Fic: Capture the Flag 19/24
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:
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 / Chapter 15 / Chapter 16 / Chapter 17 / Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Shut Up and Drive
The final few hours of Dean’s admission in the hospital dragged. Both he and Sam were getting antsy, him to get the hell out of the hospital and Sam with pissy anxiety. Every time Dean coughed, the sound low and thick, Sam shot Dean a look. It was a look Sam had mastered well over the years - frustration tinged with concern, laced with the air of someone making a point. As if each cough were saying, Hey, fucker, you’re too sick to hunt. Luckily, Dean was practiced in the art of ignoring this look. The Valium/pain med cocktail he had prior to the chest tube removal helped for awhile. He didn’t have to pretend to not care, he honestly didn’t.
Sam had pushed, right after Dr. Aiken had walked through the door, for Dean to stick around for a couple more days. Sam being Sam - he had tried to use the logic that then they could push for the chest tube to be removed when he was really conked out, that so long as someone was with Dean to ward off the ghost, he’d be safe for a few days. Sam reasoned that if they could ward the ghost off, Dean might even be able to get better, since the ghost was giving a real sickness documented by medical science. He kept asking for one solid reason why Dean wasn't willing to wait.
Dean didn’t know how to explain to his brother that he didn’t think he could deal with Alastair popping up out of nowhere, of having to relive his deepest shame and weakness as the result of a fever dream. Dean never did want to put off a hunt (unless Sam was sick or hurt - and that hypocrisy was another point in Mr. Pre-Law's arsenal), but the anticipation of hallucinations had Dean crawling in his too-hot skin. It was one thing to deal with the memories that were branded into his grey matter. He could distract himself - drink, hunt, drink. That distraction was tossed out the window when the memories came to life with such vivid immersion that Dean doubted for a moment if it was the hospital that was reality. Yeah, the sooner they went and said sayonara to this spook, the better.
:::
:::
Mrs. Cole volunteered in a soup kitchen for a few hours every afternoon. Bobby managed to get the alarm company to shut it off during that time on the following day - some story he told them about the place having cockroaches and the widow not wanting to have to worry about the exterminator setting it off when he came. It bought them a solid three hour window during which the house would be empty and disarmed. Most of the neighbors were at work during that time of day. Bobby had even made sure they'd be well out of the area before the school bus started dropping off kids.
Sam was not pleased. Part of Dean's selling point for this whole scheme was that he'd only be out of hospital care for a few hours. Now he was signing out and they wouldn't even be taking care of the ghost until the next day. There really wasn't a choice; the object of the hunt wasn't in some out of the way cemetery, but in the middle of suburbia. They had to take what window they could. There had been some discussion about fooling Mrs. Cole into thinking she'd won a trip, get her out of the house - but apart from her American Legion activities, she never left town. Any con they could think to pull on her to get her to leave was going to take longer than just waiting until the next day.
So, the nurses unhitched Dean from all the various tubing and equipment after he finished one final IV dose of antibiotics. The urinary catheter came out, which ended up being a lot worse on him than getting the chest tube yanked. Sam came back in afterward, (cause you're damn right he made his little brother leave for that) and was immediately concerned once he got one look at Dean's bloodless face and started pushing for him to talk, asking him if he was in pain. Dean was definitely not going there, though. He was not going to explain to anyone, least of all Sam, why someone sticking things into Little Dean would remind him of Hell. Torture is torture is torture - and he was more than happy to gloss over the specifics of that. Time to bottle it up and do what he did best - kicking Slimer's little ectoplasmic ass.
:::
:::
When Bobby came in later, pushing an empty wheelchair, Dean was so thrilled about busting out of the joint that he forgot to look affronted. He’d just finished up a quick session with a ham-handed respiratory therapist, who was neither good looking nor female. So, yeah, he was itching to leave. He did not forget to roll his eyes when Bobby winked at him and declared, "Your chariot, my lady!"
