Six Hours
Title: Six Hours
Summary: For the 7.03 Comment Fic Meme. Prompt: "The Winchesters are bad enough on their good days but when they're hurt? They're 10 times worse...especially when they are stuck on the road and on the run. Bobby's POV driving to Montana with Dean's leg cast and Sam awake but seeing things...After a few days on the road with the boys, Bobby has a new appreciation of what John had to deal with when the boys were growing up."
Warnings/Spoilers:Through 7.03.
Wordcount: 906
Author's Note: This was my first Supernatural fic ever.
"Come on, Bobby, it's been like three hours."
"It's been an hour and a half, and you have another half to go, so why don't you hang that pretty little head of yours out the window and try to relax?" The words come out of Bobby's mouth so easily that he wonders if he's said them, the exact same way, before. It's possible. There's a finite number of ways to bitch at a Winchester boy, and he's pretty sure he's had to use up near every damn one in the four hours they've been stuck in this ambulance.
"How much longer?" Dean says.
"Six hours, maybe." He spares him a glance. "You hanging in there, kid?"
Dean starts to answer with looks like the beginnings of a nod and a small smile, but he shuts up as the moaning in the back of the ambulance starts up again.
"Come on, Sam," Dean says.
"He's back." Sam doesn't sound like he has enough energy to really care, but they made him promise a few hours ago to report any Lucifer sightings. Bobby thinks it's probably good sign that he remembers that. He's pretty desperate for good signs at this point. He's still checking the rear view mirror every minute or two, despite the empty road, in fear they might be followed.
(All right, and sometimes he's checking on Sam, sue him.)
"Not real, Sammy," Dean says. His teeth clench when the ambulance bumps over a pothole.
"He's talking in Spanish. His Spanish is better than my Spanish."
"No, it isn't," Dean says. He's rooting around for something.
But now Sam's back on the lovely, "Don't touch me, God, don't touch me, stay away, please, he's too close," refrain he's been drifting in and out of since Broadus.
Bobby finally recognizes Dean's frantic rustling as the same kind he's seen him do whenever Sam, for whatever fucked-up reason this week, was locked in the panic room, and the same kind he's done himself when one of the boys is bleeding on his sofa or memories of his wife are keeping him awake.
"There's no whisky in a goddamn ambulance, idjit."
"It's for Sam," Dean snaps back, as if that will make some magically appear.
"Because that's what your brother needs right now."
Sarcasm is apparently lost on the morphined. "Exactly."
"Yeah, you don't need another dose of those painkillers any time soon, I'll tell you that."
Dean slams his head back against his seat. "Bite me."
"Dean," Sam whimpers. "Dean, get him off me, please."
Dean shuffles, mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like "Satan's gonna wish he'd never been born," and manages to get himself out of his seat and into a useless pile on the floor of the ambulance before Bobby can stop him.
"Goddamn it, Dean." He looks for a place to pull off the road.
"Son of a bitch, my fucking leg--"
"You think?" "Dean?" Sam says, and Bobby looks in the rearview mirror in time to see Sam try to lift himself off the stretcher.
"Sam Winchester, you don't put that head down right now, you're going to get chained to that stretcher for a week."
"Dean's leg..."
"Down."
Sam snaps down as if on cue, and Bobby's relieved for about five seconds before he sees the seizing, which is about a half second before Dean's hollering "SAM!" like someone's trying to separate the damn two, when really there's two feet of floor between them, and Dean's rapidly closing that with his crabwalking and wincing and single-minded dedication to getting as close to his brother as possible, which backfires majorly when he takes one of Sam's elbows to the face.
It's not so bad: no broken nose, not even any blood, but it's enough for Dean to start groaning over the sound of Sam's choking except he's still trying to grunt out Sam's name between curses and between the fingers clamped over his nose and goddamn if Bobby doesn't find a place to pull off in the next ten seconds--
He does. Small mercies.
"All right." He parks and runs around to the back of the ambulance, opens up the doors. Sam's still seizing, and Dean has one hand over his nose--which is bleeding a little, and now Bobby feels bad for thinking something hardly flattering about Dean's pain tolerance a minute ago--and the other latched tight onto Sam's wrist. Apparently getting hit in the face once wasn't enough to shake him off.
"He's okay," Bobby says, because it's the only thing that will make Dean feel better.
Dean shakes his head.
"Yeah, just give him a minute."
Sure enough, within the minute, Sam's done seizing, and he lies on the stretcher, warm and somewhat conscious, while Bobby and Dean pat him uselessly and smooth back his hair. Dean says "You were really brave," which reminds Bobby how stoned the damn kid is. It's confirmed when he's able to haul Dean up and into the passenger seat with little protest.
"Hey, Lucifer's gone!" Sam says, sounding for all the world like a healthy fucking twenty-eight year-old, and if that isn't just the most depressing thing Bobby's heard all day.
Dean grabs the bottle of painkillers before Bobby can stop him and takes God knows how many. "Way to go, Sammy!"
