Fic: Bobby will sort it, (1/1) PG 13, Gen (Dean, Sam, Bobby)
Title: Bobby will sort it
Warnings: Ummm....none, for a change! :P
Rating: PG 13+ (some potty mouths)
Characters: Dean, Sam, Bobby
Pairing: None, Gen
Disclaimer: None of the following belongs to me, I am just playing in Kripke and WB/CW's sandbox for fun not profit.
Beta Munibunny who is made of all kinds of awesome! *Giant squishes to you honey for making my rambling incoherence readable!
Summary: Written for this prompt at mad_server’s again but with more colds meme
Dean hauls and unconscious Sammy (he’s injured? under a spell?) to Bobby’s doorstep. Bobby slowly realises Dean is rocking a pretty awful case of the flu.
Author Note: I adore Bobby and his dynamic with the boys so couldn’t resist this one.
If the loud banging on his front door wasn’t enough to wake him, the desperate, strained plea for help from a voice he knew way too well sure as hell was.
He fumbled his way through the pitch black of the house. The rapid fire banging on his front door, interrupted every few thumps by a hacking cough, accompanying him all the way to said battered door.
“I’m coming boy, hold your horses. Where the hell is your key? Did you boys...Jesus!” Bobby exclaimed as he pulled open the door to a blood covered pair of Winchesters, one barely conscious, the other just this side of hysterical.
“It got him a good one Bobby, I didn’t...I couldn’t...hhHHuuH cHHeeoOU” Dean chocked out through a coughing sneeze that sounded suspiciously like a sob.
“Just get him inside boy and we’ll see what were up against,” Bobby assured as he lent his shoulder to Sam’s other side and helped usher the broken men into his home. “Put him on the couch while I get the kit,” Bobby directed as he left Dean to stumble the last couple of steps to the battered couch with his brother as he took off into the kitchen at a speed that was entirely unhealthy for man his age. As he rummaged under the sink for the tackle box that held his comprehensive first aid kit, Bobby call out over his shoulder, “where’d he take the hit?”
“His gut. Bastard poltergeist threw a knife block at him. The whole damn knife block. What the hell is up with...” Dean’s reply disintegrated into a choking cough that didn’t finish up until Bobby was back beside the couch, the kit open and gauze and bandages in hand.
“Boy, that’s some cough you’ve got going on. How long you had that son?” Bobby questioned as he pressed the fresh gauze into the blood welling up from the stab wound now exposed on Sam’s lower right side. He hissed as Sam groaned low in his throat and arched up in pain as he applied as much pressure as he could to the wound.
“What? Uh, don’t know, a while I suppose. I’m fine, just...is it bad, Bobby? Can we deal with it here or not?” Dean pressed, his eyes gleaming and vulnerable, his face pinched, glistening with sweat and pale as a bed sheet. The palm he gripped Bobby’s bicep tight with was hot, even through the layers of Bobby’s flannel.
“Yeah, I can take care of it. Just sit your ass down before you fall down, you idjit. You can’t help me help your brother if you’re passed out on the damn floor,” Bobby growled as the stupid boy swayed next him, his eyes glazing for a brief second before focusing back on his slowly stirring brother.
“I’m fine. Just take care of Sam...can’t lose him Bobby, not...” Dean voice cracked as he doubled over into another coughing fit that had him stumbling over to the kitchen sink to gag wretchedly before he was able to get his wind back.
“Yeah, you’re just peachy. Bring one of the chairs back and sit your ass down before I hogtie you to one you moron,” Bobby chastised as checked the wound under the gauze for clotting, thankful, when he saw that the bleed was slowing to barely weeping. “He’ll be fine Dean. I’ll stitch him up and he’ll be good as...” Bobby’s reassurance was interrupted by the distinct sound of a limp body hitting the wooden floor boards.
“Balls! Dammit boy, like I don’t have enough on my hands with your brother bleeding all over joint,” Bobby groused as he bound up Sam’s wound so he could let go long enough to check that his idiot of a brother hadn’t done himself a permanent injury when he did his swan dive into the floor boards.
Of course it was at that precise moment that Sam decided to wake from his blood loss induced slumber.
“Dean?” Sam’s pain-laced voice cut a swath through Bobby’s heart as the boy tried to sit up to see where his brother was. “Uhh, he’s sick Bobby. I think he has a fever,” Sam groaned as he flopped back onto the couch with a pained moan.
“Yeah, boy, I know. He just took a swan dive in the kitchen, so I need you to keep you ass right here on this couch while I go check he hasn’t given himself a brain injury or something equally as stupid, capisce?” Bobby scolded as he pushed Sam’s resisting form back into the couch cushions.
“Ahh, shit, hmmmm, ‘k, stay here, got it,” Sam promised, his face a pinched grimace of pain.
