"The Best of Both Worlds, Part 3"
“The Best of Both Worlds, Part 3”
Author’s Note/Disclaimers: Sadly, I own neither the creations of Gene Roddenberry nor Eric Kripke. Props.
Written for the occasion of the lovely mad_server’s birthday. Dean the intergalactic man-whore. Who’d have thought?
Crossover of Star Trek: The Next Generation, and Supernatural. Set after TNG 4.03, “Brothers” (aptly titled, I thought!), and SPN 2.16, “Roadkill.”
Summary: Resistance is futile.
Wordcount: 3200
ETA: **Note** This is not a multi-part story- the title is just a play on the title of the TNG 2-part episode, "The Best of Both Worlds." Sorry for any confusion!
“Do it again, Sam.”
“We’re not in Casablanca, Dean.”
“Just once more. For me. Please.”
“Fine, but this is the last time. Ahem.” Sam affects a British accent. “… these are the voyageurs of the starship Enterprise-”
“Not that part. The other one.”
“Dean, I am this close-”
“Please, Sammy…”
“Okay. Uh… to seek out new life and new civilizations, and to boldly go where no one has gone before.”
Dean snakes an arm up and places it behind his head, surveys his brother from the bed.
“Picard is so much cooler than Kirk.”
“So you appreciate diplomatic skills now.”
“Dude. Have you seen William Shatner lately?”
Sam raises an eyebrow. “Point taken.”
“Besides,” Dean continues. “Patrick Stewart’s like a Knight of the Round Table now or something.”
“It’s amazing,” Sam deadpans.
“He’s an incredible actor, Sam.”
“No, I meant how this is the kind of pop culture you’re aware of. Do you know what Twitter is?”
“Uh… huuutsch-shoo!-ugh, the sound annoyig birds mage?”
“What was that?”
Dean clears his throat. “I probably picked up that nasty cold you had all last week.”
“Mmm.” Sam’s looking distracted. “Hey, did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“That sound.”
“Look, Sam, just because you’re a bitch doesn’t mean you can hear dog whistles.”
“Shut up, jerk, I think there’s someone outside.”
“Wrong.”
Dean almost falls off the bed, fumbling under his pillow for his gun. Sam’s just standing there in the middle of the motel room, looking intellectually offended.
“I thought we killed you,” Sam says slowly.
“Nahhhhh.” The Trickster has his back to them, rummaging around in the room’s mini fridge. “You got anything good to drink?”
Dean takes aim and clips the Trickster in the shoulder. He turns around with a beer in his hand. “Hey!”
Sam crosses the room quickly and takes Dean’s gun from him.
“Was that really necessary, Dean?”
“No,” Dean growls. “But I don’t like having to kill things twice, and since we don’t have any stakes handy, it made me feel better.”
The Trickster interrupts, appearing suddenly between them. He drapes his uninjured arm over Dean’s shoulder and says, “You know what would be really good to drink, boys? Romulan ale.”
There’s blackness, and Patrick Stewart’s voice in Dean’s ear-
Space: the final frontier.
Fuck.
~~~~~
They rematerialize in a room that looks eerily like the conference room just off of Captain Picard’s ready room. It could be Las Vegas, or a really bad acid trip, or both, but Dean’s pretty sure Hunter S. Thompson died a while ago, and besides, Sam never agreed to take the Star Trek tour whenever they went through Nevada.
“Where the hell are we?” Dean demands.
“What?” The Trickster scoffs. “You think yours is the only universe?”
Dean double takes for a moment, having glimpsed the stars rushing by them at warp-speed.
“Hang on,” Sam says. “You mean… we’re in Telemundo?”
Dean elbows him, mutters, “Don’t give him ideas, Sam! No Latin pornos!”
“Apt,” The Trickster says, looking bored by it all. “Now… just remember, boys… resistance is futile.” And then he’s gone, leaving them to stare at each other blankly.
~~~~~
They manage to creep out on to the Bridge and over to the elevator. Sam picks a random floor, and once they get off, they stand in a corridor on the fourth deck, trying to figure out just what the hell they’re supposed to do now.
Sam thinks that, given their uniforms and com badges, no one will notice that they’re here. Dean wonders whether Picard’s head is shiny close-up.
“… So, I think we should just go around and do our jobs,” Sam’s saying as Dean tunes back in.
Dean ignores him, instead poking him in his mustard-yellow clad chest. “You know, that color really suits you, Sam.”
“Shut up, it doesn’t look any better on you.”
“Please,” Dean scoffs. “How could it?”
They’re interrupted by Worf walking down the corridor, and Dean sneezing.
Worf spares them a glare but doesn’t say anything.
