Sen Beret's Anniversary Meme!
It's actually been a year and two months since I became involved with the fandom, but hey, who's counting?
Masterlist
rules
Masterlist
rules
- comment on this post with your prompts! all prompts are welcome (be as vague or detailed as you'd like!) as long as they fit with the theme of sneezy/sick/allergic Sam, Dean, Castiel, John, etc.
- reply to prompts with your ( Read more... )
Dean taps the end of his pen against the tabletop and makes the back of his chair creak as he shuffles around.
Tap-t-tap. Tap-t-tap. Tap-t-tap. Creeeeakk.
“HEHHhhhH’USHHah! HEH’USHHHah! HEHUSHHHhhah!
Tap. Tap-tap. Creeeeak. Tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap.
“HEHTtSHUH! HEHT’SHUH! HuhhhASHCH’UH!”
Tap. T-tap. T...
“Hey. Do you hear sombethindg?”
Dean’s looking at Becky like he’s wanting an answer, but she’s not sure how she could have heard anything with all the noise the pair of them are making in the tiny room. She’s also not sure she wants to argue with him though, so she just shrugs and keeps her mouth shut.
“Hehhh... HiKKk’ishhyew!”
“Sammy?”
Dean stands, and wobbles, along the whole table, which takes down all of the mugs of tea.
“Duhh... Deand! HEHT’SHyew!” Sam yelps, taking an awkward hold of the two laptops by their screens while he tries to twist into his shoulder sneezing. Becky manages to take the computers off him and set them down on the bed, and Sam sneezes another four times before he breathlessly gets out the words to ask if she was burnt by the tea.
“Guys, I’bm ndot kiddindg, there’s sombethindg out there.” Frenzied, Dean takes a step, but either he falls prey to the crap that’s blocking up his ear tubes, or he gets tangled in the legs of the chair somehow, because he falls straight to the ground, headbutting the table on the way down.
Sam takes a deep breath. “Okay, Deand you’re... ISHHHh! You’re goindg to bed.”
Dean holds his hands out, as though Sam is about to take him by force and drag him. Becky hopes he’s not about to do that. Sam’s wobbly as hell himself; she’d probably have to help.
“Okay, I’bm feverish, Ibm feverish, I kndow, but I swear to God there is sombethindg out there.”
Sam presses his fingertips against his temple and then sneezes another bunch of times, doubling right over into his cupped hands. He sniffs and straightens. “Look Deand, I feeeeel...” He pinches his nose and continues. “I feel crappy too. But onde way or andother we... weehhhSCHYEW! Sniff! We have to get you ind to bed. Just... please do it ndow while you’re still lucid endough to go without a fight. We cand check the place over ondce you’re there safely.” He adds, just when Dean looks as though he’s about to argue.
“Okay.”
“Oh thandk God. Cand you stand?”
Sam crouches and tucks an arm around his brother’s waist, and Becky rushes to help, not quite so nervous now it looks as though Dean’s prepared to go willingly.
“Okay. Let’s see if we cand get you over there ind onde piece.”
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“Hhhehh... Uhhh...HHHuhhh...”
At the last moment he makes a grab at his face, pressing shut his nose between his whole fist.
“HEH-FffmMPh!”
Holding that position, his eyebrows curve into a look of pained concentration, eyes wet and watering as he forces his nose to stay still while his breath comes shallow in ever-quickening pants. He rocks forward onto his elbows.
“EHHhhHhTTssshmmp! HUHT’ShnmK! UhhhSHHHH’SHNt!”
He follows it up with a set of enormous gasps, the corners of his nose inflamed red and wriggling now that he’s released them from his grasp. But somehow, with a palm pressed hard against the tip of his nose and one last shuddering sigh, he manages to wrest back control. He casts a searching eye over his brother, still stretched out across his bedsheet, and sinks down on to the table, nostrils still rebelling with the occasional twitch.
“Why are you doing that?” Becky asks him, picking up a mug from the floor - the last piece of evidence of Dean’s motel room acrobatics. “It sounds painful.”
Sam sniffs, and rubs a knuckle against his nostril. “It’s a lot less paindful thand waking up mby brother up, trust mbe.”
