocked under his breath. His stomach twinged hard; he curled onto his side as slowly as possible and tried to keep from wincing.
"You should hydrate," suggested Sam.
"No."
"Dude, you're white as a sheet. If I didn't know any better, I'd wanna go dig up your bones for a salt-and-burn."
"Real witty," Dean grumbled. His guts felt like they were trapped in a washing machine on spin cycle.
Sam sighed. "Can I do anything? Do you want me to put on some TV-"
"No."
"Okay... Could I ask why not?"
"Gottaconcentrate," said Dean, rushing to get the words out so he could shut his mouth again.
"On..."
"Notpuking."
"TMI, but alright." Sam grinned. "Hey, maybe I could get you that pie now!"
Dean stuck his hand out from the under the covers like a submarine periscope, flipped Sam the bird, and, mercifully, fell asleep.
When Dean woke up some four hours later, sweaty and disoriented, it was to the sound of "Auld Lang Syne" humming in the air. At first he thought it was the fever (okay, yes, fine, he had a fever after all), but when he propped himself up on one elbow and squinted across the room he saw a black and white movie on the TV screen.
"It's a Wonderful Life," said Sam from the other bed.
"Yeah, not so much," countered Dean hoarsely, lowering himself gingerly back onto the mattress. He didn't know one person's body could ache in so many damn places. At least he'd slept off the need to blow chunks.
"You missed the whole movie, practically," said Sam. "Figured I shouldn't wake you up, though."
"Smart choice." Dean's head was thumping in time with his heart. He pulled his forearm up to cover his sore eyes. "So, what'd you dig up on those women?"
"Those what?"
"The case, Sammy, the damn... euh... ah... CHHOOFZZT!" The sneeze rocketed Dean's head off the pillow, which was surprising because Dean was sure his head weighed at least a ton at the moment.
"Oh, actually..." said Sam, getting off the bed and heading for his duffle, "I didn't have time to look into it."
"Jesus, Sam," Dean croaked, massaging his temple with a shaky hand, "we have one job to do in this life..."
"Exactly," said Sam. He brandished a couple big paper bags. "We have one job to do. And no matter what you're saying now, I know you'd kill me if I tried to run off and do it without you. So instead of working on the case, I got you something while you were out."
Dean squeezed his eyes shut and rolled onto his side away from Sam. "I ain't drinking any damn chicken 'n' stars."
"Good, because that's not what it is," said Sam. Through his stuffed-up ears, Dean heard a faint clinking as Sam pulled something out of the bags.
"Not to toot my own horn," the younger hunter continued, "but I think what I got you is pretty far up your alley."
Dean rolled over, slowly, painfully. "I'm listening."
Sam was grabbing two tumblers from the room's kitchenette. "I looked online," he said, "and found a recipe for a remedy that's more your style. Once I found it, all I needed was a trip to the nearest liquor store and..."
"Sam, be honest: am I delirious?" Dean asked.
"Uh..." said Sam, "I don't think so..."
"Then you're really making me a drink?"
Sam smiled and gestured at the bottles. "Cocktail, to be exact. With all your favorite stuff: whiskey, coffee liqueur... Oh- and I threw a little peppermint schnapps in 'cause... you know. Christmas and all."
"That's very fruity of you, Sammy, thank you," said Dean wryly, grimacing a little at the pain in his throat.
"Aw, come on," said Sam, dropping a couple ice cubes into the drinks. "I slave over your precious booze and that's the thanks I get?"
"Hey," said Dean, starting to feel good enough to smile, "I never asked for the drink, there's no politeness protocol here."
Sam laughed. "Do you want it or not? If you're too nauseous I could just have both, you know..."
"Nonono," said Dean quickly. "Not in puke mode anymore. Just..." He let out a couple wet coughs for added effect. "Just really wouldn't mind the drink."
The younger hunter smiled, shook his head, and put Dean's cocktail on the nightstand. Dean was just beginning to wonder how in the hell he was gonna sit up to drink it when he felt Sam's hands underneath his shoulders, easing him up gently on the pillows. Dean's head swam for a moment in its newly vertical position.
"Bottom's up," said Sam, handing the drink off to his older brother. "You can hold it, right? You don't need a straw or anything, do you?"
"Bite me," said Dean, mostly because he was asking himself the same questions. He put both hands around the glass and concentrated on keeping them as steady as possible.