“You’re so getting sick,” Sam says triumphantly as they’re making their way to the seventh floor, where the computer has told them their quarters are located.
“Ab dot,” Dean maintains. “Gerbs… ge… heh-hetsch-sheh!-gerbs cad’t survibe id ouder space.”
“I see.”
“Shuddup, Wesley.”
“Hey!”
They’ve reached their quarters. Dean keys in the code the computer gave them and lets Sam enter before turning around.
“Where are you going?”
Dean clears his throat. “Where no man has gone before, Wesley.”
“Cut it out.”
Dean’s still walking away. “Remember, Sam,” he directs over his shoulder, “Jumpsuits are sexy.”
~~~~~
It’s just Dean’s luck that Commander Riker happens to enter the elevator just after him. He’s pretty sure Picard was not pondering on fellatio when he talked about ‘boldly going where no man has gone before,’ but hey, Dean’s always been a literal kind of guy.
“You know,” Dean says jovially, coughing into his fist as Riker steps in, “there could be an elevator malfunction at any time.”
Riker keeps his eyes facing forward. Dean moves a sideways step closer.
“By which I mean a… Janet Jackson kind of malfunction.”
Dean reaches out and presses the emergency button. The elevator stops, and there’s no time for Dean to ponder on why 24th century elevators haven’t come up with more spectacular technology or for Riker to ask who the hell Janet Jackson is. There’s just time to shove Riker up against the wall and start undoing his pants.
Number One is an apt moniker for Riker, Dean discovers.
~~~~~
The computer voice interrupts as Riker’s still gasping and Dean answers, his voice hoarse.
“An elevator malfunction has been identified in this location. Do you require assistance?”
Dean smirks at the simulated voice, but asserts that he and the Commander are perfectly fine, and the elevator commences movement in a few moments.
Riker gets off at the Bridge, and Dean rides back to the seventh floor. Kirk definitely had a head start on this intergalactic man-whore business, but Dean was going to give it all he had. There was that old saying, about giving an inch and taking a mile… well, Dean had plenty of inches to give.
~~~~~
The next morning finds Dean with a scratchy throat and hacking cough, but he’s not about to let that slow down his ‘space’ exploration.
In the morning, he’s due for a shift on the Bridge, while Sam’s supposed to be doing some sort of security sweeping on the twentieth deck. They agree to meet later for lunch and to discuss just how to go about getting back to their own universe.
Dean thinks that he’s doing a pretty good job of blending in, considering, until midmorning when he hears footsteps approach his tactical station.
“Mister Winchester,” the clipped British voice says from behind. “Ready room. Now.”
Dean coughs into his sleeve as he trails along behind the captain. He stops to tap on the lionfish tank as they pass it, and Picard gives him a warning look. Five minutes later he’s pressed up against it with Picard’s hands under his shirt, so he’s not really sure what the point of the glare was, but whatever.
“So I guess resistance really is futile, huh?” he gasps out as Picard’s undoing his zipper.
Picard doesn’t answer. He’s busy doing other things. He has always been a very task-oriented captain.
When they’re done, Picard tugging on the bottom of his shirt and Dean leaning dizzily back against the fish tank, Dean asks the captain lazily what he wanted to ask him about.
“That will be enough, Mr. Winchester,” the captain replies dismissively, sitting down behind his desk.
“I bet,” Dean drawls, sniffling slightly. “Maybe even more.”
~~~~~
He’s still feeling pretty good when he meets Sam in the corridor outside their quarters, despite how cold the starship seems to be.
They’re debating whether to take lunch in their quarters or go somewhere else when Dean suddenly stops in the middle of a sentence.
“Dammit.” Dean attempts to duck behind his brother.
“Hey-what are you doing?”
“Whoopi.”
“Dean, I don’t think this is exactly the place for that kind of talk…”
“No. Oh God, Sam. Do you think Barbara’s here, too?”
Sam draws his brother into an alcove. “What are you talking about?”
Dean stifles a quick sneeze into his elbow, and then points. “Her.”
“Hello, boys.”
There’s a palpable pause, and Sam swallows hard. “Oh God.”
“Told you,” Dean smirks, and sneezes again.
~~~~~
“I don’t think we’ve been introduced,” Guinan says, pasting on a welcoming smile. “How about I make you a drink, and we get to know one another.”
“Well,” Dean starts, his voice catching on the word. “Sam and I already know each other, so I don’t think that’s really necessary.” He coughs into his shoulder.
Sam, inexplicably, seems to be holding back a laugh. Dean pokes him in the ribs and asks him what’s so funny. Guinan remains unfazed, watching them with mild interest.
“We accept,” Sam tells her. “I already know what he wants, too-tea, Earl Grey… hot.”
