How to Survive (3/3)
Title: How to Survive
Fandom: Supernatural/House
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Comedy/Drama
Characters: Dean, Sam, House, Chase, Cameron, Foreman, Wilson
Pairings: none
Disclaimer: I do not own or lay claim to anything related to Supernatural or House.
Summary: When Dean comes down with a mysterious illness, Sam unwittingly hands him over to Dr. House-a man they don’t trust and who doesn’t trust them. Meanwhile, the doctors race to figure out what’s killing Dean and end up digging a little too deep into the lives of the Winchesters, getting a frightening glimpse of a world beyond their own.
How to Survive
By Spectral Scribe
----------------------------
Sam blinked open blurry eyes and the world tilted on its axis, spinning, a swirl of out-of-focus color and blinding light.
He snapped his eyes shut.
His brain was fuzzy, as though it had been stuffed with cotton. His mouth felt the same-dry and foul-tasting. Something was drumming a deep, pounding beat onto his throbbing skull. Slowly he peeled his eyelids back from his gummy eyes again, trying to focus on something but finding that the world was still on a wild, drunken merry-go-round, making him want to vomit. After a moment things steadied fractionally, and he rolled his eyes down to find he was lying on a white hospital bed.
How had he gotten here? He thought Dean was the sick one. Maybe he’d come down with whatever was ailing his brother. Maybe…
Black eyes. Huh?
His brain stuttered.
Why was it so hard to think?
He tried to move, but his limbs were heavy and uncoordinated. Plus, there was something tugging at his left hand when he lifted it, and it took a good minute for his misfiring brain to make the connection between the pole to his left, the bag of clear liquid hanging from it, and the tube running into his hand. What was it called? It was on the tip of his tongue. An eye-veeee…
IV. That was it. He pictured the letters in his mind and realized that they kind of looked like the roman numeral four. Maybe that was significant?
Shit, no, his brain was seriously messed up. Just how hard had he hit his head?
No, he hadn’t hit his head. Chase had. Why had Chase hit him in the head?
Oh yeah.
Black eyes.
Shit.
Sam blinked again, trying once again to focus his thoughts. Damn he was screwed up. Wait, he’d just been pondering the significance of the IV in his arm for the past five minutes. Maybe that was… significant? Oh crap, that meant something was being pumped into his veins, probably something that would fuck up his mind to the point where he thought he was on drugs. Hold on. That made sense. He was on drugs. The IV was pumping him full of drugs. And the good kind, too.
Sam fumbled around, smacking at the IV line, trying to pull it out. The world tilted, and his hand kept missing. It didn’t seem to want to listen to him. It was disobeying his brain, like in that movie with the guy with the hand that did whatever it wanted. Yeah. Well, at least Dr. House could push the whole drug theory again because Sam was on drugs. He was definitely on druuuuugs…
He smacked at the IV line again as his brain drifted farther away from him toward that alluring temptress called sleep. But no, hadn’t he just been asleep? Crap.
He fumbled with the IV.
How long had he been unconscious?
----------------------------
Dean leaned back against his pillow, trying to suppress the ache in his body, when someone walked into his room and shut the blinds. When he turned his head, he saw handsome, boyish features and wavy blond hair.
“You? I knew it had to be someone around here. Leave it to a demon to pick the pretty doctor,” Dean grumbled, throwing Chase a smirk.
“Knew I couldn’t fool you for too long,” Chase replied, not seeming perturbed that his cover had been blown. “Since Sam kept his lips zipped, maybe you could tell me why you didn’t react properly to the virus?”
Dean shook his head. “Knew it. Right when House said Sam suggested looking for sulfur in the blood. You bastards are at it again.”
“I’m amazed by your quick wit and keen intellect,” Chase drawled dryly. “Seems a shame to let it go to waste, but at least you and Sam will get to go out together.”
Fear spiked through Dean’s stomach, overriding the burn in his chest. “Where is he?” he growled.
Chase’s mouth quirked up in a grin as he approached, eyeing Dean’s IV. “Hell, soon.”
“You son of a-” But Dean was cut off when the door opened again and in stepped Dr. House, eyes darting between Chase and Dean with surprise. Chase turned around, distracted, and that’s when Dean pulled a syringe out from under his blanket, stabbed it into Chase’s arm, and depressed the plunger. Instantly, Chase writhed in his grip, letting out a strangled cry. His arm shook as a thin stream of steam escaped from the miniscule puncture wound left by the syringe when Dean pulled it out. He managed to wrench his arm free of Dean’s grip, stumbled, regained his footing, and looked up at House, panting for breath.
“Don’t just stand there, sedate him! He’s injected me with poison, he’s mental!” Chase barked.
Sitting up, Dean lifted the empty syringe triumphantly before chucking it down at the floor. “Actually it was holy water, you demonic bastard.”
House’s eyes widened fractionally, his jaw hanging slack, before his face hardened and set. Eyes now narrowed, lips pursed, he gave Dean an appraising look before returning his attention to Dr. Chase. “Think we should move him to psych?”
Chase gave him a look that said quite clearly, ‘are you kidding me?’ as Dean shouted, “I’m not crazy!” He shoved the covers off of his legs, preparing to bolt.
Waving his cane in Dean’s direction, House ordered, “Grab him!”
The covers were off, he’d ripped the IV out of his hand-which was now spurting blood, great-and now Dean had managed to hop off the bed on the opposite side so that it lay between him and Chase, who was giving him a murderous glare. Dean had just managed to land on his feet when Chase leapt onto the bed to tackle him, reaching out his arms… and stopping.
