Reaction, 2/2, PG-13
Title: Reaction
Rating: PG-13
Chapter: 2 of 2
Spoilers: Post Season 2's "Tall Tales"
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Summary: For summer_moon1626: After a case of pneumonia brings Sam down hard, he's put on a drug that's supposed to help. Of course, it'd be easier for it to help if Sam weren't blacking out and suddenly getting angry over nothing. And then Dean has to think about the hunt...
Wordcount: This part, 5,122. Total, 8,755.
Part 1 here.
The forest seemed way darker than Dean was comfortable with. No moon, full or half, to guide the way. Lots of trees, too many trees. Considering Sam was still sick (even if he had gotten decent sleep the last two nights) and that there was no moon, this officially sucked. Unfortunately, with the sixth person dead being found just that morning, and police having removed any visitors from the park, today was the best day to go in.
But personally, Dean thought this was one of the worst ideas they'd ever had.
“This is the worst idea ever,” he told Sam as he dug around in the backseat for the extra flashlight. Just in case.
“Was your idea,” Sam said shortly. Dean fought to keep from rolling his eyes.
“Pissy much, princess?” Dean muttered, because dear god but the kid was stretching Dean's patience thin. Yes, he was sick, but he'd gotten a lot of sleep the night before. Enough was enough.
The sharp cracking sound behind him made him jump out of the car. Sam threw the other thing he'd had in his hands back into the trunk, eyes wild and angry. “You really wanna start this now?” Sam asked, his fists balled with fury. “Really, Dean? Because I have no trouble whatsoever with kicking your ass.”
Dean blinked in surprise, feeling uncomfortably reminded of the motel almost a week before. Sure, Sam had been angry in between, but not this up in your face about it. “You sure you're finding it easy to walk around?” Dean retaliated. “What with that huge ass stick you've got shoved up there. What the hell, Sam?”
“I'm the one with the stick up his ass?” Sam yelled, stalking forward. “You're the one who's dragging us both out here in the middle of the night for this crap we call a job.”
He found himself stung by the switch to a topic that Dean usually filed under Do Not Think About. “You're the one that wanted to hunt,” Dean said instead, eyes dull and voice flat. “Make up your mind, or take a Midol for that PMS. Either way, knock it the hell off.”
“Sorry to have insulted your self-worth,” Sam snapped, moving back to the trunk. Dean stared, jaw dropped, completely gob-smacked. Was he seriously saying this to Dean?
The trunk slammed shut, hard enough to rock the car. “Hurry it up,” Sam bellowed, flashlight and shotgun in hand. “I'd actually like to sleep tonight, unlike some assholes.”
If it hadn't been for his big brother instinct of watching out for Sam, Dean probably would've stood there, still stunned. He snapped out of his paralysis and grabbed his own gun and flashlight, closed the car up, and ran after Sam, who was already disappearing into the dark woods. “Sam, wait!” he called, trying to find Sam's form amidst the trees. There were sounds up ahead of Sam storming through the foliage, and Dean only had a second of crystal clear sound before a breeze swept through, rustling the leaves. It completely blocked out any sound, leaving Dean cursing as he moved through the forest, swinging his flashlight for a hopeful glimpse of his brother.
By the time the breeze had passed, there were no other sounds to be heard. Sam was gone. “Sammy?” he yelled. Nothing answered him.
Dean tightened his grip on his flashlight. This had been the worst idea ever, and it hadn't just been his idea, thank you very much, it'd been just as much Sam's too. It'd been Sam's idea in the first place to take this hunt. In fact, it had been Sam who had pushed for them to come out here after the black-out. The small episode still concerned Dean, but Sam had bounced right back, claiming he was fine. He'd taken it easy for the rest of the day, though, under Dean's insistence.
God knew what would happen if Sam collapsed out here with that thing, a thing they weren't even sure was a banshee. Well, Sam thought it was, so apparently that was it. But even Sam had admitted that it could very well be a rusalka. Or a million different things that lived in the forests. And how the hell had he disappeared so damn fast, too?
He moved quickly through the trees, searching for both the creature and his brother, and praying really hard that he wouldn't find them both together. Sam without backup right now, no matter how little Sam probably wanted it at the moment, was a bad thing. Kid was still coughing and Dean knew he could hear a little bit of wheezing when he breathed. It was gonna take time to heal.
Out on a cold night, looking for a banshee when there was a breeze happening, was not it.
Dean was gonna lose his big brother permit because of this.
Another hour yielded nothing. Not only was Sam not answering his phone, but after three continuous calls Dean began going straight to voicemail, which meant Sam had turned the cell phone off. Or that something had destroyed the cell phone, leaving the phone service provider no choice except voicemail. Either way, it wasn't a good thing.
But he was too far in and there was no answer from his phone calls or physical calls. No sign of whatever it was, either. Banshees were known for their high pitched shrieks, which had been their first choice based off of the witness reports, but a rusalka did the exact same thing, and was there any body of water around here?
If it was a rusalka, Dean was hunting with the wrong weapon. He needed a net, he needed matches, and he needed a friggin' map to tell him whether or not he was anywhere in the right ballpark of where he needed to be. He'd have heard the banshee already, he was sure of it. That left a rusalka as the next top choice, which meant-
Which meant he had to go back to the car. Dean cursed, low and dirty beneath his breath, then turned back and ran as fast as his legs would go. The terrain made it hard, but Sam's not being here was leaving him terrified, his heart thumping wildly in his chest. The hell was wrong with the kid? How could he be so stupid? You never turned your cell phone off on a hunt, and you never, ever split up. And you never went off with a temper, either, but god knew what the hell was going through the kid's brain.
