Fic: Capture the Flag 8/24
Title: Capture the Flag
Author: triquetralmoon
Rating: R
Genre: H/C (respiratory illness, PTSD)
Warnings: Swearing, violence, eventual flashbacks of graphic torture
Spoilers: Season 4, this is set in between Criss Angel Is a Douchebag and Sex and Violence.
Summary: A soldier in the war to stop the apocalypse, Dean is running himself into the ground as he runs away from his time in Hell. What he pegs as a simple sickness soon becomes something much more deadly. The Winchesters can never catch a break. For some soldiers, the war is never over.
Author's Note:: All errors my own.
Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 / Chapter 7
Chapter 8
RickRoll'd
Eventually the doctor came back in, accompanied by two paramedics.
"30 year old male with difficulty breathing, chest pain. X-rays showed pleural effusion on the right side. Fever, hypotension, coloring has improved since albuterol. I'd get him on a non-rebreather at least 10lpm, albuterol if he worsens, forty of Lasix. Two milligrams morphine with an additional dose of another two, as long as respirations remain within normal limits and only if absolutely necessary. Four of Zofran for any nausea." Dr. Finnegan was all business.
The paramedics tried to lift Dean onto the stretcher, which he staunchly refused. "I can do it!"
They pushed Dean out of the clinic, Sam, Bobby and Dr. Finnegan following. Hell, even Cathy was joining the party. Dean felt utterly ridiculous, the lamest float of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade.
"Take care, Mr. Morris. I'll be happy to do any follow-ups if you need me." Dr. Finnegan stated as the paramedics folded the legs of the stretcher and lifted Dean aboard the ambulance.
Sam made a move to climb onto the rig and one of the paramedics, a bloated beer-belly guy with atrocious side burns, told him. "Nope. No room. You can follow us there."
Dean and Sam's eyes met, Dean's face half covered by the oxygen mask. There was a moment of panic in Dean's eyes before they went to their normal state of trying to reassure Sam. He didn't know where the anxiety was coming from, because it was just an ambulance ride, but it made him feel slightly better that Sam had the exact same look in his eyes.
"Look, I'm going with you. He's my brother, I'm not leaving him." Sam used the same authoritarian tone that played FBI agents, the tone people rarely dared to question. The EMT stood out of the way slightly and the scent of stale french fries assaulted Sam's nostrils as he made his way past the man to climb onto the back of the ambulance.
Bobby nodded as Sam seated himself near his brother. "I'll drive the car up and meet you there."
:::
:::
Not only was the EMT a complete ass, but he wasn't very good at his job or he was a sadist. It took him five tries to get the IV in and the roads weren't particularly bumpy. Dean's eyes were bugging out at Sam as if to say, Are you serious? I'm not a frickin' pincushion!
Sam's jaw was set tightly, because he too was ready to throttle the guy. He wasn't going to cause a scene, though, because this was about Dean getting better - and with the oxygen, he had started to look a little like himself again.
But it only took one of those hacking lung convulsions to drain all the regained color, to leave Dean white and trembling, his body starving for air. He held one hand on the oxygen mask, clutching it as if it were a lifeline, as if he could push the air into his mouth by force.
The ass EMT started talking to the driver. "We have accessory muscle use now."
The voice from the front hesitated slightly. "Hey, uh, Lieutenant, you want to switch up? You drive and I go back there?"
"No," came the annoyed reply, "I got it. Just keep telling me the orders."
"Okay. Try a neb treatment." The driver sounded worried.
Sam looked from one to the other, not understanding what that meant, except he could look at his brother and understand that he was having trouble breathing.
"Hey, man, you’re okay." Sam gave Dean a gentle punch to the shoulder.
And then the ass EMT tried to take the oxygen away. Dean was not having it.
"Mr. Morris, we’re going to get you on a nebulizer. It’ll help you breathe."
Still, Dean clung onto the mask, fighting the guy as much as he could, which was apparently a lot.
"He’s really got a death grip on that thing, huh?" Ass EMT chuckled.
'Death grip' was not amusing to Sam, who scowled deeper. So sue him if he was a bit oversensitive about his brother not being able to breathe. But, asshole or not, the guy was trying to help his brother.
