Sick Day
Supernatural, gen, ~1000 words. Sam has a concussion, Dean takes care of him. For 
ereynolds, who has the crud and requested Dean taking care of Sam.
The vampire slams Sam backward into the wall, and the lights go out.
The first thing he's aware of is Dean's voice, coming from a long way away. "Sammy, oh god, please wake up -- "
He tries to say I'm awake, don't panic, and could you turn down the volume because the second thing he's aware of is headache like an icepick through the brain, but all that comes out is a moan.
"Sammy?"
This time he manages "ow."
"What hurts?"
"Head."
"Okay, how many fingers am I holding up?"
He has to squint and concentrate, but finally he says, "One. Middle."
Dean laughs, and Sam can't miss the relief in the sound, even though it stabs more icepicks into his brain. He squeezes his shut and presses his hands to his head. "Ow, loud."
"Sorry, Sammy." His voice is quieter. "What's the pain level?"
"Uh, six? Unless you're talking."
Dean let out a snort.
"I didn't mean it like that," Sam mumbled. "It's just loud."
"I know, Sammy. I've had a concussion before. And a hangover or two." He kneels next to Sam, slips Sam's arm around his shoulder, and helps him up. Sam manages to get his feet under him, but the world seems determined to slide sideways at an angle. He leans against Dean, and Dean guides him out of the vampires' nest, past the beheaded corpses and pools of blood. They step out into the light, and Sam squints against it, then realizes that that's probably a bad idea. "Not vampire."
"I know. I checked your pulse."
He gets Sam into the Impala, and checks his eyes with a penlight from the first aid kit. "Pupils are even, at least. How are you feeling?"
"Concussed."
Dean smiles a bit at that. "I can find us the nearest ER or I can head back to the Bunker."
He can't imaging sitting in a cold, loud waiting room filled with uncomfortable chairs for however many hours it takes to figure out he's not dying. "Bunker. Please."
Later, Sam doesn't remember much of the ride home, other than Dean pulling over so he can be sick. Dean wakes him up every hour and then again once they get back to the Bunker, where he strips Sam out of his boots and jacket and settles him into his bed.
"You sure you don't want to go shopping for a new mattress?"
Sam gives him a dirty look, then closes his eyes again. He wakes up when Dean tells him to and swallows the ibuprofen that Dean gives him because he doesn't want to give him Vicodin while he's still worried about him not waking up.
Finally, though, Sam opens his eyes without being prompted. He sees Dean, asleep in the chair.
Sam pushes himself to a sitting position, despite the dizziness. He's about to wake Dean, but before he can, the alarm on Dean's phone goes off. He jolts awake, his eyes jerking open.
He rubs his hand over his face.
"Dude, you were drooling," Sam says. The weakness in his own voice annoys him.
"How are you feeling?"
"Concussed."
"Pain level?"
"About a four."
"Any nausea?"
"No. Still a bit dizzy, though."
Dean studies him for a moment longer before asking, "You want a Vicodin?"
"Please."
Dean gets him the pill and a glass of water.
"What I really want is a shower."
"You sure you'll be okay?"
"Not an invalid, Dean."
"I didn't say you were. You just look like you're about to fall over."
"I'll be fine."
Dean grabs some clean clothes and takes him to the shower room. "I'll be right outside. Call me if you need anything."
He doesn't have any problems, and he doesn't need to tell Dean that he spends most of the time leaning up against the wall for balance. But the shower does make him feel better.
"Everything okay in there?" Dean calls.
"Just fine!"
He feels better once he's clean. Dean walks beside him to the kitchen, and starts pulling out pots and pans. Dean's skill in the kitchen is still new, surprising; the same man who cuts the head off vampires is now chopping vegetables. He pulls out the remains of the chicken he'd roasted after Sam had made an offhanded comment about wanting something a little healthier than burgers.
"What are you making?"
"Chicken soup."
"For a concussion?"
"Couldn't hurt," Dean says. He rustles around, looking in the cabinets, and then pulls out a beg of noodles, a big grin on his face.
By the time Dean sets the bowl in front of Sam, the Vicodin has kicked in, and his headache is a dull throb rather than a sharp stab. He's not hungry, but he eats a bite to satisfy Dean. And once he'd tasted it, he takes another spoonful, and another. "If we ever retire from hunting, you should open a restaurant."
"I just look recipes up online," Dean says, as if it's no big deal.
"I remember when I was a kid and I got sick, you used to make me chicken noodle soup. You stole the good stuff because I wouldn't eat most of the cheap store brands we could actually afford."
"Good times," Dean says. He takes a bowl of soup for himself, and settles across the table from Sam. They eat in companionable silence.
Dean gets up to wash the dishes. Sam pushes himself to his feet, intending to help, but the world, which had settled down while he was sitting, starts to sway precariously again.
"Woah, take it easy." Dean maneuvers Sam back down, and Sam lets him. Dean makes short work of the clean-up, but even so, Sam's started to doze off.
"Come on. Let's get you back to bed. We can watch cartoons or cheesy monster movies. Or hey, maybe Netflix has the Muppet show?"
It doesn't matter, Sam thinks as the two of them settle in, side-by-side, on his bed, because he's going to be asleep before the first episode is over anyway.
He suspects it's going to be a few days before he's able to walk a straight line. But until then, he's got his big brother to lean on.