Dean grumbled as he got himself situated in the worn hospital wheelchair. "See if I keep my mouth shut the next time you're in one of these…" he warned, running out of air.
"I can handle whatever you can dish out, boy. Trust me on that." Bobby's tongue was sharp, but his eyes and hands kind, fatherly, as he re-threaded a nasal cannula around Dean's face.
"I just got…unhooked…from all this shit." Dean wheezed in complaint.
Bobby simply motioned to the back of the wheelchair. "Portable. Knights of Columbus lets you borrow certain medical supplies if you can prove you're in need. Larger tank than I have."
Dean narrowed his eyes slightly, the fact that he was in need of charity not sitting well with him. Some little kid somewhere might be going without air because of poor, sick torturing Dean.
Some little kid and his sick grandma.
And his parents had tuberculosis.
And their golden retriever had a cough.
Bobby interrupted Dean's self-loathing. "Done feeling sorry for yourself?" Matter-of-fact. No accusation, no wanna-talk-about-it. Just 'that's enough of that now, kid.' And it worked.
Dean didn't know why he was so surprised. He knew Bobby knew a thing or two about feeling sorry for yourself, about regret. Every hunter did, but not every hunter knew what it was to kill the person you pledged to love forever. And Bobby tried to keep it under wraps, but Dean also knew that his friend blamed himself a bit for Dean's little jaunt to the Pit. Bobby figured that maybe if he hadn't let Dean push him away when Sam died, Dean would never have sold his soul. Sam told him that much - when he first asked about Bobby's little grief-induced alcohol binge.
Dean had never talked about it with Bobby, because as much as he wanted to stop his friend from shouldering that burden, the conversation sounded a little too much like saying Sam should have stayed dead. Even with the apocalypse looming and Sam leaning toward a demon's help, giving in to his psychic freakiness, that wasn't a possibility he could acknowledge.
That's what he wanted to tell Corporal Cole - that he had signed on willingly. Maybe he didn't realize the full scope of what exactly he was signing up for, because human imagination is limited when it comes to the hellscape, but even now, that knowledge didn't change anything.
He's changed. The farce of normalcy he tried to put up didn't fool anyone, least of all himself. Yeah, he's changed. Sam's changed too. Neither of them for the better. There's no changing back, but it didn't mean things couldn't be good again. He said as much to Sam after Jess had died and he'd wholeheartedly believed it then. So he'd cling to that same hope now - that somehow just he and Sam and the open road would be enough to see them through.
So, yeah, for the moment, Dean was done with feeling sorry for himself. He pointed to the hallway with a characteristic smirk. "Onward, Jeeves."
:::
Sam was waiting for them at the nurse's station, finishing up some paperwork so Dean could just scribble his fake name and they could leave. Sam was holding two large bags marked 'Personal Belongings', which made no sense because Bobby had his duffel and he hadn't been admitted long enough to have carted in that much stuff.
Sam warned him off of questioning it with a glance, though, and they made their way to the Impala. When everyone was finally properly settled into the car, he leaned forward against the bench seat in front of him, resting his arms across the familiar leather as if he were hugging his goddamn car.
"So, what's with all the stuff?"
Sam used the rearview mirror to look at Dean."This stuff is to keep your ass alive. Let's just say our good friend Ross was feeling generous and rebellious all at the same time. You're a terrible influence." Sam was shaking his head, but smiling doing it.
Dean snorted, then smiled with the sort of bravado he had nearly forgotten. "Why yes, yes I am."
Bobby was reading the paperwork that the young doctor had left them. "He expects me to put in an IV?"
"Can you even put one in?" Dean asked in surprise.
"I learned how. Haven't exactly had much practice doing it. How'd he even know one of us could, Sam?" Bobby shrewdly appraised the younger Winchester.
"I caught him in the hallway, maybe told him that in a pinch you knew how." Sam explained hastily. "Look, even you said that we wouldn't be able to give Dean as much help as a hospital. Now we're at least a little bit closer. Think about it, Bobby, it makes sense to have a line in him. We can keep the antibiotics and fluids going, and in an emergency we'll be able to get some meds on board right away."