A look of recognition crossed Chase’s face as he knelt on the bed, arms outstretched but not passing the edge of the mattress. “What did you…” His voice trailed off as his eyes flicked across the clean ceiling and then down, peering over the edge of the bed. On the side where Dean stood, a curved line drawn in marker and rimmed with a grainy white substance poked out from underneath the bed. Chase sneered at him. “Well done. Devil’s Trap. You didn’t do that yourself, did you?”
“I had a little help,” Dean sneered back, trying to hold himself up on his feet and starting to sweat. He glanced over at House. “Nice acting, by the way.”
“I wasn’t acting,” House replied, eyeing Chase carefully. “If this didn’t work I really was going to take you to psych.”
Chase repositioned himself on the bed so that he was lounging now, hands behind his head, grinning at the both of them. “This was quite a leap of faith for you, House… trusting a patient like that. I didn’t think you believed in any demons aside from your own.”
“Well, you’re right about that,” House conceded, voice cool and gravelly, eyes hard and closed off. “Though I guess it is fitting, in a cruelly ironic way, that the one who got possessed was the former priest-wannabe.”
“You know us demons. We’re not without a sense of irony,” Chase agreed with a sharp, bark-like laugh. “Like this. It’s the third time these Winchesters have had me in a Devil’s Trap. But it won’t be the third time they exorcise me, I can tell you that.” Chase shook his head. “You chuckleheads really thought a syringe of holy water and a black magic marker would do the trick?”
Dean paused, body flooding with ice. He stared at Chase, who blinked in his direction, black flooding his eyes like ink in water, a smug smirk curling up on his face. Dean fought to remain standing as his brain processed this new information. “Meg?”
“You didn’t have to strain yourself. I was going to tell you. That is, if you ever decided to let me in on why my virus didn’t work,” Chase spat, obviously growing impatient on the matter.
“Oh, yeah,” Dean grinned, trying to hide the fact that he was sweating, his body was flushed with heat, and his stomach was cramping. He pulled the top of his hospital gown down to reveal the spiky tattoo over his heart. “Wards off possession. Guess it fights off demonic viruses, too.”
Chase’s sneer grew sour. “Fantastic. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time for me to foil your amazing plan.” Chase closed his eyes, tilting his head forward until his chin nearly met his chest; he squeezed his hands into fists and started chanting in Latin, “Spiritus in mundus un glorum suarum umitite palatum iram domine…” He stopped, raising his head and opening his pitch-black eyes. His face twitched in confusion and annoyance.
“Oh yeah, that’s right,” Dean spoke up, as though he had just remembered (though he had, of course, anticipated this-just not the fact that it would, once again, be Meg). “See, I remembered that little stunt you pulled last time, so I ringed the trap with salt. You can’t break that with your little spell, can you?”
Chase was breathing heavily now, usually perfect hair messy and out of place as he tossed his head to glare at Dean. “What are you going to do now?” he growled, mouth curled down in an ugly scowl. “I don’t see a little book of exorcism rituals. And I know that Dean-the brawn of the Winchester dream team-doesn’t have any memorized…”
Dean smirked. “That’s where you’re wrong.” He glanced over at House, who was still watching, mesmerized, detached from the scene as though he were watching it on TV. Dean shook his head, took a breath to ease the nausea growing in his stomach, and began: “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursion…” His voice trailed off as he squeezed his eyes shut against a throbbing headache. Chase was panting on the bed, teeth set and bared in a grimace. Dean shook his head and started again. “Exorcizamus te, omnis…” But before he could continue his stomach turned over and squeezed, and a river of yellow bile and red blood gushed from his mouth. He doubled over, clutching his stomach, nearly falling to his knees before House grabbed him around the shoulders and hoisted him back onto his feet. They were bare. The floor was cold. Actually, he felt cold all over. He was shivering.
Chase laughed loudly from the bed. “Oops. Bit ill, are we?”
“You idiot,” House growled in his ear. “You didn’t actually have to rip out the IV.”
The world was swimming, dancing in and out of focus. He leaned against House, who was leaning against his cane. He couldn’t even think of a witty retort for House’s complaint.
“Exorcizamus te… omnis… exorcizamus… ahhhhh shit,” Dean groaned, throwing out a hand to steady himself and pressing it against the wall. His head was pounding ferociously, his stomach was churning and bubbling like a boiling soup, and the burning in his chest had intensified like a stream of sunlight focused with a magnifying glass. Reality was swimming away, and he found himself sliding down the wall, House unable to keep him standing any longer. He heard the older man speaking to him but the words were distant and out of focus, warbling in and out like a badly tuned radio station, mingling with the maniacal laughter coming from the bed. It was so much easier to succumb to the darkness, which would take away the pain. “Exorci… zamus…” he groaned as his eyes rolled to the back of his head and he lost consciousness.
----------------------------
House was alone in his patient’s hospital room with a demon that looked like Robert Chase.
It was shaping up to be a very unusual day.
And, to top it off, his patient was currently passed out on the floor.
“So tell me, what exactly are you planning on telling everyone when someone arrives looking for you? That… I’m a demon, and you’re holding me hostage on the bed while your patient dies at your feet? Come on. Who’ll believe that?” Chase blinked and the black dissolved from his eyes. He looked just like the normal Chase. Without the black-eyed reminder, who would believe a word House said? He had enough trouble convincing people to go along with his mad scientist schemes as it was.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Chase continued, sitting up and leaning forward. “If you decide to leave me here until someone comes looking, I’ll tell them you’re mentally unstable, and they’ll take you up to psych. Then I’ll get out of this trap, kill Dean-or William Gibbons, as you know him-and blame it on you. Everyone will find out you poisoned both your patient and his brother. You’ll lose your medical license. And then maybe one day I’ll come back to finish destroying your life.