"Dude, c’mon, they need to give you medicine." Sam gently tried to pry his brother’s fingers off of the mask. He saw the panic in his brother’s eyes, panic he was definitely trying to keep a lid on, but that was coming through nonetheless. Dean felt like he was having to claw and scrabble for each precious breath, and being strapped to the stretcher with this terrible pain in his lungs was bringing him back to being strapped down and vivisected.
"Maybe if you explained what it is?" Sam asked the EMT. He glanced at his nametag. His name was Richard. He really was a Dick.
"Medicine dissolves in the air - we give it to you with oxygen. Albuterol, just like your doc said." Richard rolled his eyes, giving a rushed explanation that emphasized his impatience.
The driver once again called out, the voice sharp and not hiding exasperation. "Rick, just run it through the mask he's already using."
Sam was about ready to offer to drive just to get the more competent paramedic working on his brother.
Ten minutes later Dean wasn’t doing any better. It seemed nearly every breath was more of a struggle - laced with more pain. Dean began taking shallower breaths, trying to spare himself the worst of it.
"Neb not having enough of an effect, Chuck." Dick called out to his partner, for the first time his voice showing signs of nervousness.
"Up the O2 to fifteen liters and push the Lasix," came the reply from the front of the rig.
Dean strained his eyes trying to look backwards toward the voice and thought he was seeing double. One moment there were two people in the front of the ambulance - Dude, is that guy wearing a beret? - then he was back to only catching a glimpse of the driver in the periphery over his right shoulder. The driver wasn't wearing a hat. No one in the passenger's seat. There was some kind of suspicion niggling at the back of his mind, but breathing was more the pressing concern.
He peered back toward his brother over the top of the oxygen mask, his fingers still holding it tight in desperation. Sam looked like he was going out of his mind, kept staring at him, trying to read his face. Another round of coughing and the burning agony sizzling along Dean's left side had him wondering if he had broken a rib. Involuntary tears began pricking his eyes. Do not let Sam see you cry.
Sam watched Dean close his eyes.
"Mr. Morris, sir? You still with us?" Dick began taking Dean’s vitals again, trying to make sure he hadn’t lost consciousness. "Pulse ox down to eighty five percent."
"Dean? Dude, open your eyes, just for a sec - we just want to know you’re awake."
Chuck up front said, "If he's out, switch to bag-valve and have the OPA ready."
Choice A) Open your eyes and have Sam worry even more about you when you're crying like a little pussy, or Choice B) Let ‘em think you’re out of it.
Dean went with the latter.
"Dude, hey c’mon…"
Nope, not gonna do it. I’m all hooked up to the machines here - isn’t like they can’t see I’m still alive.
"Sir?" Richard ran his clubbed fingers through his dirty blonde mullet of a haircut. Dean felt those greasy fingers at his wrist, grappling incompetently for a pulse.
"Dean? Dean?!"
Crap. Kid’s even more worried now.
"M’fine, Sammy." Dean wheezed from behind the mask, keeping his eyes closed. He could hear the sigh of relief mingled with frustration, coming from where his brother was sitting.
"I know you’re not fine. C’mon, man…"
Dean would have heaved his own sigh, but didn’t think he could spare the air. Sam studied his brother’s face as his eyes opened and found himself wincing on Dean’s behalf. The pain was visible in the shining eyes, bloodshot with tears that his older brother refused to let spill.
"That bad, huh?" Sam asked softly, giving Dean’s leg a squeeze.
Dean merely grunted.
"The doctor said he could have morphine." Sam glanced at Richard.
"I need him to tell me he’s in pain, not you."
"He’s stubborn, he won’t. You could light him on fire and he’d still say he’s fine. Give him the meds." Sam’s fists clenched.
"Sorry, sir." That "sir" was packed full of every insult an unimaginative goon like this guy could manage. And the douchebag was smiling, actually freakin’ smiling at him!
"Look, Dick -" Sam started before being interrupted by the driver.
"Hey, er, Mr. Morris's...brother?" the voice from the front queried hesitantly.
