"Heat of the Moment"
“Heat of the Moment”
Prompt: (from kalliel): Shit goes down, but _______ finds there's a lot of reasons Dean Winchester shouldn't die. When Dean comes to, the person brushing his fevered brow/anesthetizing his wounds, shoving Vicodin down his throat isn't the person he expected...
I'd just like to see someone comfort Dean who's not the norm. Like Meg, or Crowley, or Roy&Walt (the hunters who shot him and Sam in 5x16), or someone like that. :P
A/N: Title is taken from the song by Asia. Set after 3.12, “Jus in Bello.”
“This… is like… Nancy Drew meets the Hardy Boys,” Dean slurs, his eyes still shut.
“Yeah, I guess that’s about your reading level, huh?”
Dean wheezes out a laugh, his fingers scrabbling to clutch at his wound when it’s jostled.
Ruby’s fingers are splayed on his non-injured shoulder, she’s straddling him with an open bottle of peroxide in her other hand.
“Hold still, Dean, unless you want this stuff splashed in your eye.”
“You’re such a”-Dean pants in pain-“dominatrix.”
“And you’re delirious,” Ruby tells him, but there’s the quick Polaroid flash of a smirk flitting across her face.
“Ah-ow, God.”
“Wrong number,” Ruby observes sardonically, working the peroxide-soaked cotton ball further into his wound. When Dean moans, she leans down and presses her lips roughly to his, while still cleaning out his shoulder.
~~~~~
Later, Dean’s lying there trying to catch his breath while Ruby applies bandages. She’s working quickly and deftly, her brow furrowed in concentration.
“Hey,” Dean manages. The pain’s like raw diamonds are forming inside his shoulder- so sharp nothing else could touch them.
“Here,” Ruby shoves some pills into his hand.
“What’re these?” Dean blinks, grimacing.
“Just don’t get yourself a cane and an even more inflated ego than you already do,” Ruby tells him.
“S’okay,” Dean slurs. “I already know that everybody dies.”
“That’s a misquote, Dean. He usually saves his patients.”
Dean laughs now, short and pained. “Yeah, and I’m dying from lupus.”
Ruby’s whole hand is resting on his forehead, her mouth twisted at the heat she finds there, at the way their molecules are interacting, forming and breaking bonds to release energy.
There’s silence, in that dazed, fever-ridden atmosphere where everything is thick with implications and half-truths.
“You know,” Dean starts out, his eyes squeezed shut, “maybe I believe you, a little bit.”
Ruby doesn’t answer, and Dean goes on, his words meandering like they’re looking for a crossroads. “About being able to save me, I mean.”
“That’s…” Ruby trails off, traces her fingertip in a mushroom cloud shape around Dean’s gunshot wound.
“That’s… something,” she settles on.
Dean’s breath evens out, and he’s sleeping shallowly, just beneath that first layer of perception, a museum exhibit labeled, ‘Damned.’
~~~~~
Before she leaves, Ruby stands next to the bed and watches Dean, his hair spiky with fever-sweat, his cheeks freckled and misleading, conveying an aura of youth and innocence.
Her fingers clasp around his wrist like a shackle, and Dean stirs somewhat but doesn’t completely wake. Ruby leans down, her hair brushing along his arm, and whispers into his ear.
“Remember, Dean… everybody lies.”
Prompt: (from kalliel): Shit goes down, but _______ finds there's a lot of reasons Dean Winchester shouldn't die. When Dean comes to, the person brushing his fevered brow/anesthetizing his wounds, shoving Vicodin down his throat isn't the person he expected...
I'd just like to see someone comfort Dean who's not the norm. Like Meg, or Crowley, or Roy&Walt (the hunters who shot him and Sam in 5x16), or someone like that. :P
A/N: Title is taken from the song by Asia. Set after 3.12, “Jus in Bello.”
“This… is like… Nancy Drew meets the Hardy Boys,” Dean slurs, his eyes still shut.
“Yeah, I guess that’s about your reading level, huh?”
Dean wheezes out a laugh, his fingers scrabbling to clutch at his wound when it’s jostled.
Ruby’s fingers are splayed on his non-injured shoulder, she’s straddling him with an open bottle of peroxide in her other hand.
“Hold still, Dean, unless you want this stuff splashed in your eye.”
“You’re such a”-Dean pants in pain-“dominatrix.”
“And you’re delirious,” Ruby tells him, but there’s the quick Polaroid flash of a smirk flitting across her face.
“Ah-ow, God.”
“Wrong number,” Ruby observes sardonically, working the peroxide-soaked cotton ball further into his wound. When Dean moans, she leans down and presses her lips roughly to his, while still cleaning out his shoulder.
~~~~~
Later, Dean’s lying there trying to catch his breath while Ruby applies bandages. She’s working quickly and deftly, her brow furrowed in concentration.
“Hey,” Dean manages. The pain’s like raw diamonds are forming inside his shoulder- so sharp nothing else could touch them.
“Here,” Ruby shoves some pills into his hand.
“What’re these?” Dean blinks, grimacing.
“Just don’t get yourself a cane and an even more inflated ego than you already do,” Ruby tells him.
“S’okay,” Dean slurs. “I already know that everybody dies.”
“That’s a misquote, Dean. He usually saves his patients.”
Dean laughs now, short and pained. “Yeah, and I’m dying from lupus.”
Ruby’s whole hand is resting on his forehead, her mouth twisted at the heat she finds there, at the way their molecules are interacting, forming and breaking bonds to release energy.
There’s silence, in that dazed, fever-ridden atmosphere where everything is thick with implications and half-truths.
“You know,” Dean starts out, his eyes squeezed shut, “maybe I believe you, a little bit.”
Ruby doesn’t answer, and Dean goes on, his words meandering like they’re looking for a crossroads. “About being able to save me, I mean.”
“That’s…” Ruby trails off, traces her fingertip in a mushroom cloud shape around Dean’s gunshot wound.
“That’s… something,” she settles on.
Dean’s breath evens out, and he’s sleeping shallowly, just beneath that first layer of perception, a museum exhibit labeled, ‘Damned.’
~~~~~
Before she leaves, Ruby stands next to the bed and watches Dean, his hair spiky with fever-sweat, his cheeks freckled and misleading, conveying an aura of youth and innocence.
Her fingers clasp around his wrist like a shackle, and Dean stirs somewhat but doesn’t completely wake. Ruby leans down, her hair brushing along his arm, and whispers into his ear.
“Remember, Dean… everybody lies.”