“Option two,” he continued, and House found his heart pounding as the young man spoke, wondering if there was a safe way out of this. “You break the trap-all you have to do is break the line of salt, I’ll take it from there. I’ll cure Dean of his little virus, you’ll get the credit for once again miraculously saving the day, and I’ll go away, get out of your hair forever.”
Option two seemed very appealing. House took a deep breath and released it, glancing down at Billy-Dean-whatever his name was, still slumped against the wall, blood dripping down his chin and onto the hospital gown, smearing and streaking across the floor around him. He realized there was some on his sneaker as well. Gross.
When he looked up, Chase was watching him, but not with anything like malice. He looked like… Chase. It was much harder to believe that there was a demon in there when he looked like this (ignoring the fact that he was still trying to wrap his mind around that one while simultaneously forcing himself not to think about; this was a topic for later introspection over copious amounts of alcohol).
“So? What’s it going to be?”
House frowned, his right leg beginning to ache with the strain of standing. “Are you going to kill him when he’s released from the hospital?”
A slow grin rose on Chase’s face, and it didn’t suit him at all. It made him look manic-insane. “It shouldn’t bother you what I do. Either way you’ll probably never see them again.”
It was tempting. It was extremely tempting.
But-
“No.”
Chase’s smile fell. “No?”
House shook his head. “No.”
The conversation went no further, for at that moment, the door crashed open, and in stumbled Sam, who was blinking and lumbering around as though he had just gotten smashed at the nearest bar. “What the hell’s the matter with you?” House asked, but Sam ignored him, instead glancing down at his brother and steadying himself against the wall-(what was it with these two and balance issues lately?)-before beginning to recite what Dean had started.
“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio, et secta diabólica…”
Chase grunted and groaned, panting, sweating. His eyes had once more turned coal-black, and his face was screwed up in a mask of pain. House looked on, fascinated, as he threw his head back against the pillow, teeth clenched, muscles straining in his neck.
“Perditionis venenum propinare. Vade, satana, inventor et magister omnis fallaciae, hostis humanae salutis. Humiliare sub potenti manu dei, contremisce et effuge, invocato a nobis sancto et terribili nomine, quem inferi tremunt…”
A horrible wail rose from Chase’s lips as he thrashed his head from side to side, breath wheezing in and out, hair plastered to his sweaty forehead. “I’m going to burn this hospital to the ground,” he growled, voice gravelly with agony. “I’m going to kill every last one of you…”
“Ab insidiis diaboli, libera nos, domine. Ut ecclesiam tuam secura tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos. Dominicos sanctae ecclesiae. Terogamus audi nos.”
Chase’s voice broke on a scream as he threw his head back, opening his mouth for a pillar of black smoke to billow out, rising and rising in the hospital room before streaking out the window and into the dark night sky. The scream cut off as Chase fell back, previously tensed muscles now relaxed. He blinked slowly, lethargically, before looking around and apparently discovering with some surprise that he was lying on a hospital bed.
House took inventory.
Billy-Dean-was still breathing, albeit unconscious. Check.
Chase was still panting on the bed and looking utterly bewildered, but was otherwise uninjured. Check.
Sam had one hand pressed against the wall and was blinking and shaking his head as though to clear a fog, but at least he was standing. Check.
Chase broke the silence with a sheepish question. “Did we get a diagnosis?”
As for House… he was still standing, leaning against his cane, the ache in his right leg growing more insistent. Ignoring Chase, he pulled out his Vicodin and popped one into his mouth, swallowing the bitter pill.
He dropped the bottle back into his pocket. Check.
----------------------------
“I knew somebody had to be on drugs,” House murmured smugly.
Sam rolled his eyes. “Whatever helps you sleep at night. You also said we were liars.”
“And I was right about that, too.”
Sam shook his head. “Okay, look, I’m fine, really. This isn’t necessary.” He shifted against the pillow at his back, feeling ridiculous sitting in the hospital bed that had been wheeled into Dean’s room. He glanced from the bandage over the wound where he’d pulled out Chase’s-Meg’s-IV to the new IV that was currently flushing the drugs from his body.
“Quit whining,” House admonished as he checked the bag.
Shaking his head, Sam looked over at Dean, whose bed was only a few feet from his own. He was still unconscious but had a new IV as well. “So… what’s that concoction you’re giving him?” Sam asked, wishing that he hadn’t been so out of it during House’s epiphany and hasty explanation for Dean’s cure.
“It’s a lovely cocktail of Interferon-which fights viral infections-and holy water, which I pilfered from the chapel downstairs,” House explained, limping over to check Dean’s vitals. “Hopefully, it’ll do the trick. The Interferon should wipe out the virus part, and the holy water should get rid of the other side of the equation.”
“Speaking of which,” Sam began, knowing that he’d have to cross this bridge sooner or later. “I’ve seen a lot of people deal with the knowledge of what’s really out there. And I’ve seen a lot of bad reactions. You seem to be… dismissing the fact that you just found out that demons are real.”
House stiffened. “So?”
“So… I just want to make sure you’re holding up okay,” Sam continued, knowing that House probably hated when people asked him if he was okay. He was just one of those guys, like Dean. Actually, they had a lot of similarities. Sam frowned and hoped that his brother wouldn’t grow up to be a caustic old codger with a cane.
He wasn’t surprised by the answer that House gave. “If I can believe that Dr. Cuddy’s breasts are real, then I can believe anything.”
Sam didn’t know who Dr. Cuddy was, but it sounded like something Dean would say, and he couldn’t stop himself from laughing. He sobered up when he pondered that thought, and decided that when Dean got better, they’d have to get out of there fast. Dean and House as allies rather than rivals could only mean disaster.