Up ahead, the trees were beginning to open up already. He hadn't really gone deep in, he'd merely fanned out. He jumped over a set of roots and reached for his keys, cursing again when he didn't find them. He looked down out of instinct to find them just as his fingers touched cold metal in his pocket.
He'd barely looked back up before he saw the figure in front of him. Dean slammed to a halt, staring in shock at the dark figure who was definitely six foot four, definitely had shaggy hair, and was definitely making his way calmly back to the Impala. “Sam?” Dean choked out.
Sam turned, frowning slightly. “Dean?” he said, sounding confused. Like he hadn't just been wandering around the forest for the past hour, leaving Dean not even a way to call him.
Dean swore he saw red, and his vision tunneled down to his brother. His irresponsible pain in the ass little brother. “I can't believe you,” Dean seethed, stalking forward. “You took off with a single weapon and your flashlight, and you didn't wait for me? Couldn't be bothered, because oh yeah, I'm just dragging you back into a useless hunt? You seriously still hankering for the apple-pie life that badly, Sam? Because you wanna play that card with me, right here, right now-”
“What are you talking about?” Sam said, frown digging deeper into his brow. “What's going on?”
Dean paused in his rant, his own frown making an appearance. “What do you mean, what am I talking about? What you yelled at me about before you took off into the forest, Sam, and where the hell were you anyways? I've been looking for over an hour for you!”
Sam blinked. “I don't...I don't understand,” he asked, looking up at the trees. “I was in there,” he indicated the forest with a nod, “and you weren't, and I was trying to find you, and...Dean, what are we doing here?”
All anger vanished, leaving only cold dread in the bottom of Dean's stomach. “Are you hurt?” he asked, stepping forward cautiously. Sam only bit his lip. “Sammy, are you hurt?”
Sam's look went distant, then he shook his head tentatively. “I don't...I don't think so,” he finally said. “I don't know. Dean, what's going on?”
I have no clue, Dean thought frantically, but outwardly he kept his calm. “It's all right,” Dean said, hesitant to touch Sam lest he start ranting again. When Dean took him by the shoulders, though, Sam went, docile as a kitten. “Take a seat, okay? Let me look at your head, all right?”
Sam nodded and did as he was told. There was no sign of the almost murderous rage that had been in Sam's eyes a little over an hour ago. This Sam was confused and looking scared now, and such a one-eighty of emotions was sending Dean's head spinning.
“Do you remember the hunt?” Dean asked, tossing his weapons carelessly and quickly into the trunk. Then he was racing back to Sam, fingers probing the skull. No bumps, nothing wet that indicated a cut. No blood. Then what?
When Sam's answer took longer than it should've, Dean pulled back to look at Sam. Sam's breathing was getting quicker and shorter, and his eyes were damp. “No,” he whispered finally. “We were researching one, but...we're on the hunt? Now?”
Well...shit. “It's all right,” Dean soothed, cupping his hands around Sam's face. Sam swallowed but nodded jerkily. “It's all right, okay? We'll figure it out.” How far back did this go? “Do you remember what we had for dinner?”
Sam's response wasn't as slow this time. “You had a pork sandwich, I had the chef's salad,” he said. “You wanted that moldy piece of pie.”
“It wasn't moldy,” Dean protested, though the protest itself was only for show. Relief coursed through his system and he shut his eyes briefly. They'd come straight here after the diner. Which meant-
Dean's eyes snapped open. “What? Dean, what is it?” Sam asked, alert as well.
“I don't think it's a banshee,” Dean said. “I thought maybe a rusulka, but you're not remembering anything. Rusulki don't mess with memories, though.”
Sam frowned, but it was in concentration this time. “A curupira?” he said finally. “But I didn't see anything about the forest being in danger or threatened.”
“Or a Saci,” Dean said, and that one was a less welcomed answer. Last thing they needed was another trickster demi-god, and a killing one at that. But a curupira might fit the bill, and they definitely messed with memories.
Either way, he was getting Sam out of the forest and back to the motel.
“We'll come back later,” Dean decided. “Right now, I don't want you anywhere near here.” He paused. “And you need to take your medications, too.”
“I already took the Bactrim at the diner,” Sam said, exasperated, but there was a fondness to it that didn't ring with the rage of earlier. “I'm fine, Dean.”
“Yeah, all right,” Dean conceded. “Let's get out of here though, all right? I'd really rather not kill a curupira; it's like kicking a puppy.” A puppy that killed people that screwed with the forest, but generally, they weren't mean-spirited. If someone encroached on the land they were supposed to protect, and they couldn't be scared off, then they'd attack.
What two hikers and a few tourists had to do with the land being hurt, though, Dean didn't know.
He slid into the driver's seat, eyes casting a nervous glance over towards Sam. But Sam seemed fine now, calm and ready to go. Not hurt at all. Didn't even remember the huge blow-out of an hour before.
With a glare at the forest Dean pulled away from the side of the road.
Nothing was threatening the forest. No developers, nothing. There was a lake, not far from where the victims were found, and how the hell had Sam missed that?
Not that Dean was going to bring that up, though. Sam switched moods so fast it was getting unbelievable. And it wasn't funny, either. In fact, it was starting to get scary, because Sam wasn't like this. Sure, Dean bitched about his emotional tendencies, called him a girl and said he had PMS, but in all truth, Sam really wasn't like that.
Everything felt wrong about this. The hunt, Sam...everything was off. They were never this off.
Sam didn't get pneumonia all the time, though, either. Maybe it was his being sick. Maybe he really was still exhausted, and Dean should be keeping him on total bed rest, the hunt be damned.
