SPN Fic - "Fight or Flight" (Gen)
Title: "Fight or Flight"
Author: uhzoomzip
Summary: Gen. Extremely late, but written for anniehow's prompt at hoodie_time's H/C Fic Challenge 1.
Prompt: How 'bout a feverish, hallucinating Dean? Preferably as a post-Jus in bello fic... Gen, please!
Rating: PG-13
They're two days out of Monument, and he remembers now how gunshot wounds hurt like a bitch, even when they're through and through. For once Sam isn't mother henning him, just sitting quiet in the passenger seat, preoccupied with guilt over Lilith vaporizing all those people in the police station. So Dean deals the only way he knows how:
"Something's shredding ranchers in Missoula."
And off they go.
***
The job turns out to be a haunted combine, and by the time they waste it, Dean's feeling pretty bad. The gunshot wounds still hurt - throb - and his head's splitting now. He claims first shower once they find a motel, but the water's too hot, then too cold. He's exhausted by the time he's done with his shower and it's all he can do to throw clothes on and make it to the bed.
The bedsheets are scratchy and the rapid click-clack of Sam's efficient typing is irritating the fuck out of him. He's starting to feel sick now too, like he's coming down with the flu.
Not too much longer there anyway, Winchester. Suck it up.
Sam's still preoccupied - this time under the guise of finding some summoning ritual for Bobby, but Dean knows he's researching ways out of the deal - but even he notices when he glances over. "You okay, man?"
Dean flashes his patented smile. "Just tired. I'll be feeling a lot better after a beer and a broad... and not necessarily in that order."
Sam just rolls his eyes. "Whatever. I'm going to head over to the university and see if they have this volume."
Dean waves him off, not caring for once if it's Ruby he's planning to see.
After all, they're both going, one way or another.
***
When Dean wakes, he can tell by the stillness of the room that he's alone, and he's definitely feeling worse. He manages to make it to the bathroom before he's sick, the motion of retching making the wound feel like it's ripping apart. When he's finished, he pulls his t-shirt off to wipe his mouth with and lays on the cool tile in the darkness, waiting for the world to stop spinning.
He doesn't know how long he lies there drifting and shaking before the light turns on above him, temporarily blinding him. "Dean?"
Dean just blinks, trying to focus on The Voice coming from the dark outline above him, then he feels a cool hand on his forehead. "Oh, Jesus."
"Sam?" It surprises him how weak his voice sounds.
Sam's cool fingers ghost over the wound and Dean moans. "Why didn't you tell me how bad this was?"
What's he supposed to say? That he didn't know it was that bad? That he
didn't want to burden his already-tortured brother? That this was really just penance for all of the innocents who died back in that police station? That it's going to happen anyway in a few months, and why fight the inevitable?
"Hey! You with me?"
He must have drifted for a minute, because Sam's giant palm is on his cheek, shaking him, and he's looking kind of freaked out.
Always, Sam. I'll always be with you.
Dean tries to answer, but the words die on his tongue as the world fades out.
***
Bright light. There's an annoying staccato in the background, fast and irregular like a drum solo. I can't breathe, he thinks, and tries futilely to get more oxygen into his lungs. He doesn't know if he says it or thinks it, but someone must notice because suddenly there's an oxygen mask on his face.
"He's agitated."
"Temp's 104... let's get a cooling blanket on him."
"Ativan's on board... it's okay, honey, calm down, you're sick, but we're taking good care of you. Just relax, take slow deep breaths, that's it."
He's powerless to do anything but follow orders.
Story of your life, kid.
He's John Winchester's son, after all.
And the thought that he'll never see his dad again, not even in the depths of hell, is more than the thinks he can bear.
***
The next time he wakes, there's loud beeping and noises borne only of people halfheartedly trying to be quiet and he can tell without opening his eyes that he's in the ICU. When he is able to finally pry them open, Sam is sitting next to his bed, holding his hand and looking absolutely terrified.
Three months left, and he realizes this is how it's going to be for Sam.
No one there to pick up the pieces, and not a goddamn thing he can do about it. For the first time since he made the deal, Dean is filled with absolute sorrow.
"I'm sorry... so sorry, Sam."
Sam just shushes him, smooths the sweaty hair off of Dean's forehead.
"Always be here, Sam. Always with you."