~~~~~
Sitting in Ten-Forward, Dean has to admit that the tea is pretty damn good. No one said he had to do so out loud, though.
It doesn’t take long until Sam’s engaged in a deep discussion of the Q with Guinan, and Dean’s left leaning back against the bar, scoping out the territory. That’s until there’s the clunk of heavy glass on the bar next to him, and the only thing he can see would be well described as a manscape.
“Would you care to join me for a drink?” a deep voice asks him.
“Do I have a choice?” Dean counters. He wants to surreptitiously point out Worf to Sam, but he can’t really see anything around the Klingon, so he reluctantly trails along behind him to a table next to a window. Just how, in less than ten minutes, this escalates to a story contest, Dean’s not sure, though he figures the Romulan ale may have something to do with it.
“I can swear in four languages.”
“I can curse in languages you’ve never even heard of.”
Dean coughs and takes a sip of Romulan ale. It burns.
“I kill ghosts.”
“Ghosts are not alive, meaning that they cannot be killed.”
Dean stands up, swishes some ale around in his mouth, and braces for the swallow. “…I don’t need Botox.”
~~~~~
Worf’s still looking nonplussed at the little table, but Dean’s successfully avoiding any further altercations. Instead, he saunters over to the 3-D chess table, where the android is seated. He coughs into his shoulder and gives his best young William Shatner impression.
“Do you like chess?” the android asks.
“Uh… this is chess?”
“Yes. It is three-dimensional.”
Dean’s fingers are inching their way up Data’s leg underneath the table.
“Babe,” Dean says lazily, his voice still on the edge of hoarse, “I can think of another thing that’s three-dimensional. How about we go back to your quarters.”
“Go back to my quarters?” The android looks puzzled.
Dean’s already standing up. He sneezes into his sleeve, and clears his throat.
“Yeah, your quarters, Data. I… want to see your paintings.”
~~~~~
“That cat is creepy.”
“Spot,” Data says.
“Spot what?” Dean asks.
“Her name,” Data states, as though it would be obvious, considering that the cat is orange with tabby stripes.
“Do you like cats?” Data continues, unfazed, while Dean tries to focus on the task in hand. Literally.
“No,” Dean replies shortly, and stifles a sneeze against his wrist.
“Were you aware of the fact that humans cannot sneeze with their eyes open?” Data asks.
Dean looks up, sniffles. Says, “Shut up, Data, and show me what that programming can do.”
~~~~~
As he exits Data’s quarters, Dean almost runs into a man in a red uniform.
“Hey,” Dean says. “Watch where you’re… going.” He trails off as he realizes who it is.
“Mister Winchester,” Geordi says, sounding slightly annoyed. “You’re supposed to be down in Engineering.”
Dean drags his wrist underneath his running nose. “Down… in Engineering?”
Geordi finds out not much later that Dean means this literally. There really were no words to describe what went on, but Dean thinks if you mixed up note cards with the phrases, ‘dry-humping,’ ‘anti-matter warp core,’ and ‘blind man,’ you’d get a pretty good idea.
~~~~~
Dean decides to take the night off, seeing as he’s begun to feel progressively worse, although he’s not going to admit that to Sam. He does do himself a favor and make an appointment to see the counselor the next afternoon, though. If anything could make him feel better, he’s thinking that a curvy empath telling him something along the lines of, ‘I feel your pain, baby,’ would be it.
He tells Sam about his plan before they go to sleep, and Sam wants to know just what he hell he thinks he’s doing here.
“Dude, I’m trying to top Kirk.”
“Good thing he’s not here,” Sam smirks, “Or you’d be trying it literally.”
~~~~~
The cushy chair in Troi’s quarters is a definite good thing, because by the next afternoon, Dean’s almost feeling like he might not be up to a really deep counseling session. He reminds himself that Kirk probably wouldn’t let something as silly as a cold or even a mortal wound deter him, though, and so he sits with the Counselor across from him, letting her ask endless questions in a telephone psychic voice.
“I’m sensing a lot of… negative emotion from you, Dean,” she tells him eventually, leaning so far forward that Dean wonders how any psychological help in this room ever gets past Freud’s psychosexual stage.
“Hey, if you can read minds,” Dean says with a slight shiver, “Do you really think we should still be talking?”
Dean has a handful of Troi’s hair, and in the middle of it he almost considers asking her whether she’s part Vulcan, because he can feel his mind melding. And he’s not exactly talking about his upstairs brain.
Later on, in her bed, Troi presses her hand to Dean’s forehead and leans back from him.
“Hey,” Dean croaks. “Unabashed virility isn’t contagious.”
“I know,” Troi says dryly. “I’ve slept with Will.”
Dean clears his throat. Troi moves her palm around on his face and he closes his eyes.