“Is Dr. Chase going to be okay?”
“He’ll be fine,” House dismissed. “He’s probably at home by now, sleeping. Like I should be. It is now-” He glanced down at his watch. “-one o’clock in the morning. Good God, you people are exhausting. I’m going to my office to catch a few hours of sleep. No point going home now. If you need anything… don’t bother me.” He turned then and limped out of the room, flicking off the light as he went out the door. He hesitated in the doorway, looking back, but Sam couldn’t make out the expression on his face in the dark. Then he was gone.
Content, for now, that things would be all right, Sam closed his eyes and let himself drift away.
----------------------------
“Morning,” greeted Foreman, somewhat indifferently, as he walked into the conference room.
Cameron followed shortly thereafter, looking well-rested. However, her “Morning” was slowed by the concern that stitched her eyebrows together at sight of House, who knew that he looked even more rumpled and unkempt than usual. He also probably looked more caffeinated than usual, already pouring another mug of coffee down his throat as he stood next to the table.
Last to arrive was Chase, who House, frankly, hadn’t expected to see at all today. He walked in with his head down, hair in his eyes; he spared them all a quick glance, muttered, “Morning,” to his shoes, and sat down.
“How’s the patient?” Cameron asked, turning back to House. He finished downing his coffee, feeling a buzz of energy already driving through his tired body, and put the mug down.
Before he could respond, Wilson walked past, stopped, looked into the room, and walked in. “How’s the patient?”
“The world is a broken record,” House mused philosophically to Wilson’s puzzled expression. “We found out last night that he has a virus. Started him on Interferon. He’ll be fine.”
Wilson frowned. “Isn’t that what you were wearing yesterday?”
House glanced down at his wrinkled attire. “Yep.”
“Did you sleep here?”
House didn’t respond. Cameron and Foreman clearly wanted to know what had happened last night, for as soon as he mentioned the virus, their heads had perked up, and they were both now looking at him with anticipation. But House found his eyes gravitating to Chase, who returned his gaze. “The patients will be fine,” House repeated slowly, enunciating it so that Chase would stop looking like an abused kitten.
Wilson put his hands on his hips, narrowing his eyes. “Did I miss something here?”
A small smile quirked up on Chase’s face. House started filling his mug with yet another cup of coffee. Tonight he could think about what had happened. Tonight was a good night to get drunk.
“Nope. Just another boring day.”
----------------------------
Dean felt… great.
He no longer wanted to vomit everything that went into his mouth (which was a great relief to the lover of food), his fever was gone, his muscles no longer randomly ached, and the burning around his tattoo had subsided. He smiled at Dr. Cameron after she removed the IV and told him that he was all better.
“So… maybe I should get your number. You know, if this little virus thing ever comes back for round two…”
Cameron smiled wryly. It was just a game. Dean knew that he wouldn’t call her; he knew that Cameron knew that he wouldn’t call her. Still, he guessed that she was a player of that game, and he was proven correct when she wrote something on a scrap of paper and tucked it into the pocket of his jeans, which were folded on the chair next to his bed.
“Take care,” she said before leaving the room. When Sam walked in with two cups of coffee, Dean told him he’d lost his necklace and asked him to check for it in the pocket of his jeans. Sam dug around, produced the paper, and frowned down at it.
“’Not a chance’?” Sam read off the paper.
Dean’s smirk slid off his face. “What?”
Sam laughed and threw Dean’s clothes at him, which smacked him in the face before sliding to his lap.
Dean got dressed, and they were all set to go when House and Chase walked into the room. Well, Chase walked; House… yeah, Dean couldn’t come up with a good way to describe it. House took wide, limping strides, his entire body swaying with the movement of the cane.
“Chase has something he’d like to say,” House told them without preamble, lifting his cane and prodding Chase’s back with the rubber tip.
The Australian doctor threw a scowl over his shoulder at him before turning around and muttering to his shoes, “Sorry I got possessed and tried to kill you.”
Dean grinned at Sam, who looked exasperated. “It wasn’t you,” Sam told him gently.
“Good. Now I want you to go to the board and write ‘I will not get possessed and try to kill my patients’ six hundred and sixty-six times,” House ordered, tapping Chase’s arm with his cane. Chase huffed out a laugh, slapped the cane away from him, and left the room. Then House turned to Sam and Dean. “Okay, I’m not going to officially discharge you. You two are going to mysteriously disappear without my knowledge. And when Dr. Cuddy, the hospital administrator, comes to tell me that your insurance is a fraud, I’m going to pretend to be shocked and appalled.”
House turned around to leave, pushing open the door. He stopped halfway through, turning back to Dean. “And keep a low profile on your way out. Use that tunnel you dug from the basement if you have to.”
Sam raised his eyebrows. Dean nodded. House vanished into the bustling hallway.
“Man, I’m ready to get out of here. Hit the road. We should start looking for a case,” Dean suggested.
Sam snorted. “Says the guy who just got over a demonic virus from hell.” He picked up his bag and slung it over his shoulder, taking a long gulp from his coffee. Dean shrugged, dismissing his brother’s sarcasm. Nothing kept them from the hunt.
“You hungry?” Dean asked as he walked to the door, holding it open for Sam. “Because I’m starving. I could really go for a cheeseburger.”
----------------------------
The next time House was hiding from Cuddy in the morgue, avoiding clinic duty, he spotted a Styrofoam cup which, upon further inspection, proved to be filled with a chocolate milkshake. He lifted it to his face, sniffed it, and considered drinking it. Then he remembered where it came from, thought better of it, and threw it in the trash.