Dean glanced casually over at where Sam was on the bed. His brother didn't look tired. In fact, he looked fully awake for once, no real dark circles beneath his eyes either. He was currently flipping through channels, the only sign of his mood the pursed lips that tightened with each passing channel. Finally he stopped on something he must've deemed worthwhile, and the lips relaxed. Dean closed his eyes and sent a thankful prayer upwards: dealing with Sam right now was not what he wanted.
Still, it was worth a shot, to see if the pneumonia was involved. It was the only thing that had changed in their lives over the past week, when all this crap had started. He brought up Google and thought about how to phrase his search. He wasn't the best at searching; that was on Sam. But he could still find his way around just fine. He knew how to solve a problem.
The problem. That made Dean paused for a moment. He hadn't been able to find the problem. Maybe Sam was just angry at Dean for not knowing he'd been so sick. Resentful that Dean hadn't noticed, maybe thought Dean hadn't cared. Guilt coiled itself in Dean's belly as he thought back to the night he'd found Sam gasping for air. The hurried race to the hospital. Waiting for hours in the early morning. Meanwhile, Sam had been enduring x-rays and IV's and every other amount of fun. All because Dean hadn't noticed.
Dean swallowed and turned back to the search bar. Memory loss pneumonia, he put in, then hit enter. Thousands upon thousands of links popped, and carefully Dean began scrolling through each one, reading the samples from the pages. A question from a help forum caught his eye, and he found someone with a similar problem. Memory loss after pneumonia, trouble recalling small things months afterwards.
The answer, from an RN, wasn't terribly inspiring. Not enough oxygen while sick had caused probably caused brain damage, resulting in memory loss. Probably never get the memories back. He felt a chill race down his spine until he told himself that the memory loss hadn't been immediately. It'd been months later. Sam would be fine.
More sites were looked at, and none of them gave him the answer. He scrolled back up to the search bar, tapping his heel against the floor. What else, then?
Sam cursed at the television, loud and sudden, and Dean's eyebrows raised at the choice of his words. Hadn't thought the kid knew those words. PMS. He'd forgotten about the PMS.
Except if he put that in the search bar, he'd just get a ton of answers about women's menstrual cycles, and, just, no. He shuddered and thought of a better way to phrase it. Emotional fits? Temper tantrums?
Mood swings. He typed in Memory loss pneumonia mood swings, and hit enter. Less sites popped, but there were still thousands. Hopefully one with an answer.
Most of the samples said what the others in his previous search had said. Symptoms of pneumonia, had pneumonia first, then hit their head, blah blah blah. A lot of them were talking about side effects of random drugs, various medications Dean hadn't heard of.
Dean froze. These things hadn't started when Sam had had pneumonia, and memory loss didn't happen from being angry at someone because said someone didn't pay attention. No, all of this crap had happened the minute Sam had been put on the Bactrim.
The mood swings. The blacking out. The memory loss. The girl at the pharmacy had warned him that it was a heavy drug, not to be taken lightly. These were some of the most extreme reactions someone could have to a drug. This wasn't a rash or a headache. This was serious.
He couldn't pull Sam off of it immediately. Much as Dean wanted to, you didn't screw around with drugs like this. He pursed his lips for all of a minute, then started searching instead for clinics nearby. He was gonna need professional help getting Sam off of this.
Once he had a phone number, he left the room to call. Thankfully, it was a twenty-four hour emergency clinic, and the man on the other end had him set up for an appointment early the next morning. Apparently putting “pneumonia” and “allergic reaction” in the same sentence got you places: who knew?
Now to tell Sam. He took a deep breath and stepped back inside. Sam was still glaring at the television, looking two seconds away from chucking the remote at it. Right.
This would be fun.
“Sammy?” Dean said, taking a seat on the other bed. Sam didn't look at him, but he did turn down the volume slightly.
“Did you find anything?” Sam asked in a tone that clearly stated how capable he thought Dean was, and it wasn't a lot.
“It's a rusulka,” Dean said, cutting to the chase. “There's a lake near where the victims were found.”
Sam frowned at that, turning to Dean with a dropped jaw. “You saying I missed something?” he snarled. “What, that I'm incompetent, just like y-”
“You didn't miss it, Sam,” Dean said, hoping to forestall whatever cutting remark Sam was about to throw his way. “I think you forgot it. Just like you forgot where you were tonight.”
That got him a frown of confusion. “That was the curupira,” he said slowly, then frowned harder. “No, you said it's a rusulka. There's no curupira?”
Dean shook his head. At least Hurricane Sam had been brought to a halt. “No. The black-out you had the other day, the memory loss, the getting super angry...that's not normal, Sammy. I think it's the drug.”
Sam stared. “The drug I'm on for the pneumonia?”
Dean nodded.
Sam did throw the controller at that, hitting the wall hard enough to dent it. The people inhabiting the next room over pounded on the wall and yelled something that came through muffled. “Then what the hell am I supposed to do, Dean?” Sam said loudly. “I have to keep taking it for the pneumonia, or I'm just gonna get sick again! I don't have any other option here, do I? Just like the rest of my life!”
It stung, but Dean swallowed past it. This wasn't really Sam talking. “Sam, I've got an appointment-”
“It's fine for you, you like this life,” Sam continued, pushing himself off the bed and pacing. “But you're not the one with freaky powers, are you? And you're sure as hell not the one connected to a demon that's more powerful than anything else we've ever met, are you? You're not the freak, and you're not stuck here!” He kicked over the chair to punctuate his last words, breathing heavily, fists clenched until his knuckles were white.