“Lieutenant Winchester…”
“Yeah?” Dean cracks an eye. It lingers on Troi’s still-exposed breasts.
“I think I should take you to see Beverly.”
~~~~~
Dean’s protestations do no good on Troi, who’s now determined that he should go to Sickbay, and threatens to call Security if he won’t go willingly. Dean agrees after that. He’s up for a lot of things, but he’s thinking that a threesome with Worf and Troi probably wouldn’t end well.
In Sickbay, Troi gets him settled on an exam bed, and then promptly disappears, citing other “clients.” Psh. Dean can see the ‘post-sex makeup fix’ from a light-year away.
Since Troi’s no longer there to distract him with her fake-sounding accent or the strategic placement of her com badge, Dean spends his triage time watching the doctor through her office window, and alternately shivering. One would think that they would’ve figured out air-conditioning by this century.
~~~~~
“Lieutenant Winchester?” Dr. Crusher asks finally, taking out her tricorder and scanning it up and down Dean’s body.
“Yes,” Dean manages through a sudden fit of coughing.
“Of any relation to… the other Lieutenant Winchester?” she queries, pursing her lip at something on the tricorder screen.
“The… other… Lieutenant Winchester?” Dean repeats slowly, and then he sees Sam over the doctor’s shoulder. Dean’s not sure if the game’s been rendered obsolete in this century, but anyway, he’s got bingo.
Dr. Crusher takes a while to feel his glands and look in his throat, musing quietly to herself about the strangeness of infection by “21st century viruses.” Before she leaves to run some tests, she administers a hypospray to Dean’s neck. Dean watches her the whole time, and maybe it’s the raging fever or the sheer peculiarity of their current situation, but he has to admit, the only thing he can think of when he looks at her is, ‘tiger.’
Sam darts over to his bedside after the doctor’s departure, looking somewhat sheepish.
“You told me the blue uniform meant science!” Dean starts. “Not that you were a male nurse!”
“Shut up. They transferred me.”
“Ahh-hggxx-nxxtt!”
“Cover your mouth. You’re such a Typhoid Mary.”
Dean considers, wiping his nose with his wrist. “Well…”
“I don’t want to know.”
“Probably best.”
~~~~~
Sickbay, as it turns out, is kind of like a jungle at night. Dean’s smug about this, because he called it right off.
It’s the middle of the night and he’s the only overnight patient. Admittedly, these 24th century drugs are some kind of wonderful, and only now that he’s feeling somewhat better can Dean realize just how bad he was feeling earlier. He’s still in a kind of feverish sleepy daze when Beverly appears over his bed, supposedly to check his vitals.
“Couldn’t the computer do that?” Dean mumbles, smiling with his eyes closed.
There’s a sudden weight on his waist, and he opens his eyes to Beverly straddling over him.
“Oh,” he says. “I suppose the computer couldn’t do that.”
~~~~~
“Ahh-huuguhxx-shoo!”
“Bless you.”
“Dogtor,” Dean says congestedly, tracing his hand along Beverly’s inner thigh. “I’b far beyod blessig.”
“You know,” Beverly says later, “I’m not sure if I can look at these beds in quite the same way again.”
“Mmm.” Dean shifts around, finds a comfortable position. He falls asleep with Beverly’s fingers carding through his hair, and he wakes up with an extra blanket on top of him, not entirely sure whether the tiger-taming was merely the product of a fever dream. The look the doctor gives him over the top of her charts as she’s reluctantly releasing him to his quarters, though-well, Dean’s always had pretty realistic dreams.
~~~~~
“Dean.”
“Dean.”
“DEAN.”
“What?” Dean’s surprised to find that his voice is wrecked again. He thought he’d been getting better. He blinks slowly, and Sam’s face swims into focus. He’s kneeling next to a motel room bed. Dean thinks about making a joke about other things Sam could be doing on his knees, but decides against it, as it suddenly feels as though the Enterprise-D has decided to land on his head.
“This… is a pretty… realistic Holodeck program, Sammy.”
“Huh?” Sam leans forward and presses the back of his hand to his brother’s forehead, and frowns.
“The Holodeck, Sam. You know.”
“What? Like on Star Trek?” Sam’s still looks puzzled.
“I don’t know… why you’d want to recreate this, but…” Dean sends a sneeze into the bedcovers like he’s firing on a Romulan Warbird.
“Dean. You were dreaming. You’re not on the Enterprise. We’re in Bumfuck, Missouri, and you’re sick.”
“Mmm.”
“Hey.” Sam’s feeling the sides of his face again. His hands are cold, and it feels good.
“I’m going to get you some more medicine, okay?”
“You know, Sam…” Dean trails off, half-asleep. “I always thought you’d make a great nurse.”
