Fic: You Are (Hopefully Not) What You Eat
Title: You are (hopefully not) what you eat
Rating: PG
Warnings: Very mild s7 spoilers, set just after 'How to Win Friends and Influence Monsters'
Word Count: 553
Summary: Written for a slightly spoilery prompt over at the Again but With More Colds meme, so let's just say it's a vomit-y tag for one of the scenes in the ep. (Actual prompt under the cut.)
High!turducken!Dean sees the sandwich puke. Then he pukes. Sam and Bobby rub his back and wash his face and make him feel better.
“If I wasn’t so chilled out right now I would puke,” says Dean beatifically, transfixed by the grey sludge oozing out of the sandwich on the table. Sam and Bobby eye him worriedly, but Dean flaps a hand, marveling at the heavy pull of the air against his fingers. “Ssseriously,” he slurs, slumping back hard against the bench, “s’all good. Ev’rything’s good.” The sandwich makes a sound like a little burp. Dean bends over at the waist and decorates the floor with his vomit.
“Ohh, dude, gross,” he hears Sam say, and then he watches as Sam’s shoes pick their way around the mess, stopping next to his. “Take it easy, man, just, uh, let it all out I guess…” Dean moans and obeys, spitting up the last of the bile, throat working convulsively. The sight and smell of the vomit causes the sick feeling to rise again, so he slams shut his eyes. They close slowly, like garage doors, and the blackness behind them is dizzying. He casts around wildly for something to hang onto. His hands are gripped by dry, wrinkled ones, and then he’s being held up by a second set of fingers fisted in the back of his jacket.
“Empty yet?”
Dean grunts. Bobby takes that as a “yes”, and between them he and Sam unfold Dean till he’s upright. He sways on his feet, opens his eyes wide enough to see, and props himself over the sink. It absorbs his weight to the point he feels like he’s melting into it, and he startles when Sam wraps an arm around his chest to stop him from slumping, molasses-like, to the floor.
“Jesus, kid. Keep him steady, Sam, I’ll be back.”
Bobby’s boots disappear from the kitchen, and then it’s just Dean, the sandwich, and Sam, who is so close his breath is gusting in hot waves across Dean’s cheek.
“It’s okay, Dean,” he says softly, “we’ll get you cleaned up, you can sleep this off and I’ll buy you a better sandwich, how does that sound? Preferably one that doesn’t start puking.”
“Unngh…” Dean’s stomach gurgles in protest.
“Shit, sorry man.” Sam rubs his back in deliberate circles, the movements capturing the tail-end of Dean’s dissipating high. He’s practically lolling in Sam’s arms by the time Bobby returns, and when Sam coaxes his head up for a mouthful of water, Dean easily does as he’s told.
The bottled water is warm and at least two days old, but it tastes amazing, and when Sam splashes it over his face and pats him dry with his sleeve, Dean smiles deliriously. Sam smiles back at him, amused and a little sad, so Dean pats Sam's face too.
“O-kaaay,” says Bobby, exchanging a look with Sam that Dean’s sluggish mind can’t interpret. “I think it’s time all good little stoners went beddy-byes, don’t you, Sam?”
Dean frowns anxiously at the loudness of Sam’s laughter, but solves the problem by burrowing into Sam’s jacket and staying there, even when his brother brushes his hair back from his forehead and tries to persuade him to come out.
Not much happens after that, at least not much that he’s aware of, but at least the sandwich has gone away, and at least Sam hasn’t - his voice says, “Sleep,” gently, right before Dean falls into it.
Rating: PG
Warnings: Very mild s7 spoilers, set just after 'How to Win Friends and Influence Monsters'
Word Count: 553
Summary: Written for a slightly spoilery prompt over at the Again but With More Colds meme, so let's just say it's a vomit-y tag for one of the scenes in the ep. (Actual prompt under the cut.)
High!turducken!Dean sees the sandwich puke. Then he pukes. Sam and Bobby rub his back and wash his face and make him feel better.
“If I wasn’t so chilled out right now I would puke,” says Dean beatifically, transfixed by the grey sludge oozing out of the sandwich on the table. Sam and Bobby eye him worriedly, but Dean flaps a hand, marveling at the heavy pull of the air against his fingers. “Ssseriously,” he slurs, slumping back hard against the bench, “s’all good. Ev’rything’s good.” The sandwich makes a sound like a little burp. Dean bends over at the waist and decorates the floor with his vomit.
“Ohh, dude, gross,” he hears Sam say, and then he watches as Sam’s shoes pick their way around the mess, stopping next to his. “Take it easy, man, just, uh, let it all out I guess…” Dean moans and obeys, spitting up the last of the bile, throat working convulsively. The sight and smell of the vomit causes the sick feeling to rise again, so he slams shut his eyes. They close slowly, like garage doors, and the blackness behind them is dizzying. He casts around wildly for something to hang onto. His hands are gripped by dry, wrinkled ones, and then he’s being held up by a second set of fingers fisted in the back of his jacket.
“Empty yet?”
Dean grunts. Bobby takes that as a “yes”, and between them he and Sam unfold Dean till he’s upright. He sways on his feet, opens his eyes wide enough to see, and props himself over the sink. It absorbs his weight to the point he feels like he’s melting into it, and he startles when Sam wraps an arm around his chest to stop him from slumping, molasses-like, to the floor.
“Jesus, kid. Keep him steady, Sam, I’ll be back.”
Bobby’s boots disappear from the kitchen, and then it’s just Dean, the sandwich, and Sam, who is so close his breath is gusting in hot waves across Dean’s cheek.
“It’s okay, Dean,” he says softly, “we’ll get you cleaned up, you can sleep this off and I’ll buy you a better sandwich, how does that sound? Preferably one that doesn’t start puking.”
“Unngh…” Dean’s stomach gurgles in protest.
“Shit, sorry man.” Sam rubs his back in deliberate circles, the movements capturing the tail-end of Dean’s dissipating high. He’s practically lolling in Sam’s arms by the time Bobby returns, and when Sam coaxes his head up for a mouthful of water, Dean easily does as he’s told.
The bottled water is warm and at least two days old, but it tastes amazing, and when Sam splashes it over his face and pats him dry with his sleeve, Dean smiles deliriously. Sam smiles back at him, amused and a little sad, so Dean pats Sam's face too.
“O-kaaay,” says Bobby, exchanging a look with Sam that Dean’s sluggish mind can’t interpret. “I think it’s time all good little stoners went beddy-byes, don’t you, Sam?”
Dean frowns anxiously at the loudness of Sam’s laughter, but solves the problem by burrowing into Sam’s jacket and staying there, even when his brother brushes his hair back from his forehead and tries to persuade him to come out.
Not much happens after that, at least not much that he’s aware of, but at least the sandwich has gone away, and at least Sam hasn’t - his voice says, “Sleep,” gently, right before Dean falls into it.