Capture the Flag 14/24
Title: Capture the Flag
Author: triquetralmoon
Rating: R
Genre: H/C (respiratory illness, PTSD)
Warnings: Swearing, violence, 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: Time for a regularly scheduled schmoop break.
Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 / Chapter 7 / Chapter 8 / Chapter 9 / Chapter 10 / Chapter 11 / Chapter 12 / Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Purgatory
Sam walked up through the hallways of the hospital, a buzzing in his pocket. He hoped it was Dean calling him back, but no - it was a text from Ruby. Sam sighed. He almost didn’t want to read it. It wasn't like he could leave his brother if there was a lead on Lilith.
How's Dean?
Huh. Small talk with the demon girl.
Sam texted back, Ghost sick, again. Life or death, again.
He needs to find a happy medium, Ruby wrote back.
Sam snorted. Yes, that was true. It was nearly always Life or Death, Heaven or Hell. Sam couldn't believe, no matter how dangerous hunting was, that it was like this for all hunters. Winchester luck had to come into play, taking them from one extreme to the other. It'd be nice to just kick around in Purgatory for awhile.
Sam made his way up to Dean's floor, taking the stairs this time rather than the incredibly slow elevator. The sounds of people sounding like they were about to take their last breaths echoed around the corridor. His long legs loped down the hallway to where he hoped to see Dean asleep. Instead, he found his brother laying on his side, curling around a vomit basin, a nurse hovering over him. Somehow his brother was managing to look blue and green and red at the same time, the odd colors in his pallor making his eyes seem duller than Sam remembered them being before.
"Hey, what happened?" Sam asked softly, crossing the room and putting his messenger bag on the nearest chair.
Dean immediately tried to sit up further when he realized Sam was in the room, and just as quickly had both the nurse and Sam pushing him back down. When Sam pulled his hand away it was wet, clammy…his brother was sweating, flushed. Clearly the fever had gone up.
The nurse gazed at Sam. "The doctor hasn't come in yet, but it is probably a reaction to the medication."
Dean tried to sit up the best he could - ignoring admonishing looks from both his brother and his caretaker, but still ended up curling forward toward the basin, swallowing hard against the nausea.
"Hospital food. . . tastes about the same in or out, Sam." A grin endeavored to cross Dean's face, but it ended up being just a quick twitch on his lips.
This was part of what Sam hated most about hospitals, the fact that within a stone's throw there was stuff that would make a person feel better, but you always had to wait for a doctor's orders - and that could take hours. Sam sat down next to Dean and gazed up at the nurse. "I'll sit with him, can you go get his doctor?"
"Sure. Need anything, just push the button."
Dean sat there staring at the basin as the nurse left - not even checking her ass out as she walked away. His eyes were glued to the pink plastic container that needed to be emptied and whose bilious contents were not helping his nausea at all. Sam did not fail to notice and quickly scooped up the basin and rinsed it out in the room's small sink.
He plopped it back down in front of Dean. "There you go."
Dean was going to say thank you, but his stomach had other ideas as it clenched and reversed its contents into the freshly cleaned tub. At this point it was all mucus and bile and painful dry heaves after that. When the retching ceased leaving him gasping for breath, he was that same dusky hue that had been so worrisome in the gas station parking lot. Sam glanced up at the computer screen that was keeping tabs on his brother's vitals, where it registered a sharp drop in his oxygen levels.
"We need to put the oxygen back on you, man." Sam resisted the urge to run his hand through Dean's hair like you would a child, a comforting motion that he was damn sure Dean would kill him for.
"Just . . . hafta. . . take it off . . . when I puke…" Dean's voice ground out the words in annoyance, but it was barely a whisper.
"So, we take it off. But in the meantime, you wear it." Sam stated firmly.
Sam was happy to see that they had put Dean back on a much smaller oxygen mask in his absence, a sign that there was some improvement, proof that the surgery actually did something positive. He helped his brother scooch back up on the bed, pushing the buttons to mechanically raise the head. Sam went to put the mask back on him, but Dean grabbed it.
"I got it," he grumbled.
"Okay." Sam settled for gently punching Dean in the knee, his fingers fiddling with the blankets awkwardly, trying to figure out the best way to bring up what was on his mind. "Er, Dean, do you think maybe, uh, we should ask the angels to help you out?"