When the drink successfully hit his cracked lips it was... Hot damn, it was like Nirvana with a side of awesome. In spite of himself, Dean actually liked the peppermint; the Kahlua was great, and the whiskey... The whiskey tasted a little different than it usually did.
Scratch that - a lot different. A lot better.
"Sam," Dean ventured, "did you buy me freaking Jameson?"
Sammy was grinning ear to ear. He held up his own drink.
"Merry early Christmas, Dean," he said.
Dean really did smile this time. "Merry early Christmas, you crazy sonofabitch. I still can't believe Wheatgrass Winchester's letting me drink booze while I'm sick, though."
Sam's grin widened.
"I figured it'd be easier to trick you into taking ibuprofen if I crushed it up in some whiskey," he said.
"You're a devious bastard, you know that?" said Dean, taking another careful swig.
"Just get better, okay?"
"Well on my way, Sammy," Dean replied, feeling the booze blot out the aches in his bones. "Well on my way."
Maybe it was a wonderful life, after all.
Author: earzwideopen
Rating: PG-13 (unless otherwise noted before a specific chapter)
Pairing: Gen, possible hints of Destiel pre-slash
Warnings: None, except for a little "hunter language"
Genres: Mostly fluff or humor, occasional h/c [THIS CHAPTER'S A SICK!FIC]
Summary: Yuletide can be an interesting time, especially if you're a Winchester. A daily-updated collection of holiday ficlets, one for every day of December up to and including the 25th. Because I couldn't think of a better way to count down to Christmas!
Chapter Summary: Dean's not too happy that the Christmas season and the flu season overlap. Sam is looking for a way to keep his sick brother's spirits up. Sick!Dean, nosy!caring!Sam.
Archived: on AO3
LiveJournal: Read it after the cut!
Additional Parts on LJ: Part 1/25 | Part 2/25 | Part 3/25 | Part 4/25 | Part 5/25 | Part 6/25 | Part 7/25
December 8th - Candy Canes and Cough Drops
Outside a beat-up Iowa gas station, the first snow of the year was falling.
Really, it was more like the first slush of the year was slushing. The sky was gray and murky, and all the wet clods falling through the air were forming piles of mush on the side of the road. Dean was hunkered down in the driver's seat, tapping his fingers listlessly on the window ledge to some light listening ("Master of Puppets"), waiting for Sam to return so they could hit the road again.
And there was Big Bird now, carrying a styrofoam cup of coffee (Dean's), another cup with a little tea string sticking out from under the lid (Sam's), and a thin, colored cardboard box.
Dean couldn't help but notice that none of these things were the pie he'd asked for.
Sam entered the Impala with a rush of cold air and handed Dean his coffee. Dean felt warmth bleed into his frigid palm through the styrofoam. It still didn't fix the lack of pie.
"What's that look for?" asked Sam.
"You know damn-" Dean paused to clear his throat. "You know damn well what it's for."
"Well if you wanted pie, you should've come into the gas station and bought it yourself. I keep telling you I'm not your errand boy."
"Sure y'are, bitch," said Dean, but whatever was jammed in his throat prevented him from lending the insult its usual punch.
Dean would never have made the effort to enter gas station anyway, not today. He felt weirdly heavy, like the crap falling from the sky had dug its way into his body. Nothing a couple swigs of decent booze and a nap couldn't fix, but still not worth getting out of the Impala and into the slush.
Sam held out the colored box he'd brought with him. "Candy cane?" he asked.
Dean squinted at his younger brother. "I thought you weren't into all that Christmas crap."
"You say that to me every year, you know," said Sam with a thin smile. "People can change."
"Fair enough. Are there different flavors or..."
"If you wanna know whether there's a pie flavored candy cane in there, there isn't."
"Ah, what the hell, just gimme one anyway," said Dean. Maybe sucking on it would do something for his throat.
The peppermint coated his throat a little, but it wasn't doing squat for the cloudy heaviness in his bones. Side effect of winter, he supposed. He put his coffee in the cupholder and settled in for a long drive.
"You okay?" said Sam.
"Why wouldn't I be?" asked Dean.
"You're being pretty quiet."
Dean shrugged. "Since when am I Chatty Cathy on the road?"
"I dunno... You haven't asked me anything about the case. Usually you wanna know."
"Fine," said Dean, swallowing around the growing lump in his gullet. "Lay it on me."
"Three women dead in one town, all in a matter of days. They all died sitting inches from their TV sets. But that's not even the weird part-"
"Hhhtchoo!"