Author’s Note/Disclaimers: Sadly, I own neither the creations of Gene Roddenberry nor Eric Kripke. Props.
Written for the occasion of the lovely mad_server’s birthday. Dean the intergalactic man-whore. Who’d have thought?
Crossover of Star Trek: The Next Generation, and Supernatural. Set after TNG 4.03, “Brothers” (aptly titled, I thought!), and SPN 2.16, “Roadkill.”
Summary: Resistance is futile.
Wordcount: 3200
ETA: **Note** This is not a multi-part story- the title is just a play on the title of the TNG 2-part episode, "The Best of Both Worlds." Sorry for any confusion!
“Do it again, Sam.”
“We’re not in Casablanca, Dean.”
“Just once more. For me. Please.”
“Fine, but this is the last time. Ahem.” Sam affects a British accent. “… these are the voyageurs of the starship Enterprise-”
“Not that part. The other one.”
“Dean, I am this close-”
“Please, Sammy…”
“Okay. Uh… to seek out new life and new civilizations, and to boldly go where no one has gone before.”
Dean snakes an arm up and places it behind his head, surveys his brother from the bed.
“Picard is so much cooler than Kirk.”
“So you appreciate diplomatic skills now.”
“Dude. Have you seen William Shatner lately?”
Sam raises an eyebrow. “Point taken.”
“Besides,” Dean continues. “Patrick Stewart’s like a Knight of the Round Table now or something.”
“It’s amazing,” Sam deadpans.
“He’s an incredible actor, Sam.”
“No, I meant how this is the kind of pop culture you’re aware of. Do you know what Twitter is?”
“Uh… huuutsch-shoo!-ugh, the sound annoyig birds mage?”
“What was that?”
Dean clears his throat. “I probably picked up that nasty cold you had all last week.”
“Mmm.” Sam’s looking distracted. “Hey, did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“That sound.”
“Look, Sam, just because you’re a bitch doesn’t mean you can hear dog whistles.”
“Shut up, jerk, I think there’s someone outside.”
“Wrong.”
Dean almost falls off the bed, fumbling under his pillow for his gun. Sam’s just standing there in the middle of the motel room, looking intellectually offended.
“I thought we killed you,” Sam says slowly.
“Nahhhhh.” The Trickster has his back to them, rummaging around in the room’s mini fridge. “You got anything good to drink?”
Dean takes aim and clips the Trickster in the shoulder. He turns around with a beer in his hand. “Hey!”
Sam crosses the room quickly and takes Dean’s gun from him.
“Was that really necessary, Dean?”
“No,” Dean growls. “But I don’t like having to kill things twice, and since we don’t have any stakes handy, it made me feel better.”
The Trickster interrupts, appearing suddenly between them. He drapes his uninjured arm over Dean’s shoulder and says, “You know what would be really good to drink, boys? Romulan ale.”
There’s blackness, and Patrick Stewart’s voice in Dean’s ear-
Space: the final frontier.
Fuck.
~~~~~
They rematerialize in a room that looks eerily like the conference room just off of Captain Picard’s ready room. It could be Las Vegas, or a really bad acid trip, or both, but Dean’s pretty sure Hunter S. Thompson died a while ago, and besides, Sam never agreed to take the Star Trek tour whenever they went through Nevada.
“Where the hell are we?” Dean demands.
“What?” The Trickster scoffs. “You think yours is the only universe?”
Dean double takes for a moment, having glimpsed the stars rushing by them at warp-speed.
“Hang on,” Sam says. “You mean… we’re in Telemundo?”
Dean elbows him, mutters, “Don’t give him ideas, Sam! No Latin pornos!”
“Apt,” The Trickster says, looking bored by it all. “Now… just remember, boys… resistance is futile.” And then he’s gone, leaving them to stare at each other blankly.
~~~~~
They manage to creep out on to the Bridge and over to the elevator. Sam picks a random floor, and once they get off, they stand in a corridor on the fourth deck, trying to figure out just what the hell they’re supposed to do now.
Sam thinks that, given their uniforms and com badges, no one will notice that they’re here. Dean wonders whether Picard’s head is shiny close-up.
“… So, I think we should just go around and do our jobs,” Sam’s saying as Dean tunes back in.
Dean ignores him, instead poking him in his mustard-yellow clad chest. “You know, that color really suits you, Sam.”
“Shut up, it doesn’t look any better on you.”
“Please,” Dean scoffs. “How could it?”
They’re interrupted by Worf walking down the corridor, and Dean sneezing.
Worf spares them a glare but doesn’t say anything.
“You’re so getting sick,” Sam says triumphantly as they’re making their way to the seventh floor, where the computer has told them their quarters are located.