Abruptly, he stirs himself, sitting up again and pinching his nostrils shut, while his eyes blink repeatedly. An irritated tear drips down the side of his cheek and pools near his finger in the well at the side of his nose. “Ugh” he complains, as the moment seems to pass, “Doesnd’t do mbuch to keep mby ndose frobm itchindg though.”
Becky stands and watches him as he turns back to the computer. He’s tired, flesh an unhealthy pale and eyes dark, resting his chin heavily on his hand as he stares glassily at his monitor. He clears his throat and presses his fingertips to his Adam’s apple as if the process is uncomfortable.
“Maybe we should leave the research for now.”
Sam protests at first, but it’s not as if they’re getting anywhere, and his eyes are drooping even as she walks him over to his bed. Once he’s tucked up under his blankets, she pulls her bag onto her knees and starts to work her way through the medicines. He’s overdue on most of it. The focus for both of them has been a little more on Dean in the past few hours. She feels guilty realising it. Sam is the reason she’s here after all. But still. Dean is out of the picture for the time being, and there’s plenty of opportunity to make up for lost time.
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Sam shuffles in his bed and tries to speak, but summons nothing more than a groaning croak. He winces and swallows and tries again, but apparently his voice, which has been strained for hours, has capitulated entirely under the pressure of smothering his sneezes.
She leans in toward him, and feels a little lightheaded herself as she gets close. The air is hot from his fever, and it smells of the lemon in the lozenge he’s sucking. She closes her eyes and puts her ear to his lips, hearing a flurry of little light sniffles before he tries to speak.
He nearly headbutts her on the chin as he sits up abruptly, crunching up and bending over the other side of the bed.
“HEH’NTTSssh!” He squashes it awkwardly in the palm of his hand and tilts backwards, shivering and sweating as he waits for the next to hit. “HURrHHMPtch! HPP’TCHhuh! HNKkTSchh! HhhmpppsH’shyew!”
I’m so sorry he mouths at her, before laying himself back down onto the mattress. Becky just nods mutely and bends in closer, excited for the tickle of his breath against her cheek.
“Don’t let me sleep too long,” he manages at a whisper, reaching for Kleenex to press against his nose. The decongestant cleared him out just fine, but since he’s taken it, his nose has been running relentlessly and the skin of his upper lip is splotchy and sore. He twists away from her to cough, and then continues. “And if Dean gets up, wake me, okay?”
Becky agrees and is about to get up when he catches her by her sleeve.
“Becky,” he wheezes, when she brings her ear back against his lips. “Just... thank you, okay.”
She sits and watches him for a long time after he drifts off to sleep.
--
Becky doesn’t remember setting her head on the desk, but when she blinks her eyes it’s darker, her neck is sore and the plastic is hard against her temple.
Consciousness returns in a rush, though, when Dean’s bed gives an enormous creak, and she looks up to find Dean himself, still tangled in his bed sheets, muttering under his breath and glaring across the room with a look that reminds Becky, with horror, that there’s a pistol underneath his pillow.
She’s stood in front of him before she realises she’s so much as gotten to her feet.
“Okay Dean...” she begins, tiptoeing around the bed as if it were an unexploded bomb fragment. “Maybe it’s time to go back to sleep...”
“It’s okay.”
She’d forgotten Sam was there, and nearly jumps out of her skin at the sound of his voice. Not that it’s not a relief. She can hear him, which is an improvement at this distance, but his voice is still raw and he has to cough, trying to get the words out.
“It’s okay, it’s been long enough. He can have some more medicine.” Sam drags himself up and eases his feet to the floor, rubbing at one eye.
“Sambby?” Dean’s tone is insistent, but he doesn’t look away from the window.
“Yeah buddy.”
“There’s sombeonde outside.”
“No Dean.” Sam pulls himself to a shaky stand and makes the slow plod across to his brother’s bed. “No. You’re sick, that’s all. We gotta get your fever down. Hey,” He crouches, wincing at the movement. “Look at me, Dean.”
Dean does.
Behind him, the window pane shatters.
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Okay, okay, okay… Becky isn’t afraid to admit that she wasn’t entirely prepared for this.