Dean stared, shocked again into silence for the second time that night. It made sense, in Sam's head, Dean was sure: hunting involves the supernatural. The supernatural includes psychic powers and demons, both of which had caught Sam tight. Therefore, it was hunting at fault. Generally, Sam would be logical enough not to connect the three like that.
But for someone that was strung on emotions because of a goddamn drug-
As if right on cue, Sam burst into tears, burying his face in his hands. Dean pushed himself up from the bed and guided Sam back down to his own bed. “You've got an appointment tomorrow,” Dean said, feeling awkward. Not because Sam was crying, but more because this felt unnervingly like reading Sam's innermost thoughts. It wasn't right, and Sam had a right to keep those thoughts to himself. He shouldn't have to bare himself like this, just because the drug had him strung up so tight he didn't have any choice except to explode.
“We'll see if there's something else we can do,” Dean said. Sam only nodded, trying to muffle his sounds. Dean took a seat beside him and left his hand on Sam's back, moving his hand around in small circles. Anything to help.
Because he couldn't exactly do anything to the damn Bactrim. Throwing it away could just make things worse, though Dean wanted to use the bottle and the pills as target practice.
He sat beside Sam instead, keeping an eye on the clock and hoping the doctor could do something.
It turned out, the doctor could do something, but it would be slow. “His lungs look nearly clear,” she said. “And they sound much better, too. I think he's mostly in the clear.”
“So he can come off it?” Dean said, trying not to sound too hopeful.
She bit her lip and looked like she was about to deliver bad news. “He can't come off of it immediately,” she said. “If you dropped him off of it right now, chances are he'd have a violent reaction. More severe than what you've seen over the past week and a half,” she clarified. “You need to take him off of it slowly. We'll bring the measured dose down carefully until we can have you off completely.”
“How long will it take?” Sam said. Ever since the blow-out and crying session of hours before, Sam had managed to sleep a little, and for the moment was lucid and okay. “Because I really, really don't want on this. At all.”
“Shouldn't take more than five days,” she promised, writing down the instructions. “If the symptoms of the drugs don't stop with the drugs, head to the ER immediately. If he's still showing symptoms of pneumonia after another two weeks, bring him back in, and tell his physician not to do Bactrim.”
“That's not gonna be a problem,” Dean muttered. Louder, he thanked her, took the instructions, and went up to pay for the visit in cash. It wasn't that much, really, and she'd earned every penny, as far as Dean was concerned.
The rest of the day was spent back at the motel, working on the net and dousing it with gasoline. Technically, one didn't have to set a rusulka on fire to kill her, but her hair had to dry out, which did kill her. And personally, Dean wasn't up for a game of keeping her from the water as her hair dried. He had better things to do, like keep an eye on Sam.
Sam, who'd suddenly fallen back onto his bed while straightening the net. Dean had raced over to him, only to find him groggily coming too. Ten minutes later he'd started snapping at Dean, threatening to kill him if he touched Sam's computer again.
Yeah, Dean was so ready for the Bactrim to be over with.
“You don't want my help,” Sam said that night, once Dean had loaded the net into the car. His baby was gonna smell like gasoline inside, but Dean wasn't about to set flammable materials next to the guns in the trunk.
“I want you here where you're safe,” Dean replied, keeping his voice calm and measured, knowing Sam was about to take it the wrong way.
Sure enough, Sam flew forward, nostrils flared. “I'm not safe anywhere Dean, and if I'm here, something could go seriously wrong, and god knows you'd screw up the hunt-”
Dean slapped his hand over Sam's mouth, cutting his brother off. “You didn't mean that,” he said calmly. “Just like you didn't mean what you said yesterday or the days before that. It's okay, really. Let me deal with the rusulka, which is so easy a baby could do, which means I'll be done in ten minutes, then heading back. I'll pick up Chinese if you want, on the way. Okay?”
Sam's face was already crinkling with remorse and his eyes were already filling with tears, but he nodded underneath Dean's hand. “There's tissues in the bathroom, oh princess of mine,” Dean said, grinning to let Sam know he didn't mean it.
Sam snorted wetly as Dean pulled his hand away. “Jerk,” he said, but he was smiling now too.
“Bitch,” Dean replied. “I'll be back. I'll call if I need you, all right? Keep your phone open, please?”
Sam nodded, raging anger and tears long gone already. “Don't do something stupid,” he warned. “Someone has to keep me sane for the next few days.”
“Just those days?” Dean teased, and that got him the finger and a grin. He slid into the car and waited until Sam was safely back into the motel room before he took off.
The rusulka was just as easy as Dean had thought.
The Chinese was tastier than Dean had imagined.
Sam was fine for the rest of the evening, better than Dean had hoped.
Four days later, Sam popped the last pill of Bactrim he needed, then closed the lid tight on the bottle and tossed it to Dean. “What are you going to do with it?” he asked.
“Personally, I'd like to plug a round or five into it, but you won't let me,” Dean grumbled. Now that Sam was better, less on the raging and amnesiac side, he was back to being the logical one between the both of them. Said Dean would send the remnants of the pills into the air or into the soil.
Sam shook his head, a small smile on his lips. “Yeah, sorry to be the unfun party crasher.”
“Guess I'll have to settle for dumping them down the toilet,” Dean said, though it was a purposeful stride that carried him to the bathroom. The pills slid from the bottle into the water with no problem, and one flush carried them far, far away from his brother. “And good riddance,” Dean muttered.
“Y'know, talking to yourself while watching toilet water swirl around is considered to be the beginnings of an unstable mind.”
Dean's mature response was to stick out his tongue, still watching until the last of the pills disappeared. Satisfied that they were gone, he dumped the empty pill bottle into the trash.