“Ab dot,” Dean maintains. “Gerbs… ge… heh-hetsch-sheh!-gerbs cad’t survibe id ouder space.”
“I see.”
“Shuddup, Wesley.”
“Hey!”
They’ve reached their quarters. Dean keys in the code the computer gave them and lets Sam enter before turning around.
“Where are you going?”
Dean clears his throat. “Where no man has gone before, Wesley.”
“Cut it out.”
Dean’s still walking away. “Remember, Sam,” he directs over his shoulder, “Jumpsuits are sexy.”
~~~~~
It’s just Dean’s luck that Commander Riker happens to enter the elevator just after him. He’s pretty sure Picard was not pondering on fellatio when he talked about ‘boldly going where no man has gone before,’ but hey, Dean’s always been a literal kind of guy.
“You know,” Dean says jovially, coughing into his fist as Riker steps in, “there could be an elevator malfunction at any time.”
Riker keeps his eyes facing forward. Dean moves a sideways step closer.
“By which I mean a… Janet Jackson kind of malfunction.”
Dean reaches out and presses the emergency button. The elevator stops, and there’s no time for Dean to ponder on why 24th century elevators haven’t come up with more spectacular technology or for Riker to ask who the hell Janet Jackson is. There’s just time to shove Riker up against the wall and start undoing his pants.
Number One is an apt moniker for Riker, Dean discovers.
~~~~~
The computer voice interrupts as Riker’s still gasping and Dean answers, his voice hoarse.
“An elevator malfunction has been identified in this location. Do you require assistance?”
Dean smirks at the simulated voice, but asserts that he and the Commander are perfectly fine, and the elevator commences movement in a few moments.
Riker gets off at the Bridge, and Dean rides back to the seventh floor. Kirk definitely had a head start on this intergalactic man-whore business, but Dean was going to give it all he had. There was that old saying, about giving an inch and taking a mile… well, Dean had plenty of inches to give.
~~~~~
The next morning finds Dean with a scratchy throat and hacking cough, but he’s not about to let that slow down his ‘space’ exploration.
In the morning, he’s due for a shift on the Bridge, while Sam’s supposed to be doing some sort of security sweeping on the twentieth deck. They agree to meet later for lunch and to discuss just how to go about getting back to their own universe.
Dean thinks that he’s doing a pretty good job of blending in, considering, until midmorning when he hears footsteps approach his tactical station.
“Mister Winchester,” the clipped British voice says from behind. “Ready room. Now.”
Dean coughs into his sleeve as he trails along behind the captain. He stops to tap on the lionfish tank as they pass it, and Picard gives him a warning look. Five minutes later he’s pressed up against it with Picard’s hands under his shirt, so he’s not really sure what the point of the glare was, but whatever.
“So I guess resistance really is futile, huh?” he gasps out as Picard’s undoing his zipper.
Picard doesn’t answer. He’s busy doing other things. He has always been a very task-oriented captain.
When they’re done, Picard tugging on the bottom of his shirt and Dean leaning dizzily back against the fish tank, Dean asks the captain lazily what he wanted to ask him about.
“That will be enough, Mr. Winchester,” the captain replies dismissively, sitting down behind his desk.
“I bet,” Dean drawls, sniffling slightly. “Maybe even more.”
~~~~~
He’s still feeling pretty good when he meets Sam in the corridor outside their quarters, despite how cold the starship seems to be.
They’re debating whether to take lunch in their quarters or go somewhere else when Dean suddenly stops in the middle of a sentence.
“Dammit.” Dean attempts to duck behind his brother.
“Hey-what are you doing?”
“Whoopi.”
“Dean, I don’t think this is exactly the place for that kind of talk…”
“No. Oh God, Sam. Do you think Barbara’s here, too?”
Sam draws his brother into an alcove. “What are you talking about?”
Dean stifles a quick sneeze into his elbow, and then points. “Her.”
“Hello, boys.”
There’s a palpable pause, and Sam swallows hard. “Oh God.”
“Told you,” Dean smirks, and sneezes again.
~~~~~
“I don’t think we’ve been introduced,” Guinan says, pasting on a welcoming smile. “How about I make you a drink, and we get to know one another.”
“Well,” Dean starts, his voice catching on the word. “Sam and I already know each other, so I don’t think that’s really necessary.” He coughs into his shoulder.
Sam, inexplicably, seems to be holding back a laugh. Dean pokes him in the ribs and asks him what’s so funny. Guinan remains unfazed, watching them with mild interest.
“We accept,” Sam tells her. “I already know what he wants, too-tea, Earl Grey… hot.”
~~~~~
Sitting in Ten-Forward, Dean has to admit that the tea is pretty damn good. No one said he had to do so out loud, though.