Some things were better left alone.
The End
Fandom: Supernatural/House
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Comedy/Drama
Characters: Dean, Sam, House, Chase, Cameron, Foreman, Wilson
Pairings: none
Disclaimer: I do not own or lay claim to anything related to Supernatural or House.
Summary: When Dean comes down with a mysterious illness, Sam unwittingly hands him over to Dr. House-a man they don’t trust and who doesn’t trust them. Meanwhile, the doctors race to figure out what’s killing Dean and end up digging a little too deep into the lives of the Winchesters, getting a frightening glimpse of a world beyond their own.
How to Survive
By Spectral Scribe
----------------------------
Sam blinked open blurry eyes and the world tilted on its axis, spinning, a swirl of out-of-focus color and blinding light.
He snapped his eyes shut.
His brain was fuzzy, as though it had been stuffed with cotton. His mouth felt the same-dry and foul-tasting. Something was drumming a deep, pounding beat onto his throbbing skull. Slowly he peeled his eyelids back from his gummy eyes again, trying to focus on something but finding that the world was still on a wild, drunken merry-go-round, making him want to vomit. After a moment things steadied fractionally, and he rolled his eyes down to find he was lying on a white hospital bed.
How had he gotten here? He thought Dean was the sick one. Maybe he’d come down with whatever was ailing his brother. Maybe…
Black eyes. Huh?
His brain stuttered.
Why was it so hard to think?
He tried to move, but his limbs were heavy and uncoordinated. Plus, there was something tugging at his left hand when he lifted it, and it took a good minute for his misfiring brain to make the connection between the pole to his left, the bag of clear liquid hanging from it, and the tube running into his hand. What was it called? It was on the tip of his tongue. An eye-veeee…
IV. That was it. He pictured the letters in his mind and realized that they kind of looked like the roman numeral four. Maybe that was significant?
Shit, no, his brain was seriously messed up. Just how hard had he hit his head?
No, he hadn’t hit his head. Chase had. Why had Chase hit him in the head?
Oh yeah.
Black eyes.
Shit.
Sam blinked again, trying once again to focus his thoughts. Damn he was screwed up. Wait, he’d just been pondering the significance of the IV in his arm for the past five minutes. Maybe that was… significant? Oh crap, that meant something was being pumped into his veins, probably something that would fuck up his mind to the point where he thought he was on drugs. Hold on. That made sense. He was on drugs. The IV was pumping him full of drugs. And the good kind, too.
Sam fumbled around, smacking at the IV line, trying to pull it out. The world tilted, and his hand kept missing. It didn’t seem to want to listen to him. It was disobeying his brain, like in that movie with the guy with the hand that did whatever it wanted. Yeah. Well, at least Dr. House could push the whole drug theory again because Sam was on drugs. He was definitely on druuuuugs…
He smacked at the IV line again as his brain drifted farther away from him toward that alluring temptress called sleep. But no, hadn’t he just been asleep? Crap.
He fumbled with the IV.
How long had he been unconscious?
----------------------------
Dean leaned back against his pillow, trying to suppress the ache in his body, when someone walked into his room and shut the blinds. When he turned his head, he saw handsome, boyish features and wavy blond hair.
“You? I knew it had to be someone around here. Leave it to a demon to pick the pretty doctor,” Dean grumbled, throwing Chase a smirk.
“Knew I couldn’t fool you for too long,” Chase replied, not seeming perturbed that his cover had been blown. “Since Sam kept his lips zipped, maybe you could tell me why you didn’t react properly to the virus?”
Dean shook his head. “Knew it. Right when House said Sam suggested looking for sulfur in the blood. You bastards are at it again.”
“I’m amazed by your quick wit and keen intellect,” Chase drawled dryly. “Seems a shame to let it go to waste, but at least you and Sam will get to go out together.”
Fear spiked through Dean’s stomach, overriding the burn in his chest. “Where is he?” he growled.
Chase’s mouth quirked up in a grin as he approached, eyeing Dean’s IV. “Hell, soon.”
“You son of a-” But Dean was cut off when the door opened again and in stepped Dr. House, eyes darting between Chase and Dean with surprise. Chase turned around, distracted, and that’s when Dean pulled a syringe out from under his blanket, stabbed it into Chase’s arm, and depressed the plunger. Instantly, Chase writhed in his grip, letting out a strangled cry. His arm shook as a thin stream of steam escaped from the miniscule puncture wound left by the syringe when Dean pulled it out. He managed to wrench his arm free of Dean’s grip, stumbled, regained his footing, and looked up at House, panting for breath.
“Don’t just stand there, sedate him! He’s injected me with poison, he’s mental!” Chase barked.
Sitting up, Dean lifted the empty syringe triumphantly before chucking it down at the floor. “Actually it was holy water, you demonic bastard.”
House’s eyes widened fractionally, his jaw hanging slack, before his face hardened and set. Eyes now narrowed, lips pursed, he gave Dean an appraising look before returning his attention to Dr. Chase. “Think we should move him to psych?”
Chase gave him a look that said quite clearly, ‘are you kidding me?’ as Dean shouted, “I’m not crazy!” He shoved the covers off of his legs, preparing to bolt.
Waving his cane in Dean’s direction, House ordered, “Grab him!”
The covers were off, he’d ripped the IV out of his hand-which was now spurting blood, great-and now Dean had managed to hop off the bed on the opposite side so that it lay between him and Chase, who was giving him a murderous glare. Dean had just managed to land on his feet when Chase leapt onto the bed to tackle him, reaching out his arms… and stopping.