Sam's face crumples and he sobs a little, squeezes Dean's hand until it aches. "I need you now, Dean, you hear me? Don't you give up."
***
The hellhounds are here, claws shredding his shoulder and teeth tearing flesh from bone. He hears moaning and pleading and wonders how many others are being torn apart.
Or maybe he died and he's in hell already? The thought makes him panic, and he struggles, trying desperately to get away.
"Shhh... Dean, stop fighting, they need to clean the wound." Sam? Sam is here? Then it comes back to him, the infected gunshot wound, the
hospital.
He's watching the nurse replace the bandage for a while before she finally looks up, and oh, Jesus. "Carmen?"
"You're awake", she says, smiling. "And it's Michelle, actually. But I'll forgive you for not remembering just this once." She smiles, that same flirty smile on that same face and he remembers it like it was yesterday. He looks over at his brother, but he's not dressed in preppy gear - just jeans and a wrinkled button down. Normal, as if that even exists.
"Sammy - Jessica, she's dead, right?" At Sam's shocked look, he babbles on quieter this time, "The djinn - we killed it, right?"
"Yeah, Dean, we killed it." Sam says in that soothing voice he reserves for interviewing grieving victims.
"Because that nurse? Is my girlfriend."
"Confusion is normal at this stage; he's on some heavy duty meds and still running a high fever." Carmen/Michelle says to Sam, before turning to Dean. "How's your pain, honey?"
"Nothing I can't handle, sweetheart." She gives him a sad smile, like she can see right through his bullshit, before injecting a syringe into his IV port.
She's going to take him back there, to that place with Mom and Jess and not-Sam, and he can't bring himself to fight it as the darkness comes.
***
It's my last year.
It's coming to an end, but one thing can save him. He needs to find the Colt, and now.
Three months is nothing.
He's halfway up when alarms start blaring, and startled, he falls to the ground.
"Shit!"
He's hauled back into bed as footfalls come closer, frantic fingers reconnecting wires to his chest. "It's going to be okay now, Dean. It's going to be okay."
***
"Dean? Can you hear me?"
Panting, Dean cracks his eyes open. The doctor is standing over him solemnly. He can't seem to catch his breath with this mask over on, but the doctor stops him as he tries to pull it off.
"Dean, you're struggling even with oxygen support. Soon, you'll be too tired to breathe on your own. We need to put you out before that happens, put a tube in to help your breathing, give your body a rest."
"No..." He panics at that, the beats in the background increasing. "I'm not tired, I don't need to be intubated, just -"
"Dean."
Sam is next to him now, giving him that look. "You need this. It will make it easier for your body to fight the infection."
"Bullshit!" Dean can barely muster up enough breath to fight. "I can do this!"
"Your lips are blue, Dean! They're just going to wait until you stop breathing and do it anyway."
"There's much less risk if we can perform the procedure before it gets to an emergent state." The doctor's right, Dean knows, but he's terrified as nurses start filing in behind him with equipment carts.
He's tired, so tired, and he knows they're right - he can't keep this up much longer. It's temping to just give in to the exhaustion, to let it take him under. He looks at Sam, expecting puppy dog eyes but getting fierce anger instead.
He nods then, and Sam's face softens. He takes his hand as the drugs take him away.
***
Time is fluid. He wakes up once, no idea where he is or why he can't breathe right. When he tries to investigate the thing in his throat, a large hand presses his own into the bed and then suddenly he's not aware of anything. The next time he wakes, his wrists are tied and Sam is above him explaining that he's in the hospital and there's a tube in his throat and not to fight it, to let the machine breathe for him.
Drugged and confused, he complies. It's odd, his lungs inflating and deflating on their own, but he's so exhausted he doesn't think he could take over if he wanted to.
"Your fever's coming down, you're doing so much better. You've got to keep fighting, Dean."
He can't remember why he needs to fight so hard, but it's Sammy asking, and he never could say no to that kid.
So he keeps fighting.
***
"Okay, new rule: gunshot wounds equal hospital visit. Antibiotics, at the very least."
"Oh, come on - how many times have we ended up here? Almost never."
"Yeah, well, once was enough." Sam looks down then, right at Dean. "You scared me, man. I didn't think you were gonna make it."
I'm not gonna make it, Dean thinks. In three months, you're going to do this again, for real and forever.