It doesn’t take long until Sam’s engaged in a deep discussion of the Q with Guinan, and Dean’s left leaning back against the bar, scoping out the territory. That’s until there’s the clunk of heavy glass on the bar next to him, and the only thing he can see would be well described as a manscape.
“Would you care to join me for a drink?” a deep voice asks him.
“Do I have a choice?” Dean counters. He wants to surreptitiously point out Worf to Sam, but he can’t really see anything around the Klingon, so he reluctantly trails along behind him to a table next to a window. Just how, in less than ten minutes, this escalates to a story contest, Dean’s not sure, though he figures the Romulan ale may have something to do with it.
“I can swear in four languages.”
“I can curse in languages you’ve never even heard of.”
Dean coughs and takes a sip of Romulan ale. It burns.
“I kill ghosts.”
“Ghosts are not alive, meaning that they cannot be killed.”
Dean stands up, swishes some ale around in his mouth, and braces for the swallow. “…I don’t need Botox.”
~~~~~
Worf’s still looking nonplussed at the little table, but Dean’s successfully avoiding any further altercations. Instead, he saunters over to the 3-D chess table, where the android is seated. He coughs into his shoulder and gives his best young William Shatner impression.
“Do you like chess?” the android asks.
“Uh… this is chess?”
“Yes. It is three-dimensional.”
Dean’s fingers are inching their way up Data’s leg underneath the table.
“Babe,” Dean says lazily, his voice still on the edge of hoarse, “I can think of another thing that’s three-dimensional. How about we go back to your quarters.”
“Go back to my quarters?” The android looks puzzled.
Dean’s already standing up. He sneezes into his sleeve, and clears his throat.
“Yeah, your quarters, Data. I… want to see your paintings.”
~~~~~
“That cat is creepy.”
“Spot,” Data says.
“Spot what?” Dean asks.
“Her name,” Data states, as though it would be obvious, considering that the cat is orange with tabby stripes.
“Do you like cats?” Data continues, unfazed, while Dean tries to focus on the task in hand. Literally.
“No,” Dean replies shortly, and stifles a sneeze against his wrist.
“Were you aware of the fact that humans cannot sneeze with their eyes open?” Data asks.
Dean looks up, sniffles. Says, “Shut up, Data, and show me what that programming can do.”
~~~~~
As he exits Data’s quarters, Dean almost runs into a man in a red uniform.
“Hey,” Dean says. “Watch where you’re… going.” He trails off as he realizes who it is.
“Mister Winchester,” Geordi says, sounding slightly annoyed. “You’re supposed to be down in Engineering.”
Dean drags his wrist underneath his running nose. “Down… in Engineering?”
Geordi finds out not much later that Dean means this literally. There really were no words to describe what went on, but Dean thinks if you mixed up note cards with the phrases, ‘dry-humping,’ ‘anti-matter warp core,’ and ‘blind man,’ you’d get a pretty good idea.
~~~~~
Dean decides to take the night off, seeing as he’s begun to feel progressively worse, although he’s not going to admit that to Sam. He does do himself a favor and make an appointment to see the counselor the next afternoon, though. If anything could make him feel better, he’s thinking that a curvy empath telling him something along the lines of, ‘I feel your pain, baby,’ would be it.
He tells Sam about his plan before they go to sleep, and Sam wants to know just what he hell he thinks he’s doing here.
“Dude, I’m trying to top Kirk.”
“Good thing he’s not here,” Sam smirks, “Or you’d be trying it literally.”
~~~~~
The cushy chair in Troi’s quarters is a definite good thing, because by the next afternoon, Dean’s almost feeling like he might not be up to a really deep counseling session. He reminds himself that Kirk probably wouldn’t let something as silly as a cold or even a mortal wound deter him, though, and so he sits with the Counselor across from him, letting her ask endless questions in a telephone psychic voice.
“I’m sensing a lot of… negative emotion from you, Dean,” she tells him eventually, leaning so far forward that Dean wonders how any psychological help in this room ever gets past Freud’s psychosexual stage.
“Hey, if you can read minds,” Dean says with a slight shiver, “Do you really think we should still be talking?”
Dean has a handful of Troi’s hair, and in the middle of it he almost considers asking her whether she’s part Vulcan, because he can feel his mind melding. And he’s not exactly talking about his upstairs brain.
Later on, in her bed, Troi presses her hand to Dean’s forehead and leans back from him.
“Hey,” Dean croaks. “Unabashed virility isn’t contagious.”
“I know,” Troi says dryly. “I’ve slept with Will.”
Dean clears his throat. Troi moves her palm around on his face and he closes his eyes.