"Meds on board." Dean mimicked with a rough chuckle, "Too many episodes of 'ER'. Admit it…you adore Clooney."
Sam rolled his eyes.
"It does make sense." Bobby agreed.
Tired of being spoken of like he wasn't there, Dean chimed in. "The guinea pig get to have a say in this?"
Both Bobby and Sam replied, "No."
Still, Dean felt he was duty-bound to poke holes in their logic before Bobby started poking holes into him. And he would have, if he had a good argument and could have gotten a decent sized breath that wouldn't leave him coughing; the pain from the pleurisy feeling like a ninja was tossing throwing stars right into his left side with each breath.
Dean was aware that he sounded almost as bad as the asthmatic chick at the end of The Hand That Rocks the Cradle. He kind of didn't have a problem with Rebecca deMornay trying to get feisty with him. He'd bet anything she was possessed. One solid exorcism and she'd be back to Risky Business status and grateful…
Breathless, Dean put his head down, trying to focus on what Sam was saying before he started playing the Kevin Bacon game in his head.
"….you want to do this plan, then we're going in smart." Sam shrugged, starting up the ignition. He glanced in the rear view mirror and caught a glimpse of his older brother's shoulders heaving with the exertion of trying to speak, apparently having decided to rest his head on the front seat while he caught his breath. "Dude, you're going to have to not talk until we get to the motel."
Dean didn't reply, just gave Sam the finger.
"Seriously, I'm not kidding around. We're not even out of the parking lot and you sound worse."
This time Dean didn't even bother with a hand gesture. The wheezing was more unsettling than the silent treatment, though.
"Dean?" Bobby asked, shifting slightly in his seat, resting his hand on the closely shorn head of the surrogate son in the backseat. "Just hang tight, kid. Ten minutes to a bed and some of the good stuff."
Sam shot a worried look at Bobby.
"Just drive, Sam."
Part 20
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:
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 / Chapter 15 / Chapter 16 / Chapter 17 / Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Shut Up and Drive
The final few hours of Dean’s admission in the hospital dragged. Both he and Sam were getting antsy, him to get the hell out of the hospital and Sam with pissy anxiety. Every time Dean coughed, the sound low and thick, Sam shot Dean a look. It was a look Sam had mastered well over the years - frustration tinged with concern, laced with the air of someone making a point. As if each cough were saying, Hey, fucker, you’re too sick to hunt. Luckily, Dean was practiced in the art of ignoring this look. The Valium/pain med cocktail he had prior to the chest tube removal helped for awhile. He didn’t have to pretend to not care, he honestly didn’t.
Sam had pushed, right after Dr. Aiken had walked through the door, for Dean to stick around for a couple more days. Sam being Sam - he had tried to use the logic that then they could push for the chest tube to be removed when he was really conked out, that so long as someone was with Dean to ward off the ghost, he’d be safe for a few days. Sam reasoned that if they could ward the ghost off, Dean might even be able to get better, since the ghost was giving a real sickness documented by medical science. He kept asking for one solid reason why Dean wasn't willing to wait.
Dean didn’t know how to explain to his brother that he didn’t think he could deal with Alastair popping up out of nowhere, of having to relive his deepest shame and weakness as the result of a fever dream. Dean never did want to put off a hunt (unless Sam was sick or hurt - and that hypocrisy was another point in Mr. Pre-Law's arsenal), but the anticipation of hallucinations had Dean crawling in his too-hot skin. It was one thing to deal with the memories that were branded into his grey matter. He could distract himself - drink, hunt, drink. That distraction was tossed out the window when the memories came to life with such vivid immersion that Dean doubted for a moment if it was the hospital that was reality. Yeah, the sooner they went and said sayonara to this spook, the better.