Dean broke out in a coughing fit of pure surprise. "NO!"
Sam pulled a face as Dean lifted the mask to spit blood-tinged green phlegm into the basin. "I just think, if they can help you… "
"Sam, no way. After Anna, after . . . just, no."
Sam merely nodded while Dean caught his breath. He couldn't really blame Dean. The last time they encountered the angels they threatened to toss Dean back into the Pit and kill Sam. These were clearly not folks to whom you wanted to owe a damned thing. More than that, Sam remembered the quick glimpse of panic that had crossed Dean's face when Anna had first repeated the celestial threat of hurling Dean back to Hell. Wide-eyed terror that, apart from the Fear Infection, Sam had never seen appear within Dean's structured features before, not even right before the hellhounds started chomping. Sam supposed it was one thing to have a vague idea of Hell, and quite another to know exactly what you'd be going back to.
"So . . . where's Bobby?" Dean asked.
"Working your case." At the mention of Bobby, Sam's thumbs went to work texting their friend to let them know Dean was mostly alright.
"Got a lead from Legion-Guy?"
"Yeah, we think we know who the ghost is. Bobby's working on getting some intel so we can figure out why."
"And why me?" Dean asked, a wry grin darting across his face.
"And why you." Sam concurred.
"Who d'ya think it is?"
"A soldier named Michael Cole. Bobby's getting his records." Sam stretched his arms up toward the ceiling, not able to help the giant yawn that emerged as he let his long form sprawl out in the chair.
"Soldier, huh?" Dean glanced at Sam.
Sam caught something in his brother's tone and immediately sat upright again. "Yeah, a soldier, why?"
Dean chuckled sheepishly. "I was dreaming about a guy," He swallowed thickly and pulled the plastic bin closer for a moment before deciding it was safe to continue. "He was in uniform, y'know?"
"You're just thinking to mention this now?" Sam huffed in exasperation.
"I dunno, dude." Dean stopped then, admitting something that clearly cost him. "I dream about a lot of people."
"Oh," Sam said. His brother's implication was clear enough - he dreamed of the people he tortured in Hell. Sam wanted to say something - reassuring or comforting, but he didn't know what to say to make it okay that his brother carried the torture of thousands of souls with him. Mostly because there weren't words that could make it okay.
The awkward silence was interrupted when Doogie walked in, still swinging his arms like a little kid. "Hey, guys!"
A look of confusion crossed Sam's face. "I thought you worked in the ER."
"Usually. They needed the coverage here for a few days, though. Doing folks a favor. So, how are you feeling, Dean? The nurse came and told me your stomach is giving rebel yells worse than Billy Idol."
Dean chuckled. At least the kid's taste in music was old enough to be in a white coat. "Yeah, something like that."
"Did you have any nausea before you were put on the antibiotics?"
"A little...nothing like this." The words were becoming stuck in Dean's throat, hesitation building as excess saliva began heralding the upchucking that was soon to follow.
"I'll call Dr. Ferguson about changing the antibiotics, if we can. But I can order something to ease the nausea in the meantime. How are you doing with pain?"
Dean glanced at Sam, which Doogie noticed. The young doctor knew the dynamic from his own brotherly experiences. 'Big brother never hurts worse than he can handle himself' seemed to be part of a universal paradigm.
"Vomiting with the chest tube can't feel good, right?" Doogie offered.
Dean stifled his automatic response, 'How'd you think it feels, sport?!' and settled for shaking his head, agreeing that it did not feel good. Not at all.
"Okay, well, I'll order an additional couple milligrams of morphine over what you're getting. I wish we could give more, but your oxygen levels are our primary concern. The nurse will be in with it soon, and I'll see what Dr. Ferguson says about the antibiotics, alright?"
Dean couldn't help but like the kid. He found himself reminded of Sam before he went and got so huge - the wiry, lanky kid who left for college.
"I'll be around, guys. Need anything, the nurse'll come get me. Any questions before I go?" Doogie hung out in the doorframe for a little bit, a certain wistfulness in his posture.
"Just one." Dean said.
"Shoot." The young physician said with a grin.