“Lieutenant Winchester…”
“Yeah?” Dean cracks an eye. It lingers on Troi’s still-exposed breasts.
“I think I should take you to see Beverly.”
~~~~~
Dean’s protestations do no good on Troi, who’s now determined that he should go to Sickbay, and threatens to call Security if he won’t go willingly. Dean agrees after that. He’s up for a lot of things, but he’s thinking that a threesome with Worf and Troi probably wouldn’t end well.
In Sickbay, Troi gets him settled on an exam bed, and then promptly disappears, citing other “clients.” Psh. Dean can see the ‘post-sex makeup fix’ from a light-year away.
Since Troi’s no longer there to distract him with her fake-sounding accent or the strategic placement of her com badge, Dean spends his triage time watching the doctor through her office window, and alternately shivering. One would think that they would’ve figured out air-conditioning by this century.
~~~~~
“Lieutenant Winchester?” Dr. Crusher asks finally, taking out her tricorder and scanning it up and down Dean’s body.
“Yes,” Dean manages through a sudden fit of coughing.
“Of any relation to… the other Lieutenant Winchester?” she queries, pursing her lip at something on the tricorder screen.
“The… other… Lieutenant Winchester?” Dean repeats slowly, and then he sees Sam over the doctor’s shoulder. Dean’s not sure if the game’s been rendered obsolete in this century, but anyway, he’s got bingo.
Dr. Crusher takes a while to feel his glands and look in his throat, musing quietly to herself about the strangeness of infection by “21st century viruses.” Before she leaves to run some tests, she administers a hypospray to Dean’s neck. Dean watches her the whole time, and maybe it’s the raging fever or the sheer peculiarity of their current situation, but he has to admit, the only thing he can think of when he looks at her is, ‘tiger.’
Sam darts over to his bedside after the doctor’s departure, looking somewhat sheepish.
“You told me the blue uniform meant science!” Dean starts. “Not that you were a male nurse!”
“Shut up. They transferred me.”
“Ahh-hggxx-nxxtt!”
“Cover your mouth. You’re such a Typhoid Mary.”
Dean considers, wiping his nose with his wrist. “Well…”
“I don’t want to know.”
“Probably best.”
~~~~~
Sickbay, as it turns out, is kind of like a jungle at night. Dean’s smug about this, because he called it right off.
It’s the middle of the night and he’s the only overnight patient. Admittedly, these 24th century drugs are some kind of wonderful, and only now that he’s feeling somewhat better can Dean realize just how bad he was feeling earlier. He’s still in a kind of feverish sleepy daze when Beverly appears over his bed, supposedly to check his vitals.
“Couldn’t the computer do that?” Dean mumbles, smiling with his eyes closed.
There’s a sudden weight on his waist, and he opens his eyes to Beverly straddling over him.
“Oh,” he says. “I suppose the computer couldn’t do that.”
~~~~~
“Ahh-huuguhxx-shoo!”
“Bless you.”
“Dogtor,” Dean says congestedly, tracing his hand along Beverly’s inner thigh. “I’b far beyod blessig.”
“You know,” Beverly says later, “I’m not sure if I can look at these beds in quite the same way again.”
“Mmm.” Dean shifts around, finds a comfortable position. He falls asleep with Beverly’s fingers carding through his hair, and he wakes up with an extra blanket on top of him, not entirely sure whether the tiger-taming was merely the product of a fever dream. The look the doctor gives him over the top of her charts as she’s reluctantly releasing him to his quarters, though-well, Dean’s always had pretty realistic dreams.
~~~~~
“Dean.”
“Dean.”
“DEAN.”
“What?” Dean’s surprised to find that his voice is wrecked again. He thought he’d been getting better. He blinks slowly, and Sam’s face swims into focus. He’s kneeling next to a motel room bed. Dean thinks about making a joke about other things Sam could be doing on his knees, but decides against it, as it suddenly feels as though the Enterprise-D has decided to land on his head.
“This… is a pretty… realistic Holodeck program, Sammy.”
“Huh?” Sam leans forward and presses the back of his hand to his brother’s forehead, and frowns.
“The Holodeck, Sam. You know.”
“What? Like on Star Trek?” Sam’s still looks puzzled.
“I don’t know… why you’d want to recreate this, but…” Dean sends a sneeze into the bedcovers like he’s firing on a Romulan Warbird.
“Dean. You were dreaming. You’re not on the Enterprise. We’re in Bumfuck, Missouri, and you’re sick.”
“Mmm.”
“Hey.” Sam’s feeling the sides of his face again. His hands are cold, and it feels good.
“I’m going to get you some more medicine, okay?”
“You know, Sam…” Dean trails off, half-asleep. “I always thought you’d make a great nurse.”