"What?" Sam snapped back peevishly.
"A medication like morphine slows respiration. Giving it to him might cause more problems. We're not trying to be jerks here, I promise."
Pain meds, right. Like Bobby said. Sam blew out a breath. "I'm sorry if I'm being rude. I just know him really well. He has a really high pain tolerance, so for this to be bugging him like it is...that's saying something."
When that had no effect, Sam took another glance at his brother who was sipping on small, quick breaths that weren't doing him any good. "Plus, I know you can't see back here - but he's practically hyperventilating."
"Rick, if his resps are above eighteen give him the morphine. We have orders, we’re covered."
"Whatever." Richard, Rick, Dick grumbled, clearly not thrilled that he had just been overruled. Even so, he pulled out the bolus of morphine and got it going into Dean’s IV.
"Holy shit." Dean rasped after a moment, his eyes now glazed with a slight bit of opiate-induced dreaminess, rather than glazed with tears. He relaxed, able to take in fuller breaths now that he didn’t feel like he was getting repeatedly stabbed between the ribs.
"Better?" Sam asked.
"Better." Dean agreed.
"How’s his pulse ox lookin’, Rick?" The driver asked cheerfully.
"Rising. Up to ninety two."
The corners of Dean’s mouth quirked behind the oxygen mask. "Told you I. . . was at least. . . seventy-five."
Sam snorted. "Jerk."
"Bitch." Dean wheezed, his eyes twinkling. Bantering with his brother, being back in that comfort zone - it was peace beyond what morphine could ever bring. They hadn't been there in such a long time - a text from Ruby or dick angels quickly pulling them out the swing of things when they finally managed to recapture their relationship.
"Rick," Chuck called from the front, "We still have about a forty minute ride. So long as respirations hold keep pushing the morphine - the other dose in another twenty, keep him comfortable. Sir, why don't you try and get some sleep."
Dean gazed at Sam questioningly, asking for permission. He didn't want Sam to freak out if he closed his eyes, but god - he was so tired, and sleep sounded so good.
"Go ahead, man." Sam said softly. "I'll be right here."
Part 9
Author: triquetralmoon
Rating: R
Genre: H/C (respiratory illness, PTSD)
Warnings: Swearing, violence, eventual flashbacks of graphic torture
Spoilers: Season 4, this is set in between Criss Angel Is a Douchebag and Sex and Violence.
Summary: A soldier in the war to stop the apocalypse, Dean is running himself into the ground as he runs away from his time in Hell. What he pegs as a simple sickness soon becomes something much more deadly. The Winchesters can never catch a break. For some soldiers, the war is never over.
Author's Note:: All errors my own.
Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 / Chapter 7
Chapter 8
RickRoll'd
Eventually the doctor came back in, accompanied by two paramedics.
"30 year old male with difficulty breathing, chest pain. X-rays showed pleural effusion on the right side. Fever, hypotension, coloring has improved since albuterol. I'd get him on a non-rebreather at least 10lpm, albuterol if he worsens, forty of Lasix. Two milligrams morphine with an additional dose of another two, as long as respirations remain within normal limits and only if absolutely necessary. Four of Zofran for any nausea." Dr. Finnegan was all business.
The paramedics tried to lift Dean onto the stretcher, which he staunchly refused. "I can do it!"
They pushed Dean out of the clinic, Sam, Bobby and Dr. Finnegan following. Hell, even Cathy was joining the party. Dean felt utterly ridiculous, the lamest float of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade.
"Take care, Mr. Morris. I'll be happy to do any follow-ups if you need me." Dr. Finnegan stated as the paramedics folded the legs of the stretcher and lifted Dean aboard the ambulance.
Sam made a move to climb onto the rig and one of the paramedics, a bloated beer-belly guy with atrocious side burns, told him. "Nope. No room. You can follow us there."
Dean and Sam's eyes met, Dean's face half covered by the oxygen mask. There was a moment of panic in Dean's eyes before they went to their normal state of trying to reassure Sam. He didn't know where the anxiety was coming from, because it was just an ambulance ride, but it made him feel slightly better that Sam had the exact same look in his eyes.