“Need any tissues?” he asked, though he wasn't surprised when Sam shook his head. Sam was on the mend, apparently feeling just fine these days. Dean still watched for sneezing, wheezing, choking, and coughing, but Sam had done very little of it the past few days. His brother would be fine.
Fine in other ways, too. He hadn't blacked out since the incident with the net, and the last temper check had been two days ago. Last memory loss had been yesterday, but it'd been a small thing. Sam would be fine.
“Hey, uh, Dean?”
Dean glanced up and found Sam biting his lip. “What's the matter?” he asked, instantly alert. God, only one little pill, he couldn't possibly have had a reaction to it-
“I'm...god, Dean, I'm so sorry. About everything I've said.”
Oh. The usual emotions: angst, guilt, everything that said Sam's too-big head and too-big heart were working overtime. Dean let out a silent sigh of relief. “It's okay, Sam,” he said, waving him off and snagging his bag to carry outside.
“No, it's not. I didn't mean it, any of it.”
“Sammy,” Dean said, cutting him off. He turned around to gaze at his brother, who was practically wringing his hands over it. This, right here, should've been Dean's first clue that something was up with his brother. This is what Sam did. He angsted, he was emo, he was guilty about everything in life.
But he didn't resent Dean. He didn't hate Dean. He didn't think Dean was incompetent or stupid. He didn't get angry and violent over little nothings. If he got angry, it was for a reason.
This was Sam.
Dean smiled back at his brother. “I know you didn't mean it,” he said. “Chill, dude. It's all right, seriously. You might not like hunting, and believe me, I get it. I do. The job sucks.”
“But we do good work,” Sam insisted, and Dean's smile broadened. “And I know that.”
“I know you do,” Dean said softly. Though he knew why Sam was really still hunting, and it didn't have to do with the job. No, it had to do with family, and they both knew it.
Dean turned back to the door, hefting his duffel higher onto his back. “C'mon princess, we gotta check out. Time's a'wastin'.”
“Check out? Dean, what are you talking about? Didn't we just get here?”
Dean froze, whipping around in fear. Sam had his own bag pulled high, a grin on his face. “A cautionary tale,” he said, even as he headed out past Dean. “Don't call me princess, and I won't do things like that.”
“You little brat,” Dean breathed, and Sam gave a small laugh as he tossed his bag in the trunk. Dean began to grin, already plotting his revenge. Maybe stick another spoon in his mouth while he was sleeping. Put gel in his hair while he was napping. Something that would cause Sam's sleepy face to turn quickly into that of surprise.
So long as Sam wasn't coughing or sneezing his way through the prank, Dean figured they'd be okay.
He tossed his own bag in the trunk and slammed it shut. “We leaving or what?” Sam called, already in the passenger side.
Dean slid into the driver's side with a smile. “Yeah, Sammy. We're leaving.”
END
A/N: The drug Bactrim was actually my lovely auctionee's idea, who had her own un-fun with the drug and shared her experience, saying it would make for a great h/c story. I agreed. (By the way, all of these reactions are real Bactrim reactions. Always look at the labels when about to take a drug. People can have reactions to anything, even if they've never had the drug before.)
~Nebula
Rating: PG-13
Chapter: 2 of 2
Spoilers: Post Season 2's "Tall Tales"
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Summary: For summer_moon1626: After a case of pneumonia brings Sam down hard, he's put on a drug that's supposed to help. Of course, it'd be easier for it to help if Sam weren't blacking out and suddenly getting angry over nothing. And then Dean has to think about the hunt...
Wordcount: This part, 5,122. Total, 8,755.
Part 1 here.
The forest seemed way darker than Dean was comfortable with. No moon, full or half, to guide the way. Lots of trees, too many trees. Considering Sam was still sick (even if he had gotten decent sleep the last two nights) and that there was no moon, this officially sucked. Unfortunately, with the sixth person dead being found just that morning, and police having removed any visitors from the park, today was the best day to go in.
But personally, Dean thought this was one of the worst ideas they'd ever had.
“This is the worst idea ever,” he told Sam as he dug around in the backseat for the extra flashlight. Just in case.
“Was your idea,” Sam said shortly. Dean fought to keep from rolling his eyes.
“Pissy much, princess?” Dean muttered, because dear god but the kid was stretching Dean's patience thin. Yes, he was sick, but he'd gotten a lot of sleep the night before. Enough was enough.
The sharp cracking sound behind him made him jump out of the car. Sam threw the other thing he'd had in his hands back into the trunk, eyes wild and angry. “You really wanna start this now?” Sam asked, his fists balled with fury. “Really, Dean? Because I have no trouble whatsoever with kicking your ass.”
Dean blinked in surprise, feeling uncomfortably reminded of the motel almost a week before. Sure, Sam had been angry in between, but not this up in your face about it. “You sure you're finding it easy to walk around?” Dean retaliated. “What with that huge ass stick you've got shoved up there. What the hell, Sam?”
“I'm the one with the stick up his ass?” Sam yelled, stalking forward. “You're the one who's dragging us both out here in the middle of the night for this crap we call a job.”
He found himself stung by the switch to a topic that Dean usually filed under Do Not Think About. “You're the one that wanted to hunt,” Dean said instead, eyes dull and voice flat. “Make up your mind, or take a Midol for that PMS. Either way, knock it the hell off.”
“Sorry to have insulted your self-worth,” Sam snapped, moving back to the trunk. Dean stared, jaw dropped, completely gob-smacked. Was he seriously saying this to Dean?