Sam stared at Dean, who was preoccupied with wiping snot from under his nose.
"Uh..." said Sam, "Gesundheit?"
"That was not a sneeze," said Dean. "That was a forceful, manly exhale... ah... ah... CHOOFF!"
"Dude, gross," said Sam.
"Oh, I'm sorry," growled Dean, "apparently I can't sneeze in my own friggin' car now."
"So it was a sneeze..."
"Yeah, whatever, Sherlock."
"You sure you're feeling okay...?"
"No, Sam, I'm not. As it turns out, I'm allergic to you," said Dean with a slight eye roll. His felt the beginnings of a headache coming on and fought the urge to pinch his nosebridge. "Yes," he continued, "I'm fine. Now what about the rest of the case?"
Dean was pretty sure it was getting colder in the car. Dusk was coming; the cold made sense. While Sam talked, Dean reached out an oddly shaky hand and cranked the heat up.
By nightfall Dean was sure that the heat in the car was broken. He doubted he'd sense any temperature difference if he stepped outside.
He slammed his palm onto the dashboard to try and dislodge whatever was stopping up the vent.
"Dean, what are you doing?" Sam asked, roused from a light sleep by the smack of Dean's hand on the dash.
"Damn heat's busted," Dean muttered, clamping his teeth shut so they wouldn't chatter.
"Are you serious?" said Sam incredulously. "I was just about to say we should crack a window and get a little cool air in here. It's like a sauna, man."
"Speak for yourself," said Dean. It came out as a strangled croak instead of a coherent sentence.
"Woah," said Sam with a slight chuckle. "When did you turn into Batman?"
"I've always been Batma... ah... CHHFFF!"
"Sounds like," said Sam, "Batman's getting a Bat-manflu."
"Not likely," said Dean - but even as he said it, little knifey stabs of pain flickered across his tonsils.
For the first time since they'd left the gas station, Dean allowed the thought of actual illness to cross his mind. He supposed it was possible; he couldn't keep blaming the weather and the car for everything. It wouldn't do Sammy any good to have to go the case alone, though. So Dean pushed back the tingling in his nose and the pounding in his head and focused his eyes on the road. Mind over matter.
"Mind over matter" didn't turn out to be the best mantra.
As he drove, it was getting harder and harder for Dean to ignore the glass-sharp pain in his throat and the lumpy throbs in his skull. Thick aches travelled in waves from his neck to his tailbone. He kept gripping the wheel tighter to stop his hands from shaking, which was hard to do considering he felt as weak as an overcooked noodle. And to top it all off, his guts had started to seriously reconsider whether they were really all that attached to his dinner.
And... Holy crap, the street lights on the side of road were so damn bright... When did they get so damn bright...
The Impala hit a pothole.
Dean's stomach took the bump as a signal that it was okay to let go of its contents. He slammed on the breaks and barely, just barely kept the rising bile from redecorating the dashboard.
Sam jerked awake again and frowned deeply at what Dean doubted was a pretty sight.
The younger hunter took a good long look at his brother - shaky and pale and fresh from almost tasting his dinner a second time - and shook his sandy head.
"We're stopping at the next motel we see," said Sam. "You don't get to argue."
Lucky for Sammy, arguing was the last thing Dean wanted to do.
"You won't at least take your temperature to see if you need Tylenol or something?"
"There are only two people I go to for medical help," said Dean, pulling the blankets up tighter around his ears. "Dr. Sexy and Jack Daniels... ah-CHFFZZZTZ!"
"That didn't sound remotely human."
"You don't sound remotely human," Dean mocked under his breath. His stomach twinged hard; he curled onto his side as slowly as possible and tried to keep from wincing.
"You should hydrate," suggested Sam.
"No."
"Dude, you're white as a sheet. If I didn't know any better, I'd wanna go dig up your bones for a salt-and-burn."
"Real witty," Dean grumbled. His guts felt like they were trapped in a washing machine on spin cycle.
Sam sighed. "Can I do anything? Do you want me to put on some TV-"
"No."
"Okay... Could I ask why not?"
"Gottaconcentrate," said Dean, rushing to get the words out so he could shut his mouth again.
"On..."
"Notpuking."
"TMI, but alright." Sam grinned. "Hey, maybe I could get you that pie now!"
Dean stuck his hand out from the under the covers like a submarine periscope, flipped Sam the bird, and, mercifully, fell asleep.