"Look, I'm going with you. He's my brother, I'm not leaving him." Sam used the same authoritarian tone that played FBI agents, the tone people rarely dared to question. The EMT stood out of the way slightly and the scent of stale french fries assaulted Sam's nostrils as he made his way past the man to climb onto the back of the ambulance.
Bobby nodded as Sam seated himself near his brother. "I'll drive the car up and meet you there."
:::
:::
Not only was the EMT a complete ass, but he wasn't very good at his job or he was a sadist. It took him five tries to get the IV in and the roads weren't particularly bumpy. Dean's eyes were bugging out at Sam as if to say, Are you serious? I'm not a frickin' pincushion!
Sam's jaw was set tightly, because he too was ready to throttle the guy. He wasn't going to cause a scene, though, because this was about Dean getting better - and with the oxygen, he had started to look a little like himself again.
But it only took one of those hacking lung convulsions to drain all the regained color, to leave Dean white and trembling, his body starving for air. He held one hand on the oxygen mask, clutching it as if it were a lifeline, as if he could push the air into his mouth by force.
The ass EMT started talking to the driver. "We have accessory muscle use now."
The voice from the front hesitated slightly. "Hey, uh, Lieutenant, you want to switch up? You drive and I go back there?"
"No," came the annoyed reply, "I got it. Just keep telling me the orders."
"Okay. Try a neb treatment." The driver sounded worried.
Sam looked from one to the other, not understanding what that meant, except he could look at his brother and understand that he was having trouble breathing.
"Hey, man, you’re okay." Sam gave Dean a gentle punch to the shoulder.
And then the ass EMT tried to take the oxygen away. Dean was not having it.
"Mr. Morris, we’re going to get you on a nebulizer. It’ll help you breathe."
Still, Dean clung onto the mask, fighting the guy as much as he could, which was apparently a lot.
"He’s really got a death grip on that thing, huh?" Ass EMT chuckled.
'Death grip' was not amusing to Sam, who scowled deeper. So sue him if he was a bit oversensitive about his brother not being able to breathe. But, asshole or not, the guy was trying to help his brother.
"Dude, c’mon, they need to give you medicine." Sam gently tried to pry his brother’s fingers off of the mask. He saw the panic in his brother’s eyes, panic he was definitely trying to keep a lid on, but that was coming through nonetheless. Dean felt like he was having to claw and scrabble for each precious breath, and being strapped to the stretcher with this terrible pain in his lungs was bringing him back to being strapped down and vivisected.
"Maybe if you explained what it is?" Sam asked the EMT. He glanced at his nametag. His name was Richard. He really was a Dick.
"Medicine dissolves in the air - we give it to you with oxygen. Albuterol, just like your doc said." Richard rolled his eyes, giving a rushed explanation that emphasized his impatience.
The driver once again called out, the voice sharp and not hiding exasperation. "Rick, just run it through the mask he's already using."
Sam was about ready to offer to drive just to get the more competent paramedic working on his brother.
Ten minutes later Dean wasn’t doing any better. It seemed nearly every breath was more of a struggle - laced with more pain. Dean began taking shallower breaths, trying to spare himself the worst of it.
"Neb not having enough of an effect, Chuck." Dick called out to his partner, for the first time his voice showing signs of nervousness.
"Up the O2 to fifteen liters and push the Lasix," came the reply from the front of the rig.
Dean strained his eyes trying to look backwards toward the voice and thought he was seeing double. One moment there were two people in the front of the ambulance - Dude, is that guy wearing a beret? - then he was back to only catching a glimpse of the driver in the periphery over his right shoulder. The driver wasn't wearing a hat. No one in the passenger's seat. There was some kind of suspicion niggling at the back of his mind, but breathing was more the pressing concern.
He peered back toward his brother over the top of the oxygen mask, his fingers still holding it tight in desperation. Sam looked like he was going out of his mind, kept staring at him, trying to read his face. Another round of coughing and the burning agony sizzling along Dean's left side had him wondering if he had broken a rib. Involuntary tears began pricking his eyes. Do not let Sam see you cry.
Sam watched Dean close his eyes.