The trunk slammed shut, hard enough to rock the car. “Hurry it up,” Sam bellowed, flashlight and shotgun in hand. “I'd actually like to sleep tonight, unlike some assholes.”
If it hadn't been for his big brother instinct of watching out for Sam, Dean probably would've stood there, still stunned. He snapped out of his paralysis and grabbed his own gun and flashlight, closed the car up, and ran after Sam, who was already disappearing into the dark woods. “Sam, wait!” he called, trying to find Sam's form amidst the trees. There were sounds up ahead of Sam storming through the foliage, and Dean only had a second of crystal clear sound before a breeze swept through, rustling the leaves. It completely blocked out any sound, leaving Dean cursing as he moved through the forest, swinging his flashlight for a hopeful glimpse of his brother.
By the time the breeze had passed, there were no other sounds to be heard. Sam was gone. “Sammy?” he yelled. Nothing answered him.
Dean tightened his grip on his flashlight. This had been the worst idea ever, and it hadn't just been his idea, thank you very much, it'd been just as much Sam's too. It'd been Sam's idea in the first place to take this hunt. In fact, it had been Sam who had pushed for them to come out here after the black-out. The small episode still concerned Dean, but Sam had bounced right back, claiming he was fine. He'd taken it easy for the rest of the day, though, under Dean's insistence.
God knew what would happen if Sam collapsed out here with that thing, a thing they weren't even sure was a banshee. Well, Sam thought it was, so apparently that was it. But even Sam had admitted that it could very well be a rusalka. Or a million different things that lived in the forests. And how the hell had he disappeared so damn fast, too?
He moved quickly through the trees, searching for both the creature and his brother, and praying really hard that he wouldn't find them both together. Sam without backup right now, no matter how little Sam probably wanted it at the moment, was a bad thing. Kid was still coughing and Dean knew he could hear a little bit of wheezing when he breathed. It was gonna take time to heal.
Out on a cold night, looking for a banshee when there was a breeze happening, was not it.
Dean was gonna lose his big brother permit because of this.
Another hour yielded nothing. Not only was Sam not answering his phone, but after three continuous calls Dean began going straight to voicemail, which meant Sam had turned the cell phone off. Or that something had destroyed the cell phone, leaving the phone service provider no choice except voicemail. Either way, it wasn't a good thing.
But he was too far in and there was no answer from his phone calls or physical calls. No sign of whatever it was, either. Banshees were known for their high pitched shrieks, which had been their first choice based off of the witness reports, but a rusalka did the exact same thing, and was there any body of water around here?
If it was a rusalka, Dean was hunting with the wrong weapon. He needed a net, he needed matches, and he needed a friggin' map to tell him whether or not he was anywhere in the right ballpark of where he needed to be. He'd have heard the banshee already, he was sure of it. That left a rusalka as the next top choice, which meant-
Which meant he had to go back to the car. Dean cursed, low and dirty beneath his breath, then turned back and ran as fast as his legs would go. The terrain made it hard, but Sam's not being here was leaving him terrified, his heart thumping wildly in his chest. The hell was wrong with the kid? How could he be so stupid? You never turned your cell phone off on a hunt, and you never, ever split up. And you never went off with a temper, either, but god knew what the hell was going through the kid's brain.
Up ahead, the trees were beginning to open up already. He hadn't really gone deep in, he'd merely fanned out. He jumped over a set of roots and reached for his keys, cursing again when he didn't find them. He looked down out of instinct to find them just as his fingers touched cold metal in his pocket.
He'd barely looked back up before he saw the figure in front of him. Dean slammed to a halt, staring in shock at the dark figure who was definitely six foot four, definitely had shaggy hair, and was definitely making his way calmly back to the Impala. “Sam?” Dean choked out.
Sam turned, frowning slightly. “Dean?” he said, sounding confused. Like he hadn't just been wandering around the forest for the past hour, leaving Dean not even a way to call him.
Dean swore he saw red, and his vision tunneled down to his brother. His irresponsible pain in the ass little brother. “I can't believe you,” Dean seethed, stalking forward. “You took off with a single weapon and your flashlight, and you didn't wait for me? Couldn't be bothered, because oh yeah, I'm just dragging you back into a useless hunt? You seriously still hankering for the apple-pie life that badly, Sam? Because you wanna play that card with me, right here, right now-”
“What are you talking about?” Sam said, frown digging deeper into his brow. “What's going on?”
Dean paused in his rant, his own frown making an appearance. “What do you mean, what am I talking about? What you yelled at me about before you took off into the forest, Sam, and where the hell were you anyways? I've been looking for over an hour for you!”
Sam blinked. “I don't...I don't understand,” he asked, looking up at the trees. “I was in there,” he indicated the forest with a nod, “and you weren't, and I was trying to find you, and...Dean, what are we doing here?”
All anger vanished, leaving only cold dread in the bottom of Dean's stomach. “Are you hurt?” he asked, stepping forward cautiously. Sam only bit his lip. “Sammy, are you hurt?”
Sam's look went distant, then he shook his head tentatively. “I don't...I don't think so,” he finally said. “I don't know. Dean, what's going on?”
I have no clue, Dean thought frantically, but outwardly he kept his calm. “It's all right,” Dean said, hesitant to touch Sam lest he start ranting again. When Dean took him by the shoulders, though, Sam went, docile as a kitten. “Take a seat, okay? Let me look at your head, all right?”
Sam nodded and did as he was told. There was no sign of the almost murderous rage that had been in Sam's eyes a little over an hour ago. This Sam was confused and looking scared now, and such a one-eighty of emotions was sending Dean's head spinning.