“Good, don’t move!” Bobby threatened as he backed over towards where Dean was sprawled across his kitchen floor, his outstretched finger pointing menacingly at the conscious brother.
“Got it, not moving,” Sam assured as he pressed a hand to his wound.
Bobby crouched down beside Dean’s sprawled body, his palm instantly going over his forehead to check on the suspected fever.
“Son of a bitch. God dammit boy, why won’t you take care of your damn self sometimes,” Bobby cursed as the heat rolling of Dean’s forehead almost seared his palm he was so damn hot.
“Bobby, what is it?” Sam called from his perch on the couch, his voice strained as he tried to push himself up to enable him to see his brother better.
“Don’t you dare move boy. I swear if move another inch, I will tie you to that damn couch if it’s the last thing I do,” Bobby yelled at the other Winchester, his temper wearing thin.
“Bobby, please, what’s going on?” Sam pleaded, his voice thready and weak.
“He’s cooking his damn fool brain, that’s what’s happening. Stay put while I ice pack this idjit, then I’ll come and sort out that wound of yours. Don’t move an inch, got it?” Bobby growled as he grabbed hold of Dean’s booted feet and started to drag the unconscious man out into the living area so his fool of a brother wouldn’t try and get off the couch to see him better.
“Careful Bobby, I think he hurt his ankle yesterday,” Sam cautioned as he did his best to keep his prone brother in sight while remaining as still as possible.
“What? What do you mean you think...ah, never mind, I’ll be careful son,” Bobby promised his hands moving to grip Dean’s legs down past his ankles. The slight swelling of his right one just noticeable now he was aware of it.
“Bloody idjits, I should hogtie the both of you to chairs, might add 15 years to my life from less stress at this rate,” Bobby mumbled to himself as he gently placed Dean’s booted feet to the floor, stretching him out next to the couch his brother was laying on.
“Right, ice packs, don’t you...” Bobby started.
“I know, don’t move and watch Dean, got it,” Sam jumped in, his face pale and pinched with pain as he smirked at him.
“Good boy,” Bobby praised him as he stepped back over his brother back towards the kitchen, his hand twitching slightly with the irrational urge to pat the boy on the damn fool head.
Bobby made short work of putting together the ice packs and quickly placed them in Dean’s groin, armpits and under his head in the nape of his neck. Dean was slick with sweat but no where near enough to signal that the fever was breaking. He could only hope he had caught it in time before he started to seizure on him. All the while he was tending to Dean, Sam’s broad palm was resting over Dean’s forehead, soothing him whenever he whimper or stirred with the shocking cold of the ice packs. Finally, Dean was a sorted as he was going to get for the moment and he could go back to his primary patient. Bobby grimaced, groaning tiredly as he stretched his aching back out and perched himself alongside Sam on the couch, careful to ensure Sam could keep contact with his brother the whole time.
“Right, now it’s your turn boy. Let me see that wound,” Bobby coached as he gently raised the soggy red bandage.
The sharp hiss and muffled curse as he did assured him that Sam had been starting to clot nicely. “Right boy, I’ll just get the supplies and I’ll have you stitched up in no time. You want some Vidocin? I’ve still got some laying around here somewhere,” Bobby asked as he bent down to retrieve the supplies from the open kit at the foot of the couch.
“Nah, just get it done, then we can get Dean into a tepid bath and get that fever under control,” Sam refused, his palm never leaving Dean’s forehead.
“Okay, sure, just hang tight and I’ll get you sorted,” Bobby sighed, shaking his head at the pair of them.
A pain filled, 20 minutes later and Sam was stitched, bandaged and finally drugged. Bobby took the mostly melted ice packs from their strategic positions and laid his own palm to Dean’s previously baking forehead. Thankfully, the ice packs had done their job well and Dean was much cooler then he had been. As Bobby positioned his head with a pillow, Dean began to stir and come back to the land of the living.
“Dean? You okay?” Sam’s hopeful voice beat Bobby to the punchline.
Dean’s eyes shot open as his head snapped forward with a violent sneeze, his wavering, watery gaze slowly honing in on Sam’s furrowed brow hovering above him.
“You, ‘k Sabby?” Dean slurred slightly, still groggy from his impromptu nap.
Bobby couldn’t help the derisive snort at the single mindedness of his two friends that had become so much more to him over the years. As much as they did his head in with their pig headed stubbornness, their devotion to family, which over the years had come to include him, drew him in time and time again. No matter what, if there was breath in his decrepit body, he would patch them up and back their plays every damn time. He may not like the execution, but he would always be there to clean up the mess if it was needed and celebrate on the rare occasion it was warranted. This clean up wasn’t over by a long shot, but he was on the winning side of the war for the moment, so he figured he could count that as a victory for now. Tomorrow was another day, after all.