"Mr. Morris, sir? You still with us?" Dick began taking Dean’s vitals again, trying to make sure he hadn’t lost consciousness. "Pulse ox down to eighty five percent."
"Dean? Dude, open your eyes, just for a sec - we just want to know you’re awake."
Chuck up front said, "If he's out, switch to bag-valve and have the OPA ready."
Choice A) Open your eyes and have Sam worry even more about you when you're crying like a little pussy, or Choice B) Let ‘em think you’re out of it.
Dean went with the latter.
"Dude, hey c’mon…"
Nope, not gonna do it. I’m all hooked up to the machines here - isn’t like they can’t see I’m still alive.
"Sir?" Richard ran his clubbed fingers through his dirty blonde mullet of a haircut. Dean felt those greasy fingers at his wrist, grappling incompetently for a pulse.
"Dean? Dean?!"
Crap. Kid’s even more worried now.
"M’fine, Sammy." Dean wheezed from behind the mask, keeping his eyes closed. He could hear the sigh of relief mingled with frustration, coming from where his brother was sitting.
"I know you’re not fine. C’mon, man…"
Dean would have heaved his own sigh, but didn’t think he could spare the air. Sam studied his brother’s face as his eyes opened and found himself wincing on Dean’s behalf. The pain was visible in the shining eyes, bloodshot with tears that his older brother refused to let spill.
"That bad, huh?" Sam asked softly, giving Dean’s leg a squeeze.
Dean merely grunted.
"The doctor said he could have morphine." Sam glanced at Richard.
"I need him to tell me he’s in pain, not you."
"He’s stubborn, he won’t. You could light him on fire and he’d still say he’s fine. Give him the meds." Sam’s fists clenched.
"Sorry, sir." That "sir" was packed full of every insult an unimaginative goon like this guy could manage. And the douchebag was smiling, actually freakin’ smiling at him!
"Look, Dick -" Sam started before being interrupted by the driver.
"Hey, er, Mr. Morris's...brother?" the voice from the front queried hesitantly.
"What?" Sam snapped back peevishly.
"A medication like morphine slows respiration. Giving it to him might cause more problems. We're not trying to be jerks here, I promise."
Pain meds, right. Like Bobby said. Sam blew out a breath. "I'm sorry if I'm being rude. I just know him really well. He has a really high pain tolerance, so for this to be bugging him like it is...that's saying something."
When that had no effect, Sam took another glance at his brother who was sipping on small, quick breaths that weren't doing him any good. "Plus, I know you can't see back here - but he's practically hyperventilating."
"Rick, if his resps are above eighteen give him the morphine. We have orders, we’re covered."
"Whatever." Richard, Rick, Dick grumbled, clearly not thrilled that he had just been overruled. Even so, he pulled out the bolus of morphine and got it going into Dean’s IV.
"Holy shit." Dean rasped after a moment, his eyes now glazed with a slight bit of opiate-induced dreaminess, rather than glazed with tears. He relaxed, able to take in fuller breaths now that he didn’t feel like he was getting repeatedly stabbed between the ribs.
"Better?" Sam asked.
"Better." Dean agreed.
"How’s his pulse ox lookin’, Rick?" The driver asked cheerfully.
"Rising. Up to ninety two."
The corners of Dean’s mouth quirked behind the oxygen mask. "Told you I. . . was at least. . . seventy-five."
Sam snorted. "Jerk."
"Bitch." Dean wheezed, his eyes twinkling. Bantering with his brother, being back in that comfort zone - it was peace beyond what morphine could ever bring. They hadn't been there in such a long time - a text from Ruby or dick angels quickly pulling them out the swing of things when they finally managed to recapture their relationship.
"Rick," Chuck called from the front, "We still have about a forty minute ride. So long as respirations hold keep pushing the morphine - the other dose in another twenty, keep him comfortable. Sir, why don't you try and get some sleep."
Dean gazed at Sam questioningly, asking for permission. He didn't want Sam to freak out if he closed his eyes, but god - he was so tired, and sleep sounded so good.
"Go ahead, man." Sam said softly. "I'll be right here."
Part 9