When Dean woke up some four hours later, sweaty and disoriented, it was to the sound of "Auld Lang Syne" humming in the air. At first he thought it was the fever (okay, yes, fine, he had a fever after all), but when he propped himself up on one elbow and squinted across the room he saw a black and white movie on the TV screen.
"It's a Wonderful Life," said Sam from the other bed.
"Yeah, not so much," countered Dean hoarsely, lowering himself gingerly back onto the mattress. He didn't know one person's body could ache in so many damn places. At least he'd slept off the need to blow chunks.
"You missed the whole movie, practically," said Sam. "Figured I shouldn't wake you up, though."
"Smart choice." Dean's head was thumping in time with his heart. He pulled his forearm up to cover his sore eyes. "So, what'd you dig up on those women?"
"Those what?"
"The case, Sammy, the damn... euh... ah... CHHOOFZZT!" The sneeze rocketed Dean's head off the pillow, which was surprising because Dean was sure his head weighed at least a ton at the moment.
"Oh, actually..." said Sam, getting off the bed and heading for his duffle, "I didn't have time to look into it."
"Jesus, Sam," Dean croaked, massaging his temple with a shaky hand, "we have one job to do in this life..."
"Exactly," said Sam. He brandished a couple big paper bags. "We have one job to do. And no matter what you're saying now, I know you'd kill me if I tried to run off and do it without you. So instead of working on the case, I got you something while you were out."
Dean squeezed his eyes shut and rolled onto his side away from Sam. "I ain't drinking any damn chicken 'n' stars."
"Good, because that's not what it is," said Sam. Through his stuffed-up ears, Dean heard a faint clinking as Sam pulled something out of the bags.
"Not to toot my own horn," the younger hunter continued, "but I think what I got you is pretty far up your alley."
Dean rolled over, slowly, painfully. "I'm listening."
Sam was grabbing two tumblers from the room's kitchenette. "I looked online," he said, "and found a recipe for a remedy that's more your style. Once I found it, all I needed was a trip to the nearest liquor store and..."
"Sam, be honest: am I delirious?" Dean asked.
"Uh..." said Sam, "I don't think so..."
"Then you're really making me a drink?"
Sam smiled and gestured at the bottles. "Cocktail, to be exact. With all your favorite stuff: whiskey, coffee liqueur... Oh- and I threw a little peppermint schnapps in 'cause... you know. Christmas and all."
"That's very fruity of you, Sammy, thank you," said Dean wryly, grimacing a little at the pain in his throat.
"Aw, come on," said Sam, dropping a couple ice cubes into the drinks. "I slave over your precious booze and that's the thanks I get?"
"Hey," said Dean, starting to feel good enough to smile, "I never asked for the drink, there's no politeness protocol here."
Sam laughed. "Do you want it or not? If you're too nauseous I could just have both, you know..."
"Nonono," said Dean quickly. "Not in puke mode anymore. Just..." He let out a couple wet coughs for added effect. "Just really wouldn't mind the drink."
The younger hunter smiled, shook his head, and put Dean's cocktail on the nightstand. Dean was just beginning to wonder how in the hell he was gonna sit up to drink it when he felt Sam's hands underneath his shoulders, easing him up gently on the pillows. Dean's head swam for a moment in its newly vertical position.
"Bottom's up," said Sam, handing the drink off to his older brother. "You can hold it, right? You don't need a straw or anything, do you?"
"Bite me," said Dean, mostly because he was asking himself the same questions. He put both hands around the glass and concentrated on keeping them as steady as possible.
When the drink successfully hit his cracked lips it was... Hot damn, it was like Nirvana with a side of awesome. In spite of himself, Dean actually liked the peppermint; the Kahlua was great, and the whiskey... The whiskey tasted a little different than it usually did.
Scratch that - a lot different. A lot better.
"Sam," Dean ventured, "did you buy me freaking Jameson?"
Sammy was grinning ear to ear. He held up his own drink.
"Merry early Christmas, Dean," he said.
Dean really did smile this time. "Merry early Christmas, you crazy sonofabitch. I still can't believe Wheatgrass Winchester's letting me drink booze while I'm sick, though."
Sam's grin widened.
"I figured it'd be easier to trick you into taking ibuprofen if I crushed it up in some whiskey," he said.
"You're a devious bastard, you know that?" said Dean, taking another careful swig.
"Just get better, okay?"
"Well on my way, Sammy," Dean replied, feeling the booze blot out the aches in his bones. "Well on my way."
Maybe it was a wonderful life, after all.