“Do you remember the hunt?” Dean asked, tossing his weapons carelessly and quickly into the trunk. Then he was racing back to Sam, fingers probing the skull. No bumps, nothing wet that indicated a cut. No blood. Then what?
When Sam's answer took longer than it should've, Dean pulled back to look at Sam. Sam's breathing was getting quicker and shorter, and his eyes were damp. “No,” he whispered finally. “We were researching one, but...we're on the hunt? Now?”
Well...shit. “It's all right,” Dean soothed, cupping his hands around Sam's face. Sam swallowed but nodded jerkily. “It's all right, okay? We'll figure it out.” How far back did this go? “Do you remember what we had for dinner?”
Sam's response wasn't as slow this time. “You had a pork sandwich, I had the chef's salad,” he said. “You wanted that moldy piece of pie.”
“It wasn't moldy,” Dean protested, though the protest itself was only for show. Relief coursed through his system and he shut his eyes briefly. They'd come straight here after the diner. Which meant-
Dean's eyes snapped open. “What? Dean, what is it?” Sam asked, alert as well.
“I don't think it's a banshee,” Dean said. “I thought maybe a rusulka, but you're not remembering anything. Rusulki don't mess with memories, though.”
Sam frowned, but it was in concentration this time. “A curupira?” he said finally. “But I didn't see anything about the forest being in danger or threatened.”
“Or a Saci,” Dean said, and that one was a less welcomed answer. Last thing they needed was another trickster demi-god, and a killing one at that. But a curupira might fit the bill, and they definitely messed with memories.
Either way, he was getting Sam out of the forest and back to the motel.
“We'll come back later,” Dean decided. “Right now, I don't want you anywhere near here.” He paused. “And you need to take your medications, too.”
“I already took the Bactrim at the diner,” Sam said, exasperated, but there was a fondness to it that didn't ring with the rage of earlier. “I'm fine, Dean.”
“Yeah, all right,” Dean conceded. “Let's get out of here though, all right? I'd really rather not kill a curupira; it's like kicking a puppy.” A puppy that killed people that screwed with the forest, but generally, they weren't mean-spirited. If someone encroached on the land they were supposed to protect, and they couldn't be scared off, then they'd attack.
What two hikers and a few tourists had to do with the land being hurt, though, Dean didn't know.
He slid into the driver's seat, eyes casting a nervous glance over towards Sam. But Sam seemed fine now, calm and ready to go. Not hurt at all. Didn't even remember the huge blow-out of an hour before.
With a glare at the forest Dean pulled away from the side of the road.
Nothing was threatening the forest. No developers, nothing. There was a lake, not far from where the victims were found, and how the hell had Sam missed that?
Not that Dean was going to bring that up, though. Sam switched moods so fast it was getting unbelievable. And it wasn't funny, either. In fact, it was starting to get scary, because Sam wasn't like this. Sure, Dean bitched about his emotional tendencies, called him a girl and said he had PMS, but in all truth, Sam really wasn't like that.
Everything felt wrong about this. The hunt, Sam...everything was off. They were never this off.
Sam didn't get pneumonia all the time, though, either. Maybe it was his being sick. Maybe he really was still exhausted, and Dean should be keeping him on total bed rest, the hunt be damned.
Dean glanced casually over at where Sam was on the bed. His brother didn't look tired. In fact, he looked fully awake for once, no real dark circles beneath his eyes either. He was currently flipping through channels, the only sign of his mood the pursed lips that tightened with each passing channel. Finally he stopped on something he must've deemed worthwhile, and the lips relaxed. Dean closed his eyes and sent a thankful prayer upwards: dealing with Sam right now was not what he wanted.
Still, it was worth a shot, to see if the pneumonia was involved. It was the only thing that had changed in their lives over the past week, when all this crap had started. He brought up Google and thought about how to phrase his search. He wasn't the best at searching; that was on Sam. But he could still find his way around just fine. He knew how to solve a problem.
The problem. That made Dean paused for a moment. He hadn't been able to find the problem. Maybe Sam was just angry at Dean for not knowing he'd been so sick. Resentful that Dean hadn't noticed, maybe thought Dean hadn't cared. Guilt coiled itself in Dean's belly as he thought back to the night he'd found Sam gasping for air. The hurried race to the hospital. Waiting for hours in the early morning. Meanwhile, Sam had been enduring x-rays and IV's and every other amount of fun. All because Dean hadn't noticed.
Dean swallowed and turned back to the search bar. Memory loss pneumonia, he put in, then hit enter. Thousands upon thousands of links popped, and carefully Dean began scrolling through each one, reading the samples from the pages. A question from a help forum caught his eye, and he found someone with a similar problem. Memory loss after pneumonia, trouble recalling small things months afterwards.
The answer, from an RN, wasn't terribly inspiring. Not enough oxygen while sick had caused probably caused brain damage, resulting in memory loss. Probably never get the memories back. He felt a chill race down his spine until he told himself that the memory loss hadn't been immediately. It'd been months later. Sam would be fine.
More sites were looked at, and none of them gave him the answer. He scrolled back up to the search bar, tapping his heel against the floor. What else, then?
Sam cursed at the television, loud and sudden, and Dean's eyebrows raised at the choice of his words. Hadn't thought the kid knew those words. PMS. He'd forgotten about the PMS.
Except if he put that in the search bar, he'd just get a ton of answers about women's menstrual cycles, and, just, no. He shuddered and thought of a better way to phrase it. Emotional fits? Temper tantrums?
Mood swings. He typed in Memory loss pneumonia mood swings, and hit enter. Less sites popped, but there were still thousands. Hopefully one with an answer.