"This favor . . . trading shifts . . . " Dean had to stop, his mind wanting desperately to keep talking so he could confirm his silly suspicion, his body trying to decide if it wanted to cough or puke. It didn't matter, though. Sam knew what question he wanted answered. And though Sam was blushing and apologetic while he was asking it, it got asked all the same.
"My brother," Sam met Doogie’s eyes with an apologetic gaze, "My incorrigible brother just wants to know if you traded shifts to get in the good graces of a woman. He's preferring it is a nurse."
Sam noticed the kid's face fall a little. "You really don't have to answer, man."
"Huh, no . . . it just sounds like . . . I mean, not the question I was expecting, I guess. My brother would’ve asked the same thing."
"Why isn’t he around to show you the ropes?" asked Dean. It was impetuous, sure, and none of his business - but hey, he was bored in this bed. A little family drama that didn’t involve his own family could serve as a nice distraction.
"Cancer." Doogie said, matter-of-factly.
Sam winced. "I’m sorry."
"Don’t worry about it, was a couple years ago."
"Still, though . . . sorry," said Dean. He had wanted to poke a little fun at the baby-faced doc, sure, but his intent was never to make him feel bad. The kid continued answering the original question. "Yeah. She's…yeah. Not a nurse, though, a doctor."
"Niiiice." Dean rasped approvingly. "Anyone we woulda seen yet?"
Sam supposed that maybe that was the kid's boundary line, pointing out which of the staff had his heart, because this time he just stayed blushing and made no movement to indicate he was going to answer as he studied the shiny linoleum.
"Well, we should probably know your name, right, doc? Especially if my brother here is hatching plans to assure your victory over the fairer sex," said Sam.
"Uhh, Dr. Aiken." The kid replied, tapping the ID badge that was half-hidden by a truly garish tie.
"Your name name, Whiz Kid." Dean rolled his eyes.
"Oh, Ross. Sorry."
A thousand cool things came to Dean’s mind to close the conversation - about how Ross was now guaranteed the chance to play Dr. Feel Good, etc… instead the only thing that came out of Dean's mouth was more vomit and that wasn't cool in the slightest.
"I'm gonna go put in the orders for those meds. We'll go over the romantic plan of attack later, okay?" With hardly a moment in between - a shy blushing kid called Ross metamorphosed into the Dr. Aiken that probably got respect from staff and patients alike. You could see it in his face as he stepped out of the room, suddenly taking care of his patient was paramount. It was the same look of jaw-tensed determination that often crossed the brothers' faces when they were trying to beat the clock to save lives.
Sam handed Dean a facecloth to wipe his mouth and a glass of water so he could rinse and spit the bitter taste of bile out. He shook his head, his expression remaining serious.
Panting a bit, Dean gazed up at his brother. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing, it's stupid."
"So, then tell me anyway and I'll laugh at your stupidity." And there it was, the eager-beaver boyish grin that Sam hardly saw at all nowadays. Sure, it was half hidden by the oxygen mask that fogged in and out with condensation, but it was there nonetheless.
"I was just thinking, it is kind of unfair. You always get beat on the hardest, or the sickest, or hexed..." Sam's tone was nothing if not laden with guilt.
"Hey, big brothers are always at the front of the line." Dean made his tone light, trying to reassure Sam. He felt that's what he spent half the time doing nowadays. One half yelling at the kid for giving in to his psychic freakiness, the other half trying to get that god-awful look off his face - the look that clearly stated, "I'm sorry I couldn't save you." The same look he was wearing now which clearly illustrated that his Big Brother ruling wasn't helping at all.
For the life of him, Dean couldn't think what to say to make it better. And it was kind of hard to think of something heartwarming to say when it was your stomach that was doing all the talking. So, for awhile they just sat together - Sam getting the routine down of bucket-emptying and water-glass-handing, until at long last the nurse came in with blessed Make-Your-Guts-Behave meds, along with the Please-Remove-The-Hedge-Clippers-From-My-Side pain medication.
Within moments of the deft injections into his IV port, Dean's color improved and the many furrows that came from having a pain-lined face began to ease out.
"Y'know, Sam, if it makes you feel any better, you always got the more humiliating injuries."
"Hrm?" Sam looked up, not expecting his brother to be continuing the previous conversation.