A look of recognition crossed Chase’s face as he knelt on the bed, arms outstretched but not passing the edge of the mattress. “What did you…” His voice trailed off as his eyes flicked across the clean ceiling and then down, peering over the edge of the bed. On the side where Dean stood, a curved line drawn in marker and rimmed with a grainy white substance poked out from underneath the bed. Chase sneered at him. “Well done. Devil’s Trap. You didn’t do that yourself, did you?”
“I had a little help,” Dean sneered back, trying to hold himself up on his feet and starting to sweat. He glanced over at House. “Nice acting, by the way.”
“I wasn’t acting,” House replied, eyeing Chase carefully. “If this didn’t work I really was going to take you to psych.”
Chase repositioned himself on the bed so that he was lounging now, hands behind his head, grinning at the both of them. “This was quite a leap of faith for you, House… trusting a patient like that. I didn’t think you believed in any demons aside from your own.”
“Well, you’re right about that,” House conceded, voice cool and gravelly, eyes hard and closed off. “Though I guess it is fitting, in a cruelly ironic way, that the one who got possessed was the former priest-wannabe.”
“You know us demons. We’re not without a sense of irony,” Chase agreed with a sharp, bark-like laugh. “Like this. It’s the third time these Winchesters have had me in a Devil’s Trap. But it won’t be the third time they exorcise me, I can tell you that.” Chase shook his head. “You chuckleheads really thought a syringe of holy water and a black magic marker would do the trick?”
Dean paused, body flooding with ice. He stared at Chase, who blinked in his direction, black flooding his eyes like ink in water, a smug smirk curling up on his face. Dean fought to remain standing as his brain processed this new information. “Meg?”
“You didn’t have to strain yourself. I was going to tell you. That is, if you ever decided to let me in on why my virus didn’t work,” Chase spat, obviously growing impatient on the matter.
“Oh, yeah,” Dean grinned, trying to hide the fact that he was sweating, his body was flushed with heat, and his stomach was cramping. He pulled the top of his hospital gown down to reveal the spiky tattoo over his heart. “Wards off possession. Guess it fights off demonic viruses, too.”
Chase’s sneer grew sour. “Fantastic. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time for me to foil your amazing plan.” Chase closed his eyes, tilting his head forward until his chin nearly met his chest; he squeezed his hands into fists and started chanting in Latin, “Spiritus in mundus un glorum suarum umitite palatum iram domine…” He stopped, raising his head and opening his pitch-black eyes. His face twitched in confusion and annoyance.
“Oh yeah, that’s right,” Dean spoke up, as though he had just remembered (though he had, of course, anticipated this-just not the fact that it would, once again, be Meg). “See, I remembered that little stunt you pulled last time, so I ringed the trap with salt. You can’t break that with your little spell, can you?”
Chase was breathing heavily now, usually perfect hair messy and out of place as he tossed his head to glare at Dean. “What are you going to do now?” he growled, mouth curled down in an ugly scowl. “I don’t see a little book of exorcism rituals. And I know that Dean-the brawn of the Winchester dream team-doesn’t have any memorized…”
Dean smirked. “That’s where you’re wrong.” He glanced over at House, who was still watching, mesmerized, detached from the scene as though he were watching it on TV. Dean shook his head, took a breath to ease the nausea growing in his stomach, and began: “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursion…” His voice trailed off as he squeezed his eyes shut against a throbbing headache. Chase was panting on the bed, teeth set and bared in a grimace. Dean shook his head and started again. “Exorcizamus te, omnis…” But before he could continue his stomach turned over and squeezed, and a river of yellow bile and red blood gushed from his mouth. He doubled over, clutching his stomach, nearly falling to his knees before House grabbed him around the shoulders and hoisted him back onto his feet. They were bare. The floor was cold. Actually, he felt cold all over. He was shivering.
Chase laughed loudly from the bed. “Oops. Bit ill, are we?”
“You idiot,” House growled in his ear. “You didn’t actually have to rip out the IV.”
The world was swimming, dancing in and out of focus. He leaned against House, who was leaning against his cane. He couldn’t even think of a witty retort for House’s complaint.
“Exorcizamus te… omnis… exorcizamus… ahhhhh shit,” Dean groaned, throwing out a hand to steady himself and pressing it against the wall. His head was pounding ferociously, his stomach was churning and bubbling like a boiling soup, and the burning in his chest had intensified like a stream of sunlight focused with a magnifying glass. Reality was swimming away, and he found himself sliding down the wall, House unable to keep him standing any longer. He heard the older man speaking to him but the words were distant and out of focus, warbling in and out like a badly tuned radio station, mingling with the maniacal laughter coming from the bed. It was so much easier to succumb to the darkness, which would take away the pain. “Exorci… zamus…” he groaned as his eyes rolled to the back of his head and he lost consciousness.
----------------------------
House was alone in his patient’s hospital room with a demon that looked like Robert Chase.
It was shaping up to be a very unusual day.
And, to top it off, his patient was currently passed out on the floor.
“So tell me, what exactly are you planning on telling everyone when someone arrives looking for you? That… I’m a demon, and you’re holding me hostage on the bed while your patient dies at your feet? Come on. Who’ll believe that?” Chase blinked and the black dissolved from his eyes. He looked just like the normal Chase. Without the black-eyed reminder, who would believe a word House said? He had enough trouble convincing people to go along with his mad scientist schemes as it was.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Chase continued, sitting up and leaning forward. “If you decide to leave me here until someone comes looking, I’ll tell them you’re mentally unstable, and they’ll take you up to psych. Then I’ll get out of this trap, kill Dean-or William Gibbons, as you know him-and blame it on you. Everyone will find out you poisoned both your patient and his brother. You’ll lose your medical license. And then maybe one day I’ll come back to finish destroying your life.