:::
:::
Mrs. Cole volunteered in a soup kitchen for a few hours every afternoon. Bobby managed to get the alarm company to shut it off during that time on the following day - some story he told them about the place having cockroaches and the widow not wanting to have to worry about the exterminator setting it off when he came. It bought them a solid three hour window during which the house would be empty and disarmed. Most of the neighbors were at work during that time of day. Bobby had even made sure they'd be well out of the area before the school bus started dropping off kids.
Sam was not pleased. Part of Dean's selling point for this whole scheme was that he'd only be out of hospital care for a few hours. Now he was signing out and they wouldn't even be taking care of the ghost until the next day. There really wasn't a choice; the object of the hunt wasn't in some out of the way cemetery, but in the middle of suburbia. They had to take what window they could. There had been some discussion about fooling Mrs. Cole into thinking she'd won a trip, get her out of the house - but apart from her American Legion activities, she never left town. Any con they could think to pull on her to get her to leave was going to take longer than just waiting until the next day.
So, the nurses unhitched Dean from all the various tubing and equipment after he finished one final IV dose of antibiotics. The urinary catheter came out, which ended up being a lot worse on him than getting the chest tube yanked. Sam came back in afterward, (cause you're damn right he made his little brother leave for that) and was immediately concerned once he got one look at Dean's bloodless face and started pushing for him to talk, asking him if he was in pain. Dean was definitely not going there, though. He was not going to explain to anyone, least of all Sam, why someone sticking things into Little Dean would remind him of Hell. Torture is torture is torture - and he was more than happy to gloss over the specifics of that. Time to bottle it up and do what he did best - kicking Slimer's little ectoplasmic ass.
:::
:::
When Bobby came in later, pushing an empty wheelchair, Dean was so thrilled about busting out of the joint that he forgot to look affronted. He’d just finished up a quick session with a ham-handed respiratory therapist, who was neither good looking nor female. So, yeah, he was itching to leave. He did not forget to roll his eyes when Bobby winked at him and declared, "Your chariot, my lady!"
Dean grumbled as he got himself situated in the worn hospital wheelchair. "See if I keep my mouth shut the next time you're in one of these…" he warned, running out of air.
"I can handle whatever you can dish out, boy. Trust me on that." Bobby's tongue was sharp, but his eyes and hands kind, fatherly, as he re-threaded a nasal cannula around Dean's face.
"I just got…unhooked…from all this shit." Dean wheezed in complaint.
Bobby simply motioned to the back of the wheelchair. "Portable. Knights of Columbus lets you borrow certain medical supplies if you can prove you're in need. Larger tank than I have."
Dean narrowed his eyes slightly, the fact that he was in need of charity not sitting well with him. Some little kid somewhere might be going without air because of poor, sick torturing Dean.
Some little kid and his sick grandma.
And his parents had tuberculosis.
And their golden retriever had a cough.
Bobby interrupted Dean's self-loathing. "Done feeling sorry for yourself?" Matter-of-fact. No accusation, no wanna-talk-about-it. Just 'that's enough of that now, kid.' And it worked.
Dean didn't know why he was so surprised. He knew Bobby knew a thing or two about feeling sorry for yourself, about regret. Every hunter did, but not every hunter knew what it was to kill the person you pledged to love forever. And Bobby tried to keep it under wraps, but Dean also knew that his friend blamed himself a bit for Dean's little jaunt to the Pit. Bobby figured that maybe if he hadn't let Dean push him away when Sam died, Dean would never have sold his soul. Sam told him that much - when he first asked about Bobby's little grief-induced alcohol binge.
Dean had never talked about it with Bobby, because as much as he wanted to stop his friend from shouldering that burden, the conversation sounded a little too much like saying Sam should have stayed dead. Even with the apocalypse looming and Sam leaning toward a demon's help, giving in to his psychic freakiness, that wasn't a possibility he could acknowledge.
That's what he wanted to tell Corporal Cole - that he had signed on willingly. Maybe he didn't realize the full scope of what exactly he was signing up for, because human imagination is limited when it comes to the hellscape, but even now, that knowledge didn't change anything.