"Well, you had the splinter in your ass that time…" Dean reminded him.
"You try having a spirit haul you up and down the broadside of a barn. I had more splinters than just in my ass. That was just the one place that was…"
"Memorable?" Dean offered.
Sam snorted. "Yeah, Dad tweezing a three inch plank out of my backside is something I'll look back on fondly."
"Do you remember when you scratched your cornea . . . the eye patch?" Dean snickered, while Sam simply gave a good-natured groan.
"How could I forget, man? How many pirate jokes can one person crack?"
"Ahhh, good times, good times." Dean was giving a reminiscent grin one moment and seized up in a long spell of phlegm-spewing hacking the next, a reminder that the brothers weren't just hanging out in some motel room yukking it up.
Dean closed his eyes again, trying to ignore the presence of his brother hovering, obtrusive by just how unobtrusive his younger sibling was trying to be.
"Well, you were looking better."
Dean just responded with a 'mmmm' of agreement, concentrating on taking slow breaths of oxygen.
"Hey, boys." Bobby entered the room quietly, holding several thick manila folders piled on top of each other.
"Hey, Bobby." Sam half-turned in his chair as their old friend walked in and cleared Dean's duffle off of one of the other chairs. "You get all the info?"
"Near as I can tell. How's he doing?" Bobby nodded his head toward the bed-bound Winchester.
"He's awake . . . can ask yourself." Dean grunted, trying not to make his voice sound weak or breathy.
"Well, silly me - seeing as your eyes were closed, I made an assumption. Ya idjit." Bobby snapped peevishly. Granted, Dean was sick. Granted, Dean never dealt all that well with being out of commission and needing to be taken care of. It had been a helluva long couple days for the older hunter, though, and since they still hadn't figured out exactly what was what with this case - it put him on edge to say the least.
Dean didn't miss the stressed out tone in his friend's voice and he struggled to push himself up on his elbows so he could read Bobby's face better, catching his eye so he could offer unsaid apologies.
Bobby sighed and offered Dean a quick smile before handing one of the folders to Sam and other to Dean. "The psychiatric records of a spook - get reading, boys."
Part 15
Author: triquetralmoon
Rating: R
Genre: H/C (respiratory illness, PTSD)
Warnings: Swearing, violence, 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: Time for a regularly scheduled schmoop break.
Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 / Chapter 7 / Chapter 8 / Chapter 9 / Chapter 10 / Chapter 11 / Chapter 12 / Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Purgatory
Sam walked up through the hallways of the hospital, a buzzing in his pocket. He hoped it was Dean calling him back, but no - it was a text from Ruby. Sam sighed. He almost didn’t want to read it. It wasn't like he could leave his brother if there was a lead on Lilith.
How's Dean?
Huh. Small talk with the demon girl.
Sam texted back, Ghost sick, again. Life or death, again.
He needs to find a happy medium, Ruby wrote back.
Sam snorted. Yes, that was true. It was nearly always Life or Death, Heaven or Hell. Sam couldn't believe, no matter how dangerous hunting was, that it was like this for all hunters. Winchester luck had to come into play, taking them from one extreme to the other. It'd be nice to just kick around in Purgatory for awhile.
Sam made his way up to Dean's floor, taking the stairs this time rather than the incredibly slow elevator. The sounds of people sounding like they were about to take their last breaths echoed around the corridor. His long legs loped down the hallway to where he hoped to see Dean asleep. Instead, he found his brother laying on his side, curling around a vomit basin, a nurse hovering over him. Somehow his brother was managing to look blue and green and red at the same time, the odd colors in his pallor making his eyes seem duller than Sam remembered them being before.
"Hey, what happened?" Sam asked softly, crossing the room and putting his messenger bag on the nearest chair.
Dean immediately tried to sit up further when he realized Sam was in the room, and just as quickly had both the nurse and Sam pushing him back down. When Sam pulled his hand away it was wet, clammy…his brother was sweating, flushed. Clearly the fever had gone up.
The nurse gazed at Sam. "The doctor hasn't come in yet, but it is probably a reaction to the medication."
Dean tried to sit up the best he could - ignoring admonishing looks from both his brother and his caretaker, but still ended up curling forward toward the basin, swallowing hard against the nausea.