“Option two,” he continued, and House found his heart pounding as the young man spoke, wondering if there was a safe way out of this. “You break the trap-all you have to do is break the line of salt, I’ll take it from there. I’ll cure Dean of his little virus, you’ll get the credit for once again miraculously saving the day, and I’ll go away, get out of your hair forever.”
Option two seemed very appealing. House took a deep breath and released it, glancing down at Billy-Dean-whatever his name was, still slumped against the wall, blood dripping down his chin and onto the hospital gown, smearing and streaking across the floor around him. He realized there was some on his sneaker as well. Gross.
When he looked up, Chase was watching him, but not with anything like malice. He looked like… Chase. It was much harder to believe that there was a demon in there when he looked like this (ignoring the fact that he was still trying to wrap his mind around that one while simultaneously forcing himself not to think about; this was a topic for later introspection over copious amounts of alcohol).
“So? What’s it going to be?”
House frowned, his right leg beginning to ache with the strain of standing. “Are you going to kill him when he’s released from the hospital?”
A slow grin rose on Chase’s face, and it didn’t suit him at all. It made him look manic-insane. “It shouldn’t bother you what I do. Either way you’ll probably never see them again.”
It was tempting. It was extremely tempting.
But-
“No.”
Chase’s smile fell. “No?”
House shook his head. “No.”
The conversation went no further, for at that moment, the door crashed open, and in stumbled Sam, who was blinking and lumbering around as though he had just gotten smashed at the nearest bar. “What the hell’s the matter with you?” House asked, but Sam ignored him, instead glancing down at his brother and steadying himself against the wall-(what was it with these two and balance issues lately?)-before beginning to recite what Dean had started.
“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio, et secta diabólica…”
Chase grunted and groaned, panting, sweating. His eyes had once more turned coal-black, and his face was screwed up in a mask of pain. House looked on, fascinated, as he threw his head back against the pillow, teeth clenched, muscles straining in his neck.
“Perditionis venenum propinare. Vade, satana, inventor et magister omnis fallaciae, hostis humanae salutis. Humiliare sub potenti manu dei, contremisce et effuge, invocato a nobis sancto et terribili nomine, quem inferi tremunt…”
A horrible wail rose from Chase’s lips as he thrashed his head from side to side, breath wheezing in and out, hair plastered to his sweaty forehead. “I’m going to burn this hospital to the ground,” he growled, voice gravelly with agony. “I’m going to kill every last one of you…”
“Ab insidiis diaboli, libera nos, domine. Ut ecclesiam tuam secura tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos. Dominicos sanctae ecclesiae. Terogamus audi nos.”
Chase’s voice broke on a scream as he threw his head back, opening his mouth for a pillar of black smoke to billow out, rising and rising in the hospital room before streaking out the window and into the dark night sky. The scream cut off as Chase fell back, previously tensed muscles now relaxed. He blinked slowly, lethargically, before looking around and apparently discovering with some surprise that he was lying on a hospital bed.
House took inventory.
Billy-Dean-was still breathing, albeit unconscious. Check.
Chase was still panting on the bed and looking utterly bewildered, but was otherwise uninjured. Check.
Sam had one hand pressed against the wall and was blinking and shaking his head as though to clear a fog, but at least he was standing. Check.
Chase broke the silence with a sheepish question. “Did we get a diagnosis?”
As for House… he was still standing, leaning against his cane, the ache in his right leg growing more insistent. Ignoring Chase, he pulled out his Vicodin and popped one into his mouth, swallowing the bitter pill.
He dropped the bottle back into his pocket. Check.
----------------------------
“I knew somebody had to be on drugs,” House murmured smugly.
Sam rolled his eyes. “Whatever helps you sleep at night. You also said we were liars.”
“And I was right about that, too.”
Sam shook his head. “Okay, look, I’m fine, really. This isn’t necessary.” He shifted against the pillow at his back, feeling ridiculous sitting in the hospital bed that had been wheeled into Dean’s room. He glanced from the bandage over the wound where he’d pulled out Chase’s-Meg’s-IV to the new IV that was currently flushing the drugs from his body.
“Quit whining,” House admonished as he checked the bag.
Shaking his head, Sam looked over at Dean, whose bed was only a few feet from his own. He was still unconscious but had a new IV as well. “So… what’s that concoction you’re giving him?” Sam asked, wishing that he hadn’t been so out of it during House’s epiphany and hasty explanation for Dean’s cure.
“It’s a lovely cocktail of Interferon-which fights viral infections-and holy water, which I pilfered from the chapel downstairs,” House explained, limping over to check Dean’s vitals. “Hopefully, it’ll do the trick. The Interferon should wipe out the virus part, and the holy water should get rid of the other side of the equation.”
“Speaking of which,” Sam began, knowing that he’d have to cross this bridge sooner or later. “I’ve seen a lot of people deal with the knowledge of what’s really out there. And I’ve seen a lot of bad reactions. You seem to be… dismissing the fact that you just found out that demons are real.”
House stiffened. “So?”
“So… I just want to make sure you’re holding up okay,” Sam continued, knowing that House probably hated when people asked him if he was okay. He was just one of those guys, like Dean. Actually, they had a lot of similarities. Sam frowned and hoped that his brother wouldn’t grow up to be a caustic old codger with a cane.
He wasn’t surprised by the answer that House gave. “If I can believe that Dr. Cuddy’s breasts are real, then I can believe anything.”
Sam didn’t know who Dr. Cuddy was, but it sounded like something Dean would say, and he couldn’t stop himself from laughing. He sobered up when he pondered that thought, and decided that when Dean got better, they’d have to get out of there fast. Dean and House as allies rather than rivals could only mean disaster.