But for now, only one thing is on his mind. "When can I get out of here? We've got work to do."
Author: uhzoomzip
Summary: Gen. Extremely late, but written for anniehow's prompt at hoodie_time's H/C Fic Challenge 1.
Prompt: How 'bout a feverish, hallucinating Dean? Preferably as a post-Jus in bello fic... Gen, please!
Rating: PG-13
They're two days out of Monument, and he remembers now how gunshot wounds hurt like a bitch, even when they're through and through. For once Sam isn't mother henning him, just sitting quiet in the passenger seat, preoccupied with guilt over Lilith vaporizing all those people in the police station. So Dean deals the only way he knows how:
"Something's shredding ranchers in Missoula."
And off they go.
***
The job turns out to be a haunted combine, and by the time they waste it, Dean's feeling pretty bad. The gunshot wounds still hurt - throb - and his head's splitting now. He claims first shower once they find a motel, but the water's too hot, then too cold. He's exhausted by the time he's done with his shower and it's all he can do to throw clothes on and make it to the bed.
The bedsheets are scratchy and the rapid click-clack of Sam's efficient typing is irritating the fuck out of him. He's starting to feel sick now too, like he's coming down with the flu.
Not too much longer there anyway, Winchester. Suck it up.
Sam's still preoccupied - this time under the guise of finding some summoning ritual for Bobby, but Dean knows he's researching ways out of the deal - but even he notices when he glances over. "You okay, man?"
Dean flashes his patented smile. "Just tired. I'll be feeling a lot better after a beer and a broad... and not necessarily in that order."
Sam just rolls his eyes. "Whatever. I'm going to head over to the university and see if they have this volume."
Dean waves him off, not caring for once if it's Ruby he's planning to see.
After all, they're both going, one way or another.
***
When Dean wakes, he can tell by the stillness of the room that he's alone, and he's definitely feeling worse. He manages to make it to the bathroom before he's sick, the motion of retching making the wound feel like it's ripping apart. When he's finished, he pulls his t-shirt off to wipe his mouth with and lays on the cool tile in the darkness, waiting for the world to stop spinning.
He doesn't know how long he lies there drifting and shaking before the light turns on above him, temporarily blinding him. "Dean?"
Dean just blinks, trying to focus on The Voice coming from the dark outline above him, then he feels a cool hand on his forehead. "Oh, Jesus."
"Sam?" It surprises him how weak his voice sounds.
Sam's cool fingers ghost over the wound and Dean moans. "Why didn't you tell me how bad this was?"
What's he supposed to say? That he didn't know it was that bad? That he
didn't want to burden his already-tortured brother? That this was really just penance for all of the innocents who died back in that police station? That it's going to happen anyway in a few months, and why fight the inevitable?
"Hey! You with me?"
He must have drifted for a minute, because Sam's giant palm is on his cheek, shaking him, and he's looking kind of freaked out.
Always, Sam. I'll always be with you.
Dean tries to answer, but the words die on his tongue as the world fades out.
***
Bright light. There's an annoying staccato in the background, fast and irregular like a drum solo. I can't breathe, he thinks, and tries futilely to get more oxygen into his lungs. He doesn't know if he says it or thinks it, but someone must notice because suddenly there's an oxygen mask on his face.
"He's agitated."
"Temp's 104... let's get a cooling blanket on him."
"Ativan's on board... it's okay, honey, calm down, you're sick, but we're taking good care of you. Just relax, take slow deep breaths, that's it."
He's powerless to do anything but follow orders.
Story of your life, kid.
He's John Winchester's son, after all.
And the thought that he'll never see his dad again, not even in the depths of hell, is more than the thinks he can bear.
***
The next time he wakes, there's loud beeping and noises borne only of people halfheartedly trying to be quiet and he can tell without opening his eyes that he's in the ICU. When he is able to finally pry them open, Sam is sitting next to his bed, holding his hand and looking absolutely terrified.
Three months left, and he realizes this is how it's going to be for Sam.
No one there to pick up the pieces, and not a goddamn thing he can do about it. For the first time since he made the deal, Dean is filled with absolute sorrow.
"I'm sorry... so sorry, Sam."
Sam just shushes him, smooths the sweaty hair off of Dean's forehead.
"Always be here, Sam. Always with you."
Sam's face crumples and he sobs a little, squeezes Dean's hand until it aches. "I need you now, Dean, you hear me? Don't you give up."