"Hospital food. . . tastes about the same in or out, Sam." A grin endeavored to cross Dean's face, but it ended up being just a quick twitch on his lips.
This was part of what Sam hated most about hospitals, the fact that within a stone's throw there was stuff that would make a person feel better, but you always had to wait for a doctor's orders - and that could take hours. Sam sat down next to Dean and gazed up at the nurse. "I'll sit with him, can you go get his doctor?"
"Sure. Need anything, just push the button."
Dean sat there staring at the basin as the nurse left - not even checking her ass out as she walked away. His eyes were glued to the pink plastic container that needed to be emptied and whose bilious contents were not helping his nausea at all. Sam did not fail to notice and quickly scooped up the basin and rinsed it out in the room's small sink.
He plopped it back down in front of Dean. "There you go."
Dean was going to say thank you, but his stomach had other ideas as it clenched and reversed its contents into the freshly cleaned tub. At this point it was all mucus and bile and painful dry heaves after that. When the retching ceased leaving him gasping for breath, he was that same dusky hue that had been so worrisome in the gas station parking lot. Sam glanced up at the computer screen that was keeping tabs on his brother's vitals, where it registered a sharp drop in his oxygen levels.
"We need to put the oxygen back on you, man." Sam resisted the urge to run his hand through Dean's hair like you would a child, a comforting motion that he was damn sure Dean would kill him for.
"Just . . . hafta. . . take it off . . . when I puke…" Dean's voice ground out the words in annoyance, but it was barely a whisper.
"So, we take it off. But in the meantime, you wear it." Sam stated firmly.
Sam was happy to see that they had put Dean back on a much smaller oxygen mask in his absence, a sign that there was some improvement, proof that the surgery actually did something positive. He helped his brother scooch back up on the bed, pushing the buttons to mechanically raise the head. Sam went to put the mask back on him, but Dean grabbed it.
"I got it," he grumbled.
"Okay." Sam settled for gently punching Dean in the knee, his fingers fiddling with the blankets awkwardly, trying to figure out the best way to bring up what was on his mind. "Er, Dean, do you think maybe, uh, we should ask the angels to help you out?"
Dean broke out in a coughing fit of pure surprise. "NO!"
Sam pulled a face as Dean lifted the mask to spit blood-tinged green phlegm into the basin. "I just think, if they can help you… "
"Sam, no way. After Anna, after . . . just, no."
Sam merely nodded while Dean caught his breath. He couldn't really blame Dean. The last time they encountered the angels they threatened to toss Dean back into the Pit and kill Sam. These were clearly not folks to whom you wanted to owe a damned thing. More than that, Sam remembered the quick glimpse of panic that had crossed Dean's face when Anna had first repeated the celestial threat of hurling Dean back to Hell. Wide-eyed terror that, apart from the Fear Infection, Sam had never seen appear within Dean's structured features before, not even right before the hellhounds started chomping. Sam supposed it was one thing to have a vague idea of Hell, and quite another to know exactly what you'd be going back to.
"So . . . where's Bobby?" Dean asked.
"Working your case." At the mention of Bobby, Sam's thumbs went to work texting their friend to let them know Dean was mostly alright.
"Got a lead from Legion-Guy?"
"Yeah, we think we know who the ghost is. Bobby's working on getting some intel so we can figure out why."
"And why me?" Dean asked, a wry grin darting across his face.
"And why you." Sam concurred.
"Who d'ya think it is?"
"A soldier named Michael Cole. Bobby's getting his records." Sam stretched his arms up toward the ceiling, not able to help the giant yawn that emerged as he let his long form sprawl out in the chair.
"Soldier, huh?" Dean glanced at Sam.
Sam caught something in his brother's tone and immediately sat upright again. "Yeah, a soldier, why?"
Dean chuckled sheepishly. "I was dreaming about a guy," He swallowed thickly and pulled the plastic bin closer for a moment before deciding it was safe to continue. "He was in uniform, y'know?"
"You're just thinking to mention this now?" Sam huffed in exasperation.
"I dunno, dude." Dean stopped then, admitting something that clearly cost him. "I dream about a lot of people."