Warnings: Ummm....none, for a change! :P
Rating: PG 13+ (some potty mouths)
Characters: Dean, Sam, Bobby
Pairing: None, Gen
Disclaimer: None of the following belongs to me, I am just playing in Kripke and WB/CW's sandbox for fun not profit.
Beta Munibunny who is made of all kinds of awesome! *Giant squishes to you honey for making my rambling incoherence readable!
Summary: Written for this prompt at mad_server’s again but with more colds meme
Dean hauls and unconscious Sammy (he’s injured? under a spell?) to Bobby’s doorstep. Bobby slowly realises Dean is rocking a pretty awful case of the flu.
Author Note: I adore Bobby and his dynamic with the boys so couldn’t resist this one.
If the loud banging on his front door wasn’t enough to wake him, the desperate, strained plea for help from a voice he knew way too well sure as hell was.
He fumbled his way through the pitch black of the house. The rapid fire banging on his front door, interrupted every few thumps by a hacking cough, accompanying him all the way to said battered door.
“I’m coming boy, hold your horses. Where the hell is your key? Did you boys...Jesus!” Bobby exclaimed as he pulled open the door to a blood covered pair of Winchesters, one barely conscious, the other just this side of hysterical.
“It got him a good one Bobby, I didn’t...I couldn’t...hhHHuuH cHHeeoOU” Dean chocked out through a coughing sneeze that sounded suspiciously like a sob.
“Just get him inside boy and we’ll see what were up against,” Bobby assured as he lent his shoulder to Sam’s other side and helped usher the broken men into his home. “Put him on the couch while I get the kit,” Bobby directed as he left Dean to stumble the last couple of steps to the battered couch with his brother as he took off into the kitchen at a speed that was entirely unhealthy for man his age. As he rummaged under the sink for the tackle box that held his comprehensive first aid kit, Bobby call out over his shoulder, “where’d he take the hit?”
“His gut. Bastard poltergeist threw a knife block at him. The whole damn knife block. What the hell is up with...” Dean’s reply disintegrated into a choking cough that didn’t finish up until Bobby was back beside the couch, the kit open and gauze and bandages in hand.
“Boy, that’s some cough you’ve got going on. How long you had that son?” Bobby questioned as he pressed the fresh gauze into the blood welling up from the stab wound now exposed on Sam’s lower right side. He hissed as Sam groaned low in his throat and arched up in pain as he applied as much pressure as he could to the wound.
“What? Uh, don’t know, a while I suppose. I’m fine, just...is it bad, Bobby? Can we deal with it here or not?” Dean pressed, his eyes gleaming and vulnerable, his face pinched, glistening with sweat and pale as a bed sheet. The palm he gripped Bobby’s bicep tight with was hot, even through the layers of Bobby’s flannel.
“Yeah, I can take care of it. Just sit your ass down before you fall down, you idjit. You can’t help me help your brother if you’re passed out on the damn floor,” Bobby growled as the stupid boy swayed next him, his eyes glazing for a brief second before focusing back on his slowly stirring brother.
“I’m fine. Just take care of Sam...can’t lose him Bobby, not...” Dean voice cracked as he doubled over into another coughing fit that had him stumbling over to the kitchen sink to gag wretchedly before he was able to get his wind back.
“Yeah, you’re just peachy. Bring one of the chairs back and sit your ass down before I hogtie you to one you moron,” Bobby chastised as checked the wound under the gauze for clotting, thankful, when he saw that the bleed was slowing to barely weeping. “He’ll be fine Dean. I’ll stitch him up and he’ll be good as...” Bobby’s reassurance was interrupted by the distinct sound of a limp body hitting the wooden floor boards.
“Balls! Dammit boy, like I don’t have enough on my hands with your brother bleeding all over joint,” Bobby groused as he bound up Sam’s wound so he could let go long enough to check that his idiot of a brother hadn’t done himself a permanent injury when he did his swan dive into the floor boards.
Of course it was at that precise moment that Sam decided to wake from his blood loss induced slumber.
“Dean?” Sam’s pain-laced voice cut a swath through Bobby’s heart as the boy tried to sit up to see where his brother was. “Uhh, he’s sick Bobby. I think he has a fever,” Sam groaned as he flopped back onto the couch with a pained moan.
“Yeah, boy, I know. He just took a swan dive in the kitchen, so I need you to keep you ass right here on this couch while I go check he hasn’t given himself a brain injury or something equally as stupid, capisce?” Bobby scolded as he pushed Sam’s resisting form back into the couch cushions.
“Ahh, shit, hmmmm, ‘k, stay here, got it,” Sam promised, his face a pinched grimace of pain.