This entry was originally posted at http://were-lemur.dreamwidth.org/243628.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
ereynolds, who has the crud and requested Dean taking care of Sam.
The vampire slams Sam backward into the wall, and the lights go out.
The first thing he's aware of is Dean's voice, coming from a long way away. "Sammy, oh god, please wake up -- "
He tries to say I'm awake, don't panic, and could you turn down the volume because the second thing he's aware of is headache like an icepick through the brain, but all that comes out is a moan.
"Sammy?"
This time he manages "ow."
"What hurts?"
"Head."
"Okay, how many fingers am I holding up?"
He has to squint and concentrate, but finally he says, "One. Middle."
Dean laughs, and Sam can't miss the relief in the sound, even though it stabs more icepicks into his brain. He squeezes his shut and presses his hands to his head. "Ow, loud."
"Sorry, Sammy." His voice is quieter. "What's the pain level?"
"Uh, six? Unless you're talking."
Dean let out a snort.
"I didn't mean it like that," Sam mumbled. "It's just loud."
"I know, Sammy. I've had a concussion before. And a hangover or two." He kneels next to Sam, slips Sam's arm around his shoulder, and helps him up. Sam manages to get his feet under him, but the world seems determined to slide sideways at an angle. He leans against Dean, and Dean guides him out of the vampires' nest, past the beheaded corpses and pools of blood. They step out into the light, and Sam squints against it, then realizes that that's probably a bad idea. "Not vampire."
"I know. I checked your pulse."
He gets Sam into the Impala, and checks his eyes with a penlight from the first aid kit. "Pupils are even, at least. How are you feeling?"
"Concussed."
Dean smiles a bit at that. "I can find us the nearest ER or I can head back to the Bunker."
He can't imaging sitting in a cold, loud waiting room filled with uncomfortable chairs for however many hours it takes to figure out he's not dying. "Bunker. Please."
Later, Sam doesn't remember much of the ride home, other than Dean pulling over so he can be sick. Dean wakes him up every hour and then again once they get back to the Bunker, where he strips Sam out of his boots and jacket and settles him into his bed.
"You sure you don't want to go shopping for a new mattress?"
Sam gives him a dirty look, then closes his eyes again. He wakes up when Dean tells him to and swallows the ibuprofen that Dean gives him because he doesn't want to give him Vicodin while he's still worried about him not waking up.
Finally, though, Sam opens his eyes without being prompted. He sees Dean, asleep in the chair.
Sam pushes himself to a sitting position, despite the dizziness. He's about to wake Dean, but before he can, the alarm on Dean's phone goes off. He jolts awake, his eyes jerking open.
He rubs his hand over his face.
"Dude, you were drooling," Sam says. The weakness in his own voice annoys him.
"How are you feeling?"
"Concussed."
"Pain level?"
"About a four."
"Any nausea?"
"No. Still a bit dizzy, though."
Dean studies him for a moment longer before asking, "You want a Vicodin?"
"Please."
Dean gets him the pill and a glass of water.
"What I really want is a shower."
"You sure you'll be okay?"
"Not an invalid, Dean."
"I didn't say you were. You just look like you're about to fall over."
"I'll be fine."
Dean grabs some clean clothes and takes him to the shower room. "I'll be right outside. Call me if you need anything."
He doesn't have any problems, and he doesn't need to tell Dean that he spends most of the time leaning up against the wall for balance. But the shower does make him feel better.
"Everything okay in there?" Dean calls.
"Just fine!"
He feels better once he's clean. Dean walks beside him to the kitchen, and starts pulling out pots and pans. Dean's skill in the kitchen is still new, surprising; the same man who cuts the head off vampires is now chopping vegetables. He pulls out the remains of the chicken he'd roasted after Sam had made an offhanded comment about wanting something a little healthier than burgers.
"What are you making?"
"Chicken soup."
"For a concussion?"
"Couldn't hurt," Dean says. He rustles around, looking in the cabinets, and then pulls out a beg of noodles, a big grin on his face.
By the time Dean sets the bowl in front of Sam, the Vicodin has kicked in, and his headache is a dull throb rather than a sharp stab. He's not hungry, but he eats a bite to satisfy Dean. And once he'd tasted it, he takes another spoonful, and another. "If we ever retire from hunting, you should open a restaurant."
"I just look recipes up online," Dean says, as if it's no big deal.
"I remember when I was a kid and I got sick, you used to make me chicken noodle soup. You stole the good stuff because I wouldn't eat most of the cheap store brands we could actually afford."
"Good times," Dean says. He takes a bowl of soup for himself, and settles across the table from Sam. They eat in companionable silence.
Dean gets up to wash the dishes. Sam pushes himself to his feet, intending to help, but the world, which had settled down while he was sitting, starts to sway precariously again.
"Woah, take it easy." Dean maneuvers Sam back down, and Sam lets him. Dean makes short work of the clean-up, but even so, Sam's started to doze off.
"Come on. Let's get you back to bed. We can watch cartoons or cheesy monster movies. Or hey, maybe Netflix has the Muppet show?"
It doesn't matter, Sam thinks as the two of them settle in, side-by-side, on his bed, because he's going to be asleep before the first episode is over anyway.
He suspects it's going to be a few days before he's able to walk a straight line. But until then, he's got his big brother to lean on.
This entry was originally posted at http://were-lemur.dreamwidth.org/243628.html. Please comment there using OpenID.