"Oh," Sam said. His brother's implication was clear enough - he dreamed of the people he tortured in Hell. Sam wanted to say something - reassuring or comforting, but he didn't know what to say to make it okay that his brother carried the torture of thousands of souls with him. Mostly because there weren't words that could make it okay.
The awkward silence was interrupted when Doogie walked in, still swinging his arms like a little kid. "Hey, guys!"
A look of confusion crossed Sam's face. "I thought you worked in the ER."
"Usually. They needed the coverage here for a few days, though. Doing folks a favor. So, how are you feeling, Dean? The nurse came and told me your stomach is giving rebel yells worse than Billy Idol."
Dean chuckled. At least the kid's taste in music was old enough to be in a white coat. "Yeah, something like that."
"Did you have any nausea before you were put on the antibiotics?"
"A little...nothing like this." The words were becoming stuck in Dean's throat, hesitation building as excess saliva began heralding the upchucking that was soon to follow.
"I'll call Dr. Ferguson about changing the antibiotics, if we can. But I can order something to ease the nausea in the meantime. How are you doing with pain?"
Dean glanced at Sam, which Doogie noticed. The young doctor knew the dynamic from his own brotherly experiences. 'Big brother never hurts worse than he can handle himself' seemed to be part of a universal paradigm.
"Vomiting with the chest tube can't feel good, right?" Doogie offered.
Dean stifled his automatic response, 'How'd you think it feels, sport?!' and settled for shaking his head, agreeing that it did not feel good. Not at all.
"Okay, well, I'll order an additional couple milligrams of morphine over what you're getting. I wish we could give more, but your oxygen levels are our primary concern. The nurse will be in with it soon, and I'll see what Dr. Ferguson says about the antibiotics, alright?"
Dean couldn't help but like the kid. He found himself reminded of Sam before he went and got so huge - the wiry, lanky kid who left for college.
"I'll be around, guys. Need anything, the nurse'll come get me. Any questions before I go?" Doogie hung out in the doorframe for a little bit, a certain wistfulness in his posture.
"Just one." Dean said.
"Shoot." The young physician said with a grin.
"This favor . . . trading shifts . . . " Dean had to stop, his mind wanting desperately to keep talking so he could confirm his silly suspicion, his body trying to decide if it wanted to cough or puke. It didn't matter, though. Sam knew what question he wanted answered. And though Sam was blushing and apologetic while he was asking it, it got asked all the same.
"My brother," Sam met Doogie’s eyes with an apologetic gaze, "My incorrigible brother just wants to know if you traded shifts to get in the good graces of a woman. He's preferring it is a nurse."
Sam noticed the kid's face fall a little. "You really don't have to answer, man."
"Huh, no . . . it just sounds like . . . I mean, not the question I was expecting, I guess. My brother would’ve asked the same thing."
"Why isn’t he around to show you the ropes?" asked Dean. It was impetuous, sure, and none of his business - but hey, he was bored in this bed. A little family drama that didn’t involve his own family could serve as a nice distraction.
"Cancer." Doogie said, matter-of-factly.
Sam winced. "I’m sorry."
"Don’t worry about it, was a couple years ago."
"Still, though . . . sorry," said Dean. He had wanted to poke a little fun at the baby-faced doc, sure, but his intent was never to make him feel bad. The kid continued answering the original question. "Yeah. She's…yeah. Not a nurse, though, a doctor."
"Niiiice." Dean rasped approvingly. "Anyone we woulda seen yet?"
Sam supposed that maybe that was the kid's boundary line, pointing out which of the staff had his heart, because this time he just stayed blushing and made no movement to indicate he was going to answer as he studied the shiny linoleum.
"Well, we should probably know your name, right, doc? Especially if my brother here is hatching plans to assure your victory over the fairer sex," said Sam.
"Uhh, Dr. Aiken." The kid replied, tapping the ID badge that was half-hidden by a truly garish tie.
"Your name name, Whiz Kid." Dean rolled his eyes.
"Oh, Ross. Sorry."
A thousand cool things came to Dean’s mind to close the conversation - about how Ross was now guaranteed the chance to play Dr. Feel Good, etc… instead the only thing that came out of Dean's mouth was more vomit and that wasn't cool in the slightest.
