SPN: Migraine
Okay, so I didn't get to post anything new last week, due to a crushing migraine that thoroughly kicked my butt across board. So, once it went it's merry way, I couldn't help but inflict the torture upon our favorite Winchester (Second favorite wounded Winchester!). So, without much further ado, enjoy.
Timeline: Um, anywhere, really. I would say after Season 1, but Dean wears the leather in the Pilot, so yeah.
Warnings: None really, except the usual potty mouthed Dean. It's actually pretty tame, considering some I've written. Nothing that I haven't heard out of the mouth of a 5 year old.
Dean knew they should have stopped a while ago, but the roads were relatively clear, the night sky bright with stars that gleamed, and Sam had drifted off about an hour back. Even with the cassette playing quietly, the soothing tranquility of driving under the full moon through the desert was too relaxing to pass.
If this headache would just go the fuck away.
It had started yesterday, and he knew Sam had caught him popping aspirin. He was like, 99% sure that Sam hadn't seen him pop the Vicodin, or else he wouldn't be the one driving. The pounding had slowly crept up the back of his neck, and as of six today, had wrapped his skull in a crushing vice of pain.
He was pretty sure Sam didn't know.
Really, it was just a headache, and it wasn't like there was anything they could do other than what he had already tried. It wasn't an emergency, and it wasn't anything to worry Sam over. He casually tried to pop his neck again, wincing as muscles tensed, pulling angrily, and setting the throbbing into overdrive. He swallowed carefully, deciding that wasn't the best idea for a bit. Grumbling quietly, he settled in again, hissing as the brights of the oncoming truck sent stabbing shards of glass through his skull. Or, so his eyes and nerves were telling him. He fumbled in the seat beside him, fingers closing on his sunglasses, and he slid them on, sighing gratefully as the dimness sent the pain sliding further back. It was better driving now than during the daylight…one more glare off a windshield, and he was going to whimper, no matter how unmanly it was.
He heard Sam snort sleepily, shifting as he woke up, and he braced himself. No doubt his brother was going to start bitching about the hour, and how they needed to sleep… "Dude, why are you wearing sunglasses? You do realize that's illegal, right?"
"Yeah Sammy, got the memo." Just then, a big rig turned the corner ahead, the bright neon headlights slamming into his retinas, sunglasses be damned, and he flinched, growling as the pain flaring set his eye twitching. His stomach churned warningly, and he panted, praying to live through the next four seconds.
"Shit." He felt Sam's hands close over his, guiding the Impala when he couldn't, and it was moments later he felt the tires bite down on gravel instead of tarmac. He obligingly pressed down on the brake, sighing as he braced for the argument. Still seeing stars, and not the ones winking off the glossy paint job, he slid the classic into park, and waited. "Slide over Dean."
"Sam, I'm fine."
"I don't care. You're not driving." Long fingers deftly turned off the ignition and pocketed the keys before he could protest, and he scowled out the window. "Dean."
"I'm fine."
"Like hell you are. What was up just now, huh? Do you even realize you were drifting right at that thing?" Sam's voice reverberated through the car, and he hunched down, longing to clap his hands over his ears. "Dean. What's going on man?"
"Nothing. Just a headache." Having already confessed, he figured there was no more shame in bringing his hands up to try to rub away the pain building in his skull. "It's fine."
A wry snort was the only response. He wasn't moving…He was fine, Sam could just go back to dreaming of lollipops and candy canes, and they could just trade off in the morning. He didn't really want to try driving in daylight just yet, not again.
He heard rustling in the backseat, and Sam dragged up the med kit, digging loudly through the contents to yank out the aspirin. The movement stirred the air, and the scent of oil and gas and smoke and flames rose from his canvas jacket in the backseat, and his stomach threw in the towel, revolting entirely. He scrabbled at the handle, gagging, and just managed to wrench the door open before heaving hard. "Dean!"
Between the yell, the slamming of the car door, and the retching, the pain in his skull went into overdrive, flying past pain to slam into sheer agony. He was too twisted to even realize the hot liquid slipping under the glasses.
He did, however subconsciously, recognize the touch of his little brother, and leaned into it, panting hard as his stomach churned. He swallowed carefully, wincing at the acrid taste in his mouth, but his stomach seemed content to just stay put for right now. He let his head hang, feeling long fingers brush through the short spikes of his hair, and after a moment, Sam squeezed his neck. "You okay now?" He nodded miserably, and gingerly sat back up, moaning softly as the change in position did nothing for his skull. The back door opened, and a moment later, a bottle of water, cap already gone, pressed into his hand. "Rinse and spit dude, then slide over. You're not driving."
He obeyed, not up to arguing anymore, and pressed his skull against the cool glass, whimpering as it did nothing. Sam settled in, and slipped the keys in the ignition, but twisted to face Dean. "Let me guess. Lights hurt? Moving too fast hurts? Sounds are agony?" He nodded, and heard Sam snort again. "Come 'ere." The little shit wrapped a hand around the back of his neck, tugging him flat on the front seat, and while he wanted to buck and argue, he had a nagging suspicion both his brother and his stomach would kick his ass thoroughly. So he meekly obeyed, letting Sam tug him into position. "Just chill for a minute. If laying down doesn't make you nauseous, then we're gonna drive until we find a motel, and crash for the night. If it does, then you're gonna sleep sitting up against the door, and we'll drive until you can lay down. Got it?" He nodded meekly, and sighed quietly as Sam resumed petting him, apparently without realizing it.
"'s just a headache." He felt Sam choke back a laugh, appreciated the lack of sound.
"No man, I think you got a migraine. The scent from your jacket kicked off the vomiting, didn't it? Smells make your stomach all greasy, things against your skin hurts?"
"Yeah. How'd…"
"Jess used to get them sometimes. Usually around finals. Something to do with stress I guess." He huffed a soft chuckle. "Got pretty good at taking care of her. Anyway, how's the stomach?"
Dean hesitantly checked in with it, pleased when it decided that laying down was good. "M'kay."
"Good. Gonna move you around a little; you'll appreciate it." It took some work, but the memories of being curled up on his left side, knees hanging over the seat, feet pressed against the door were bittersweet, long forgotten from a much simpler time. He felt Sam digging in the back, and a moment later, his Dad's leather jacket got bundled up, slipped under his head. One sleeve draped carefully across his face, and his stomach churned at the scent of leather. "Give it a minute. Breathe through it Dean." He did, and after a few tense seconds, it settled again, and he slumped gratefully. "Good."
The darkness was complete, from the heavy leather, and the scent was a warm, homey one, and he nuzzled it a little, realizing the sleeve still had the scent of his Dad's cologne. The sleeve was heavy on his ear, muffling sound, and he jerked as he felt the Impala start back up. "Shhh." Unnerved by the sensory isolation, he scrabbled, and felt Sammy grab his wrist, guiding it to a denim-covered knee. "I'm right here. Just rest, okay?" He twisted fingers in the material, and let the soothing peace drift into him. He felt the rumble as the tires slid away from the gravel and back onto asphalt. A few seconds later, and he realized there was a cool, night-sweet breeze drifting across him. Sammy must have opened the vent window, he foggily realized, tilting his head down to let the breeze swirl down the back of his tee.
Grounded by Sam and the grip he had, the rest of the world narrowed down to the thick denim under his fingers, the scent of his Dad all around him, and the sweet, heavy weight of the leather across tired eyes. He didn't realize when the world slowly faded away, didn't realize when the migraine called a truce and slipped into oblivion. He'd only know, hours later, that it was some of the best sleep he'd gotten in years.