***
The hellhounds are here, claws shredding his shoulder and teeth tearing flesh from bone. He hears moaning and pleading and wonders how many others are being torn apart.
Or maybe he died and he's in hell already? The thought makes him panic, and he struggles, trying desperately to get away.
"Shhh... Dean, stop fighting, they need to clean the wound." Sam? Sam is here? Then it comes back to him, the infected gunshot wound, the
hospital.
He's watching the nurse replace the bandage for a while before she finally looks up, and oh, Jesus. "Carmen?"
"You're awake", she says, smiling. "And it's Michelle, actually. But I'll forgive you for not remembering just this once." She smiles, that same flirty smile on that same face and he remembers it like it was yesterday. He looks over at his brother, but he's not dressed in preppy gear - just jeans and a wrinkled button down. Normal, as if that even exists.
"Sammy - Jessica, she's dead, right?" At Sam's shocked look, he babbles on quieter this time, "The djinn - we killed it, right?"
"Yeah, Dean, we killed it." Sam says in that soothing voice he reserves for interviewing grieving victims.
"Because that nurse? Is my girlfriend."
"Confusion is normal at this stage; he's on some heavy duty meds and still running a high fever." Carmen/Michelle says to Sam, before turning to Dean. "How's your pain, honey?"
"Nothing I can't handle, sweetheart." She gives him a sad smile, like she can see right through his bullshit, before injecting a syringe into his IV port.
She's going to take him back there, to that place with Mom and Jess and not-Sam, and he can't bring himself to fight it as the darkness comes.
***
It's my last year.
It's coming to an end, but one thing can save him. He needs to find the Colt, and now.
Three months is nothing.
He's halfway up when alarms start blaring, and startled, he falls to the ground.
"Shit!"
He's hauled back into bed as footfalls come closer, frantic fingers reconnecting wires to his chest. "It's going to be okay now, Dean. It's going to be okay."
***
"Dean? Can you hear me?"
Panting, Dean cracks his eyes open. The doctor is standing over him solemnly. He can't seem to catch his breath with this mask over on, but the doctor stops him as he tries to pull it off.
"Dean, you're struggling even with oxygen support. Soon, you'll be too tired to breathe on your own. We need to put you out before that happens, put a tube in to help your breathing, give your body a rest."
"No..." He panics at that, the beats in the background increasing. "I'm not tired, I don't need to be intubated, just -"
"Dean."
Sam is next to him now, giving him that look. "You need this. It will make it easier for your body to fight the infection."
"Bullshit!" Dean can barely muster up enough breath to fight. "I can do this!"
"Your lips are blue, Dean! They're just going to wait until you stop breathing and do it anyway."
"There's much less risk if we can perform the procedure before it gets to an emergent state." The doctor's right, Dean knows, but he's terrified as nurses start filing in behind him with equipment carts.
He's tired, so tired, and he knows they're right - he can't keep this up much longer. It's temping to just give in to the exhaustion, to let it take him under. He looks at Sam, expecting puppy dog eyes but getting fierce anger instead.
He nods then, and Sam's face softens. He takes his hand as the drugs take him away.
***
Time is fluid. He wakes up once, no idea where he is or why he can't breathe right. When he tries to investigate the thing in his throat, a large hand presses his own into the bed and then suddenly he's not aware of anything. The next time he wakes, his wrists are tied and Sam is above him explaining that he's in the hospital and there's a tube in his throat and not to fight it, to let the machine breathe for him.
Drugged and confused, he complies. It's odd, his lungs inflating and deflating on their own, but he's so exhausted he doesn't think he could take over if he wanted to.
"Your fever's coming down, you're doing so much better. You've got to keep fighting, Dean."
He can't remember why he needs to fight so hard, but it's Sammy asking, and he never could say no to that kid.
So he keeps fighting.
***
"Okay, new rule: gunshot wounds equal hospital visit. Antibiotics, at the very least."
"Oh, come on - how many times have we ended up here? Almost never."
"Yeah, well, once was enough." Sam looks down then, right at Dean. "You scared me, man. I didn't think you were gonna make it."
I'm not gonna make it, Dean thinks. In three months, you're going to do this again, for real and forever.
But for now, only one thing is on his mind. "When can I get out of here? We've got work to do."