Marley and me
Written for maypoles, whose prompt said: "Moderate to high fevers make Dean a bit ~overly emotional~; they always have. Sometimes it’s funny, like when Two and a Half Men tears him up, (or whatever, idek) other times it’s really not."
Two and half men doesn't make Dean cry, but 'Marley and me' does. Turn back now if you don't wanna know how that particular movie ends ;)
MARLEY AND ME
Part 1: Marley
"Dean, you're… are you crying?"
"No -sniff- I'm not… shuddup!"
"You nose is all red and there's water coming out from your eyes," Sam pointed out quite accurately. "What do you call that?"
"Allergies."
Sam looked at the TV screen, where the end credits for 'Marley and me' were rolling over a black background. "You're allergic… to dogs?"
Dean's tears seemed to swell like a building, gigantic wave, ready to crash over anything in its path. Sam feared it was going to be him.
"The doggie… he just… the doggie died," Dean moaned, part because he truly seemed upset by that particular part of the story, part because all that talk could not be doing wonders to his raging tonsillitis.
Sam took advantage of Dean's distraught state and pressed the back of his hand against his brother's forehead. Just like he suspected, the skin under his fingers was burning hot, as human skin had no right to be burning.
"So… you're allergic to dead dogs," Sam concluded with a barely hidden smile, handing Dean his next dose of antibiotics and a hefty dose of Ibuprofen. For someone who hid his emotions all too well every single second of his life, Dean really got the short straw when he had a fever. The higher the number on the thermometer, the deeper the angst level. Dean just got emotional over... well, everything.
Being teary eyed over a movie that actually had a sad ending was maybe a three in Dean's fevered angstermometer... which was about a 102ºF in terms of temperature. Not enough to send Sam in a panic dash for cold packs quite yet.
At least now he knew that half of the redness around Dean's eyes was more due to his fever than some fictional dog. Dean didn't even liked dogs all that much.
"I hate you," Dean said heartfelt, grimacing as the big pills forced their way past his swollen tonsils.
"I know you do," Sam offered, allowing his smile to come out. "Now slide your ass down that bed and get some sleep."
Part 2: and me
Dean's pupils were blown up to kingdom come, staring unwavering and terrified in the direction of the window.
"You sure?" Sam asked, not daring to look back and read the confirmation in his brother's face. The Colt was gripped tightly in his hand, sweat
rolling down Sam's back as he stood between Dean and the Hellhound outside. One second distraction was all it would take for that thing to
rip them to shreds.
He couldn't see a damn thing on the other side of the window, nothing but an empty parking lot, wet asphalt and the reflex of the motel's yellow neon sign reflected on random pools of dirty water. But then again, Hellhounds were hard to glimpse… until they had their claws inside your guts.
Behind him, Sam could hear nothing but Dean's breathing, shallow gasps that served for little more than to leave him even more breathless. Pneumonia was funny like that.
"Maybe its here to collect some soul," Sam ventured when he still couldn't see any movement outside. It wasn't like those gigantic beasts to stand around and frigging wait when they had their prey in sight. It wasn't like the salt lines on the door and windows would stop them. "I don't hear anything…"
But then he did hear something. Only it wasn't a demonic pit bull straight from Hell. It was the sound of comprehension clicking inside his own head.
"Oh, God! It's right her- Sam… shoot it, Sam!"
Dean was crawling backwards in the too small bed, sheets tangling around his sweaty body, dazzled eyes looking right at… empty air. "What are you waiting for? Sam, please… my leg," Dean sobbed, staring at a perfectly intact limb. "Please! It's eating my leg!"
Sam lowered the Colt, kicking himself for not having realized what this was sooner, before wasting precious time staring at an empty street. "Dean," he tried gently. "There's nothing there… it's just your fever, man."
The look Dean gave him hurt.
More than the guilt of lying to his brother about his relationship with Ruby, more than abandoning him and siding with a demon, more than
freeing Lucifer and realizing that his brother was right all along… that look of betrayal and despair on Dean's face right now hurt more than Sam could ever voice.
"There's so much blood, so much blood, so much blood," Dean mumbled over and over again, forgetting that Sam was there, or maybe ignoring him now that Sam refused to shoot the imaginary dog that was eating Dean bit by bit. "So much-bloodbloodbloodblood-"
Sam couldn't stand it anymore. Dean looked utterly miserable and fragile on that bed, trembling arms folded around bony knees, rocking back and forth, trying to calm the all-consuming pain coming from his imaginary chewed off limbs.
Sam wanted to run away. Open that door and just lose himself in the rainy night. Not because Sam was a coward, or because he had no love for his brother.
No. Sam wished those were his reasons.
The fact was that, Sam, better than anyone else, knew that Dean wasn't pulling monsters and pain and blood and fear from a wild imagination;
none of this was fueled by too high temperatures. The fever had just opened the gates.
Even though his brother had been as tight lipped as his nightmares allowed him about his stay in Hell, Sam knew that this was just Dean replaying over and over again what had been real to him for forty years down there. High definition playback, courtesy of infected lungs.
Sam couldn't shoot imaginary Hellhounds to make it go away, just the same as he hadn't been there to shoot the real ones.
He didn't run away. There was no where to run to.
Nor did Sam started shooting empty air just to reassure Dean, even though he would have not hesitated to do so if he thought that it would somehow help his brother.
"It's okay, Dean," Sam whispered instead as he moved quietly through the small room. The wet towel that he grabbed from the bathroom was dripping cold water all over the sheets, but neither of them really cared about that.
Dean flinched when Sam sat in front of him and touched the tip of the cold towel to his forehead.
"Somuchbloodsomuchbloodsomuchblood."
Sam moved his hand, cooling the back of Dean's neck as well. The skin was so hot that he half expected to see smoke rising from where water touched skin.
"They won't shuddup, Sam," Dean whispered. His head kept nodding forward, half from the rhythm of his swinging torso, more than half from exhaustion. "There's so much bloodbloodbloodblood…"
Sam, on his knees on top of the bed, moved an inch closer to Dean, like a devout man paying a promise on holy ground. When one end of the towel started to grow as hot as Dean's fevered skin, he turned it around and started all over again. Forehead, neck, arms, face.
Dean stopped rocking, eyes watching intently the mesmerizing movement of the wet towel. Sam was wiping away nothing but sweat and heat; from the way Dean's mumbles started to quieten and his body slowly relaxed against Sam's chest, Sam knew that he was wiping away imaginary blood as well.
"It's okay… I'll make you whole again," Sam whispered into soaked wisps of spiky hair.
As the first tears baptized his shirt, where Dean had finally rested his head, Sam could only pray that, one day, he would be able to
do just that.
The end