“Is Dr. Chase going to be okay?”
“He’ll be fine,” House dismissed. “He’s probably at home by now, sleeping. Like I should be. It is now-” He glanced down at his watch. “-one o’clock in the morning. Good God, you people are exhausting. I’m going to my office to catch a few hours of sleep. No point going home now. If you need anything… don’t bother me.” He turned then and limped out of the room, flicking off the light as he went out the door. He hesitated in the doorway, looking back, but Sam couldn’t make out the expression on his face in the dark. Then he was gone.
Content, for now, that things would be all right, Sam closed his eyes and let himself drift away.
----------------------------
“Morning,” greeted Foreman, somewhat indifferently, as he walked into the conference room.
Cameron followed shortly thereafter, looking well-rested. However, her “Morning” was slowed by the concern that stitched her eyebrows together at sight of House, who knew that he looked even more rumpled and unkempt than usual. He also probably looked more caffeinated than usual, already pouring another mug of coffee down his throat as he stood next to the table.
Last to arrive was Chase, who House, frankly, hadn’t expected to see at all today. He walked in with his head down, hair in his eyes; he spared them all a quick glance, muttered, “Morning,” to his shoes, and sat down.
“How’s the patient?” Cameron asked, turning back to House. He finished downing his coffee, feeling a buzz of energy already driving through his tired body, and put the mug down.
Before he could respond, Wilson walked past, stopped, looked into the room, and walked in. “How’s the patient?”
“The world is a broken record,” House mused philosophically to Wilson’s puzzled expression. “We found out last night that he has a virus. Started him on Interferon. He’ll be fine.”
Wilson frowned. “Isn’t that what you were wearing yesterday?”
House glanced down at his wrinkled attire. “Yep.”
“Did you sleep here?”
House didn’t respond. Cameron and Foreman clearly wanted to know what had happened last night, for as soon as he mentioned the virus, their heads had perked up, and they were both now looking at him with anticipation. But House found his eyes gravitating to Chase, who returned his gaze. “The patients will be fine,” House repeated slowly, enunciating it so that Chase would stop looking like an abused kitten.
Wilson put his hands on his hips, narrowing his eyes. “Did I miss something here?”
A small smile quirked up on Chase’s face. House started filling his mug with yet another cup of coffee. Tonight he could think about what had happened. Tonight was a good night to get drunk.
“Nope. Just another boring day.”
----------------------------
Dean felt… great.
He no longer wanted to vomit everything that went into his mouth (which was a great relief to the lover of food), his fever was gone, his muscles no longer randomly ached, and the burning around his tattoo had subsided. He smiled at Dr. Cameron after she removed the IV and told him that he was all better.
“So… maybe I should get your number. You know, if this little virus thing ever comes back for round two…”
Cameron smiled wryly. It was just a game. Dean knew that he wouldn’t call her; he knew that Cameron knew that he wouldn’t call her. Still, he guessed that she was a player of that game, and he was proven correct when she wrote something on a scrap of paper and tucked it into the pocket of his jeans, which were folded on the chair next to his bed.
“Take care,” she said before leaving the room. When Sam walked in with two cups of coffee, Dean told him he’d lost his necklace and asked him to check for it in the pocket of his jeans. Sam dug around, produced the paper, and frowned down at it.
“’Not a chance’?” Sam read off the paper.
Dean’s smirk slid off his face. “What?”
Sam laughed and threw Dean’s clothes at him, which smacked him in the face before sliding to his lap.
Dean got dressed, and they were all set to go when House and Chase walked into the room. Well, Chase walked; House… yeah, Dean couldn’t come up with a good way to describe it. House took wide, limping strides, his entire body swaying with the movement of the cane.
“Chase has something he’d like to say,” House told them without preamble, lifting his cane and prodding Chase’s back with the rubber tip.
The Australian doctor threw a scowl over his shoulder at him before turning around and muttering to his shoes, “Sorry I got possessed and tried to kill you.”
Dean grinned at Sam, who looked exasperated. “It wasn’t you,” Sam told him gently.
“Good. Now I want you to go to the board and write ‘I will not get possessed and try to kill my patients’ six hundred and sixty-six times,” House ordered, tapping Chase’s arm with his cane. Chase huffed out a laugh, slapped the cane away from him, and left the room. Then House turned to Sam and Dean. “Okay, I’m not going to officially discharge you. You two are going to mysteriously disappear without my knowledge. And when Dr. Cuddy, the hospital administrator, comes to tell me that your insurance is a fraud, I’m going to pretend to be shocked and appalled.”
House turned around to leave, pushing open the door. He stopped halfway through, turning back to Dean. “And keep a low profile on your way out. Use that tunnel you dug from the basement if you have to.”
Sam raised his eyebrows. Dean nodded. House vanished into the bustling hallway.
“Man, I’m ready to get out of here. Hit the road. We should start looking for a case,” Dean suggested.
Sam snorted. “Says the guy who just got over a demonic virus from hell.” He picked up his bag and slung it over his shoulder, taking a long gulp from his coffee. Dean shrugged, dismissing his brother’s sarcasm. Nothing kept them from the hunt.
“You hungry?” Dean asked as he walked to the door, holding it open for Sam. “Because I’m starving. I could really go for a cheeseburger.”
----------------------------
The next time House was hiding from Cuddy in the morgue, avoiding clinic duty, he spotted a Styrofoam cup which, upon further inspection, proved to be filled with a chocolate milkshake. He lifted it to his face, sniffed it, and considered drinking it. Then he remembered where it came from, thought better of it, and threw it in the trash.
Some things were better left alone.
The End