There’s an almighty crash outside of the bathroom door.
She whimpers, and tries to cling on tighter to the door handle, but it’s slippery from the sweat of her palms. Whatever it was that crashed through the bedroom window had been fast, and she hadn’t waited around to see what it was capable of.
Oh God, she can’t believe that the books are real.
Okay, of course, the books are real . She’s knows that. She’s known that for over a year now. But that was a totally different kind of real. That was about the road trip and the motel rooms and Sam always forgetting to get the pie. This is…
People die.
People actually die .
When John died, and Maddison, and Ellen and Jo, she’d thought about how sad it was, and it hurt, but it hurt because the boys went through so much heartbreak. She hadn’t thought about John, tortured in Hell, Maddison’s brains splattering against her apartment wall, Ellen and Jo’s flesh being literally torn from off their bones.
Her stomach heaves, but she presses herself harder against the bathroom door. She tries not to think about how the fighting noises continue even after the gunshots, tries not to wonder just what exactly she is keeping out.
It’s okay, she tries to tell herself over the clamour of her blood rushing though her ears. If it’s like this now, then it’s like this in every book. The Winchesters have survived (mostly) through sixty books. Not to mention all of the unpublished works. They kill the monster and rescue the girl. That’s how it works. Becky had always wanted to be that girl. She’ll just need to wait until…
There’s another noise then, alongside the other scary stuff: alongside the sickening thump of blunt-force trauma; the other-worldly hiss of whatever-it-is that came through the window; the hysterical screams of the motel employee who probably just came round to see what all the noise was about. It starts, urgent, but quiet at first. Then it grows with volume and intensity.
“Hhh…HHhhTCHhH! Huhk’KsHhh! KShh! HEhK’TcHhhChyew! HHpPTtchYew! UHhTCHhhYew! HPP’TCH’TChYew! AhhTCHYEW! AhhTCHHSHhUH! HUHhhhUSHHHUH!”
Oh God, Becky, what have you done?
She tries to swallow, but it just kind of sticks in the middle of her throat. She remembers now what Dean had said.
“We’re looking for something that breaks into houses and can rip apart a human ribcage.”
There’s a horrifying cry of triumph from outside as the door handle is wrenched from out of her hands. The whole bathroom door tears away at its hinges, and a something -vaguely humanoid and smelling of rot - tosses it over its shoulder as though it were a candy bar wrapper.
It grins then, and closes in on Becky.
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The thing topples, face-first, as Sam tackles it from behind. As they crash down hard against the carpet, Becky can see Dean behind them, slumped unconscious against the side of his bed and bleeding from a cut across his forehead. This definitely wasn’t part of the plan.
She scrambles backward and almost topples over into the bathtub.
“Ru… Hhh’KHTCH’HH!” Sam sneezes, jaw clenched with the effort of fighting off the monster. “Run!”
But the monster lifts its head, looks Becky straight in the eye. With a roar, it stands, throwing Sam off of its shoulders.
“You.” The thing lurches forward, catches a handful of her shirt within its fist. Twisting at the fabric, it hoists her upwards until her tiptoes just graze the floor and the stitching starts to come away at the seams. “It is you.”
Somewhere behind, Sam scrambles, tries to catch a hold of the monster’s ankles, but it plants a boot in his face without even loosening its grip.
“You know Death,” it insists, pressing its mouth right up against her face.
The smell is worse this close up. Like a warm rutabaga, rotting on a compost pile. “I… I don’t…” she begins, angling her head away and not feeling at all sure about engaging it in conversation.
It grabs her head with its free hand and yanks it in its direction. Its skin is white and wet and wrinkled. It looks almost as like a whole chunk of it would slide off at a touch. She strains to look anywhere other than into its eyes.
“You have to get a message.... I don’t want to be here. Tell Death,” it pants, “He has to take me.”
And then she sees it. Oh thank God. Over in the bedroom, Dean is staggering to his feet, creeping around the bed, reaching under the pillow…
She clamps her lips together, determined not to sigh with relief, and looks back at the monster as if she hadn’t noticed a thing.
It shakes her. “Tell him!”
“I don’t know him!” She squeaks.