He's changed. The farce of normalcy he tried to put up didn't fool anyone, least of all himself. Yeah, he's changed. Sam's changed too. Neither of them for the better. There's no changing back, but it didn't mean things couldn't be good again. He said as much to Sam after Jess had died and he'd wholeheartedly believed it then. So he'd cling to that same hope now - that somehow just he and Sam and the open road would be enough to see them through.
So, yeah, for the moment, Dean was done with feeling sorry for himself. He pointed to the hallway with a characteristic smirk. "Onward, Jeeves."
:::
Sam was waiting for them at the nurse's station, finishing up some paperwork so Dean could just scribble his fake name and they could leave. Sam was holding two large bags marked 'Personal Belongings', which made no sense because Bobby had his duffel and he hadn't been admitted long enough to have carted in that much stuff.
Sam warned him off of questioning it with a glance, though, and they made their way to the Impala. When everyone was finally properly settled into the car, he leaned forward against the bench seat in front of him, resting his arms across the familiar leather as if he were hugging his goddamn car.
"So, what's with all the stuff?"
Sam used the rearview mirror to look at Dean."This stuff is to keep your ass alive. Let's just say our good friend Ross was feeling generous and rebellious all at the same time. You're a terrible influence." Sam was shaking his head, but smiling doing it.
Dean snorted, then smiled with the sort of bravado he had nearly forgotten. "Why yes, yes I am."
Bobby was reading the paperwork that the young doctor had left them. "He expects me to put in an IV?"
"Can you even put one in?" Dean asked in surprise.
"I learned how. Haven't exactly had much practice doing it. How'd he even know one of us could, Sam?" Bobby shrewdly appraised the younger Winchester.
"I caught him in the hallway, maybe told him that in a pinch you knew how." Sam explained hastily. "Look, even you said that we wouldn't be able to give Dean as much help as a hospital. Now we're at least a little bit closer. Think about it, Bobby, it makes sense to have a line in him. We can keep the antibiotics and fluids going, and in an emergency we'll be able to get some meds on board right away."
"Meds on board." Dean mimicked with a rough chuckle, "Too many episodes of 'ER'. Admit it…you adore Clooney."
Sam rolled his eyes.
"It does make sense." Bobby agreed.
Tired of being spoken of like he wasn't there, Dean chimed in. "The guinea pig get to have a say in this?"
Both Bobby and Sam replied, "No."
Still, Dean felt he was duty-bound to poke holes in their logic before Bobby started poking holes into him. And he would have, if he had a good argument and could have gotten a decent sized breath that wouldn't leave him coughing; the pain from the pleurisy feeling like a ninja was tossing throwing stars right into his left side with each breath.
Dean was aware that he sounded almost as bad as the asthmatic chick at the end of The Hand That Rocks the Cradle. He kind of didn't have a problem with Rebecca deMornay trying to get feisty with him. He'd bet anything she was possessed. One solid exorcism and she'd be back to Risky Business status and grateful…
Breathless, Dean put his head down, trying to focus on what Sam was saying before he started playing the Kevin Bacon game in his head.
"….you want to do this plan, then we're going in smart." Sam shrugged, starting up the ignition. He glanced in the rear view mirror and caught a glimpse of his older brother's shoulders heaving with the exertion of trying to speak, apparently having decided to rest his head on the front seat while he caught his breath. "Dude, you're going to have to not talk until we get to the motel."
Dean didn't reply, just gave Sam the finger.
"Seriously, I'm not kidding around. We're not even out of the parking lot and you sound worse."
This time Dean didn't even bother with a hand gesture. The wheezing was more unsettling than the silent treatment, though.
"Dean?" Bobby asked, shifting slightly in his seat, resting his hand on the closely shorn head of the surrogate son in the backseat. "Just hang tight, kid. Ten minutes to a bed and some of the good stuff."
Sam shot a worried look at Bobby.
"Just drive, Sam."
Part 20