Five and a half more hours.
Summary: For the 7.03 Comment Fic Meme. Prompt: "The Winchesters are bad enough on their good days but when they're hurt? They're 10 times worse...especially when they are stuck on the road and on the run. Bobby's POV driving to Montana with Dean's leg cast and Sam awake but seeing things...After a few days on the road with the boys, Bobby has a new appreciation of what John had to deal with when the boys were growing up."
Warnings/Spoilers:Through 7.03.
Wordcount: 906
Author's Note: This was my first Supernatural fic ever.
"Come on, Bobby, it's been like three hours."
"It's been an hour and a half, and you have another half to go, so why don't you hang that pretty little head of yours out the window and try to relax?" The words come out of Bobby's mouth so easily that he wonders if he's said them, the exact same way, before. It's possible. There's a finite number of ways to bitch at a Winchester boy, and he's pretty sure he's had to use up near every damn one in the four hours they've been stuck in this ambulance.
"How much longer?" Dean says.
"Six hours, maybe." He spares him a glance. "You hanging in there, kid?"
Dean starts to answer with looks like the beginnings of a nod and a small smile, but he shuts up as the moaning in the back of the ambulance starts up again.
"Come on, Sam," Dean says.
"He's back." Sam doesn't sound like he has enough energy to really care, but they made him promise a few hours ago to report any Lucifer sightings. Bobby thinks it's probably good sign that he remembers that. He's pretty desperate for good signs at this point. He's still checking the rear view mirror every minute or two, despite the empty road, in fear they might be followed.
(All right, and sometimes he's checking on Sam, sue him.)
"Not real, Sammy," Dean says. His teeth clench when the ambulance bumps over a pothole.
"He's talking in Spanish. His Spanish is better than my Spanish."
"No, it isn't," Dean says. He's rooting around for something.
But now Sam's back on the lovely, "Don't touch me, God, don't touch me, stay away, please, he's too close," refrain he's been drifting in and out of since Broadus.
Bobby finally recognizes Dean's frantic rustling as the same kind he's seen him do whenever Sam, for whatever fucked-up reason this week, was locked in the panic room, and the same kind he's done himself when one of the boys is bleeding on his sofa or memories of his wife are keeping him awake.
"There's no whisky in a goddamn ambulance, idjit."
"It's for Sam," Dean snaps back, as if that will make some magically appear.
"Because that's what your brother needs right now."
Sarcasm is apparently lost on the morphined. "Exactly."
"Yeah, you don't need another dose of those painkillers any time soon, I'll tell you that."
Dean slams his head back against his seat. "Bite me."
"Dean," Sam whimpers. "Dean, get him off me, please."
Dean shuffles, mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like "Satan's gonna wish he'd never been born," and manages to get himself out of his seat and into a useless pile on the floor of the ambulance before Bobby can stop him.
"Goddamn it, Dean." He looks for a place to pull off the road.
"Son of a bitch, my fucking leg--"
"You think?" "Dean?" Sam says, and Bobby looks in the rearview mirror in time to see Sam try to lift himself off the stretcher.
"Sam Winchester, you don't put that head down right now, you're going to get chained to that stretcher for a week."
"Dean's leg..."
"Down."
Sam snaps down as if on cue, and Bobby's relieved for about five seconds before he sees the seizing, which is about a half second before Dean's hollering "SAM!" like someone's trying to separate the damn two, when really there's two feet of floor between them, and Dean's rapidly closing that with his crabwalking and wincing and single-minded dedication to getting as close to his brother as possible, which backfires majorly when he takes one of Sam's elbows to the face.
It's not so bad: no broken nose, not even any blood, but it's enough for Dean to start groaning over the sound of Sam's choking except he's still trying to grunt out Sam's name between curses and between the fingers clamped over his nose and goddamn if Bobby doesn't find a place to pull off in the next ten seconds--
He does. Small mercies.
"All right." He parks and runs around to the back of the ambulance, opens up the doors. Sam's still seizing, and Dean has one hand over his nose--which is bleeding a little, and now Bobby feels bad for thinking something hardly flattering about Dean's pain tolerance a minute ago--and the other latched tight onto Sam's wrist. Apparently getting hit in the face once wasn't enough to shake him off.
"He's okay," Bobby says, because it's the only thing that will make Dean feel better.
Dean shakes his head.
"Yeah, just give him a minute."
Sure enough, within the minute, Sam's done seizing, and he lies on the stretcher, warm and somewhat conscious, while Bobby and Dean pat him uselessly and smooth back his hair. Dean says "You were really brave," which reminds Bobby how stoned the damn kid is. It's confirmed when he's able to haul Dean up and into the passenger seat with little protest.
"Hey, Lucifer's gone!" Sam says, sounding for all the world like a healthy fucking twenty-eight year-old, and if that isn't just the most depressing thing Bobby's heard all day.
Dean grabs the bottle of painkillers before Bobby can stop him and takes God knows how many. "Way to go, Sammy!"
Five and a half more hours.