"I'm gonna go put in the orders for those meds. We'll go over the romantic plan of attack later, okay?" With hardly a moment in between - a shy blushing kid called Ross metamorphosed into the Dr. Aiken that probably got respect from staff and patients alike. You could see it in his face as he stepped out of the room, suddenly taking care of his patient was paramount. It was the same look of jaw-tensed determination that often crossed the brothers' faces when they were trying to beat the clock to save lives.
Sam handed Dean a facecloth to wipe his mouth and a glass of water so he could rinse and spit the bitter taste of bile out. He shook his head, his expression remaining serious.
Panting a bit, Dean gazed up at his brother. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing, it's stupid."
"So, then tell me anyway and I'll laugh at your stupidity." And there it was, the eager-beaver boyish grin that Sam hardly saw at all nowadays. Sure, it was half hidden by the oxygen mask that fogged in and out with condensation, but it was there nonetheless.
"I was just thinking, it is kind of unfair. You always get beat on the hardest, or the sickest, or hexed..." Sam's tone was nothing if not laden with guilt.
"Hey, big brothers are always at the front of the line." Dean made his tone light, trying to reassure Sam. He felt that's what he spent half the time doing nowadays. One half yelling at the kid for giving in to his psychic freakiness, the other half trying to get that god-awful look off his face - the look that clearly stated, "I'm sorry I couldn't save you." The same look he was wearing now which clearly illustrated that his Big Brother ruling wasn't helping at all.
For the life of him, Dean couldn't think what to say to make it better. And it was kind of hard to think of something heartwarming to say when it was your stomach that was doing all the talking. So, for awhile they just sat together - Sam getting the routine down of bucket-emptying and water-glass-handing, until at long last the nurse came in with blessed Make-Your-Guts-Behave meds, along with the Please-Remove-The-Hedge-Clippers-From-My-Side pain medication.
Within moments of the deft injections into his IV port, Dean's color improved and the many furrows that came from having a pain-lined face began to ease out.
"Y'know, Sam, if it makes you feel any better, you always got the more humiliating injuries."
"Hrm?" Sam looked up, not expecting his brother to be continuing the previous conversation.
"Well, you had the splinter in your ass that time…" Dean reminded him.
"You try having a spirit haul you up and down the broadside of a barn. I had more splinters than just in my ass. That was just the one place that was…"
"Memorable?" Dean offered.
Sam snorted. "Yeah, Dad tweezing a three inch plank out of my backside is something I'll look back on fondly."
"Do you remember when you scratched your cornea . . . the eye patch?" Dean snickered, while Sam simply gave a good-natured groan.
"How could I forget, man? How many pirate jokes can one person crack?"
"Ahhh, good times, good times." Dean was giving a reminiscent grin one moment and seized up in a long spell of phlegm-spewing hacking the next, a reminder that the brothers weren't just hanging out in some motel room yukking it up.
Dean closed his eyes again, trying to ignore the presence of his brother hovering, obtrusive by just how unobtrusive his younger sibling was trying to be.
"Well, you were looking better."
Dean just responded with a 'mmmm' of agreement, concentrating on taking slow breaths of oxygen.
"Hey, boys." Bobby entered the room quietly, holding several thick manila folders piled on top of each other.
"Hey, Bobby." Sam half-turned in his chair as their old friend walked in and cleared Dean's duffle off of one of the other chairs. "You get all the info?"
"Near as I can tell. How's he doing?" Bobby nodded his head toward the bed-bound Winchester.
"He's awake . . . can ask yourself." Dean grunted, trying not to make his voice sound weak or breathy.
"Well, silly me - seeing as your eyes were closed, I made an assumption. Ya idjit." Bobby snapped peevishly. Granted, Dean was sick. Granted, Dean never dealt all that well with being out of commission and needing to be taken care of. It had been a helluva long couple days for the older hunter, though, and since they still hadn't figured out exactly what was what with this case - it put him on edge to say the least.
Dean didn't miss the stressed out tone in his friend's voice and he struggled to push himself up on his elbows so he could read Bobby's face better, catching his eye so he could offer unsaid apologies.
Bobby sighed and offered Dean a quick smile before handing one of the folders to Sam and other to Dean. "The psychiatric records of a spook - get reading, boys."
Part 15