“Yes you do,” it roars in response, holding up one of her hands by the wrist, “Horseman!”
Sam’s sneezing, which had become something of a smothered soundtrack to this fight, falters and then stops entirely. She catches sight of him, shivering as he stands ready, a lamp gripped between two hands. When she meets his eyes, they’re wide with realisation.
Shit.
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It shrieks in frustration and barrels into Sam, knocking him over easily and tearing the lamp out of his grip.
“De… Hhh-Deadn-KHSHhH! Get… huh! Becky. The rhhuh… the rindg… HhhNgh’TCHUH!”
Dean advances on her, but she can see that he’s confused. It doesn’t matter. She’s way ahead of them both.
She slips the ring easily off her finger and tosses it onto the ground.
Dean squints at it for a moment when it rolls over to his feet. When he looks up at her again, it’s with a look that could boil iron. Apparently, he recognised it.
His eyes not leaving Becky’s face, he slams the ring underfoot. There’s a glow of green and a crack of energy and the tide of the battle turns immediately. As if without a thought, Sam wrenches the whatever-it-is off of his chest and pins its arms to the floor.
“Silver bullets,” he yells.
“On it.”
When Dean runs for the door, it’s smooth and not stumbling. Sam doesn’t sneeze, doesn’t gasp. He grimaces a little as the monster struggles beneath him, but he doesn’t let up.
He doesn’t look at Becky.
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“That’s it?” She asks, “It’s dead?”
“For now,” Dean mutters. “If we don’t want it up and running around with half a face, we’ll need to steak it in its gravesite later.” He kicks at the motionless body where it is sprawled next to Sam on the carpet. “Whaddyouknow? Turns out you don’t need Head Reaper himself to switch the lights out.”
When no-one reacts, Dean sighs, and pulls Becky’s dufflebag from underneath their upended table. “Well, thank you for your entirely individual brand of help, but it’s probably time you were leaving. I assume there are no objections this time,” he adds, looking pointedly at Sam.
Sam shakes his head and looks away, his face creasing. He reaches out for the Kleenex box, now crushed and abandoned on the floor. Pulling out a couple of tissues, he arches back, blinking.
“Huhhh… Uhhh… Huhhh… HHT’ZCHhhHuh! HggKhhTCHYEW! Ow.”
Dean stares at him. “You’re not seriously still sick?”
“Ndo,” Sam grumbles, holding Kleenex against his face. “Bastard zombie broke mby ndose. Pressure was botherindg mbe.”
Becky notices then, what a mess has been left by this whole thing. The motel room looks an absolute wreck, and the boys look worse. Sam has mud and blood smeared across his cheekbone where he’d taken that foot to the face; Dean is limping and holding his arm awkwardly; and the pair of them are moving slow and stiff now that the adrenaline of the fight it wearing off.
“Um… so… I know I’m probably the last person you want around right now, but, you know, you’re gonna need some help clearing this place up…”
“No!” They answer. In Unison. Becky’s not gonna pretend it’s not totally awesome. She turns to Sam.
“At least let me bandage your…”
“Becky,” Sam interrupts, pinching at the bridge of his nose. “I dond’t kndow what you were tryindg to achieve here…” She thinks about explaining, but he cuts her off. “Actually, I dond’t evend wandt to thidnk about it. But believe mbe whedn I tell you that if we see you agaidn, or hear that you’ve beedn withind a hundred feet of a mbagical object, thedn you will be the ndext thindg that we steak ind a graveyard.”
It occurs to Becky that it’s probably not a good idea to argue with a guy on the same day that you see him whack a zombie with a lamp.
Oh well, no shame in knowing when you’re beaten.
She gives them one last (winning - she thinks) smile, and hefts her bag back onto her shoulder. “Well, it’s been nice hunting with you. I hope you feel better.”
“Really?” Dean rounds on her. “You hope we feel better? Maybe next time you could…”
“Leave it.” Sam tells him, getting to his feet with a groan as Becky steps out of the door.
It could have gone worse, she decides, squeezing at Sam’s toothbrush that she’d snuck into her jacket. After all - she totally almost got to drive the Impala.
She’ll just need to come up with a better plan next time.
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