“Good, don’t move!” Bobby threatened as he backed over towards where Dean was sprawled across his kitchen floor, his outstretched finger pointing menacingly at the conscious brother.
“Got it, not moving,” Sam assured as he pressed a hand to his wound.
Bobby crouched down beside Dean’s sprawled body, his palm instantly going over his forehead to check on the suspected fever.
“Son of a bitch. God dammit boy, why won’t you take care of your damn self sometimes,” Bobby cursed as the heat rolling of Dean’s forehead almost seared his palm he was so damn hot.
“Bobby, what is it?” Sam called from his perch on the couch, his voice strained as he tried to push himself up to enable him to see his brother better.
“Don’t you dare move boy. I swear if move another inch, I will tie you to that damn couch if it’s the last thing I do,” Bobby yelled at the other Winchester, his temper wearing thin.
“Bobby, please, what’s going on?” Sam pleaded, his voice thready and weak.
“He’s cooking his damn fool brain, that’s what’s happening. Stay put while I ice pack this idjit, then I’ll come and sort out that wound of yours. Don’t move an inch, got it?” Bobby growled as he grabbed hold of Dean’s booted feet and started to drag the unconscious man out into the living area so his fool of a brother wouldn’t try and get off the couch to see him better.
“Careful Bobby, I think he hurt his ankle yesterday,” Sam cautioned as he did his best to keep his prone brother in sight while remaining as still as possible.
“What? What do you mean you think...ah, never mind, I’ll be careful son,” Bobby promised his hands moving to grip Dean’s legs down past his ankles. The slight swelling of his right one just noticeable now he was aware of it.
“Bloody idjits, I should hogtie the both of you to chairs, might add 15 years to my life from less stress at this rate,” Bobby mumbled to himself as he gently placed Dean’s booted feet to the floor, stretching him out next to the couch his brother was laying on.
“Right, ice packs, don’t you...” Bobby started.
“I know, don’t move and watch Dean, got it,” Sam jumped in, his face pale and pinched with pain as he smirked at him.
“Good boy,” Bobby praised him as he stepped back over his brother back towards the kitchen, his hand twitching slightly with the irrational urge to pat the boy on the damn fool head.
Bobby made short work of putting together the ice packs and quickly placed them in Dean’s groin, armpits and under his head in the nape of his neck. Dean was slick with sweat but no where near enough to signal that the fever was breaking. He could only hope he had caught it in time before he started to seizure on him. All the while he was tending to Dean, Sam’s broad palm was resting over Dean’s forehead, soothing him whenever he whimper or stirred with the shocking cold of the ice packs. Finally, Dean was a sorted as he was going to get for the moment and he could go back to his primary patient. Bobby grimaced, groaning tiredly as he stretched his aching back out and perched himself alongside Sam on the couch, careful to ensure Sam could keep contact with his brother the whole time.
“Right, now it’s your turn boy. Let me see that wound,” Bobby coached as he gently raised the soggy red bandage.
The sharp hiss and muffled curse as he did assured him that Sam had been starting to clot nicely. “Right boy, I’ll just get the supplies and I’ll have you stitched up in no time. You want some Vidocin? I’ve still got some laying around here somewhere,” Bobby asked as he bent down to retrieve the supplies from the open kit at the foot of the couch.
“Nah, just get it done, then we can get Dean into a tepid bath and get that fever under control,” Sam refused, his palm never leaving Dean’s forehead.
“Okay, sure, just hang tight and I’ll get you sorted,” Bobby sighed, shaking his head at the pair of them.
A pain filled, 20 minutes later and Sam was stitched, bandaged and finally drugged. Bobby took the mostly melted ice packs from their strategic positions and laid his own palm to Dean’s previously baking forehead. Thankfully, the ice packs had done their job well and Dean was much cooler then he had been. As Bobby positioned his head with a pillow, Dean began to stir and come back to the land of the living.
“Dean? You okay?” Sam’s hopeful voice beat Bobby to the punchline.
Dean’s eyes shot open as his head snapped forward with a violent sneeze, his wavering, watery gaze slowly honing in on Sam’s furrowed brow hovering above him.
“You, ‘k Sabby?” Dean slurred slightly, still groggy from his impromptu nap.
Bobby couldn’t help the derisive snort at the single mindedness of his two friends that had become so much more to him over the years. As much as they did his head in with their pig headed stubbornness, their devotion to family, which over the years had come to include him, drew him in time and time again. No matter what, if there was breath in his decrepit body, he would patch them up and back their plays every damn time. He may not like the execution, but he would always be there to clean up the mess if it was needed and celebrate on the rare occasion it was warranted. This clean up wasn’t over by a long shot, but he was on the winning side of the war for the moment, so he figured he could count that as a victory for now. Tomorrow was another day, after all.