Most of the samples said what the others in his previous search had said. Symptoms of pneumonia, had pneumonia first, then hit their head, blah blah blah. A lot of them were talking about side effects of random drugs, various medications Dean hadn't heard of.
Dean froze. These things hadn't started when Sam had had pneumonia, and memory loss didn't happen from being angry at someone because said someone didn't pay attention. No, all of this crap had happened the minute Sam had been put on the Bactrim.
The mood swings. The blacking out. The memory loss. The girl at the pharmacy had warned him that it was a heavy drug, not to be taken lightly. These were some of the most extreme reactions someone could have to a drug. This wasn't a rash or a headache. This was serious.
He couldn't pull Sam off of it immediately. Much as Dean wanted to, you didn't screw around with drugs like this. He pursed his lips for all of a minute, then started searching instead for clinics nearby. He was gonna need professional help getting Sam off of this.
Once he had a phone number, he left the room to call. Thankfully, it was a twenty-four hour emergency clinic, and the man on the other end had him set up for an appointment early the next morning. Apparently putting “pneumonia” and “allergic reaction” in the same sentence got you places: who knew?
Now to tell Sam. He took a deep breath and stepped back inside. Sam was still glaring at the television, looking two seconds away from chucking the remote at it. Right.
This would be fun.
“Sammy?” Dean said, taking a seat on the other bed. Sam didn't look at him, but he did turn down the volume slightly.
“Did you find anything?” Sam asked in a tone that clearly stated how capable he thought Dean was, and it wasn't a lot.
“It's a rusulka,” Dean said, cutting to the chase. “There's a lake near where the victims were found.”
Sam frowned at that, turning to Dean with a dropped jaw. “You saying I missed something?” he snarled. “What, that I'm incompetent, just like y-”
“You didn't miss it, Sam,” Dean said, hoping to forestall whatever cutting remark Sam was about to throw his way. “I think you forgot it. Just like you forgot where you were tonight.”
That got him a frown of confusion. “That was the curupira,” he said slowly, then frowned harder. “No, you said it's a rusulka. There's no curupira?”
Dean shook his head. At least Hurricane Sam had been brought to a halt. “No. The black-out you had the other day, the memory loss, the getting super angry...that's not normal, Sammy. I think it's the drug.”
Sam stared. “The drug I'm on for the pneumonia?”
Dean nodded.
Sam did throw the controller at that, hitting the wall hard enough to dent it. The people inhabiting the next room over pounded on the wall and yelled something that came through muffled. “Then what the hell am I supposed to do, Dean?” Sam said loudly. “I have to keep taking it for the pneumonia, or I'm just gonna get sick again! I don't have any other option here, do I? Just like the rest of my life!”
It stung, but Dean swallowed past it. This wasn't really Sam talking. “Sam, I've got an appointment-”
“It's fine for you, you like this life,” Sam continued, pushing himself off the bed and pacing. “But you're not the one with freaky powers, are you? And you're sure as hell not the one connected to a demon that's more powerful than anything else we've ever met, are you? You're not the freak, and you're not stuck here!” He kicked over the chair to punctuate his last words, breathing heavily, fists clenched until his knuckles were white.
Dean stared, shocked again into silence for the second time that night. It made sense, in Sam's head, Dean was sure: hunting involves the supernatural. The supernatural includes psychic powers and demons, both of which had caught Sam tight. Therefore, it was hunting at fault. Generally, Sam would be logical enough not to connect the three like that.
But for someone that was strung on emotions because of a goddamn drug-
As if right on cue, Sam burst into tears, burying his face in his hands. Dean pushed himself up from the bed and guided Sam back down to his own bed. “You've got an appointment tomorrow,” Dean said, feeling awkward. Not because Sam was crying, but more because this felt unnervingly like reading Sam's innermost thoughts. It wasn't right, and Sam had a right to keep those thoughts to himself. He shouldn't have to bare himself like this, just because the drug had him strung up so tight he didn't have any choice except to explode.
“We'll see if there's something else we can do,” Dean said. Sam only nodded, trying to muffle his sounds. Dean took a seat beside him and left his hand on Sam's back, moving his hand around in small circles. Anything to help.
Because he couldn't exactly do anything to the damn Bactrim. Throwing it away could just make things worse, though Dean wanted to use the bottle and the pills as target practice.
He sat beside Sam instead, keeping an eye on the clock and hoping the doctor could do something.
It turned out, the doctor could do something, but it would be slow. “His lungs look nearly clear,” she said. “And they sound much better, too. I think he's mostly in the clear.”
“So he can come off it?” Dean said, trying not to sound too hopeful.
She bit her lip and looked like she was about to deliver bad news. “He can't come off of it immediately,” she said. “If you dropped him off of it right now, chances are he'd have a violent reaction. More severe than what you've seen over the past week and a half,” she clarified. “You need to take him off of it slowly. We'll bring the measured dose down carefully until we can have you off completely.”
“How long will it take?” Sam said. Ever since the blow-out and crying session of hours before, Sam had managed to sleep a little, and for the moment was lucid and okay. “Because I really, really don't want on this. At all.”
“Shouldn't take more than five days,” she promised, writing down the instructions. “If the symptoms of the drugs don't stop with the drugs, head to the ER immediately. If he's still showing symptoms of pneumonia after another two weeks, bring him back in, and tell his physician not to do Bactrim.”
“That's not gonna be a problem,” Dean muttered. Louder, he thanked her, took the instructions, and went up to pay for the visit in cash. It wasn't that much, really, and she'd earned every penny, as far as Dean was concerned.
The rest of the day was spent back at the motel, working on the net and dousing it with gasoline. Technically, one didn't have to set a rusulka on fire to kill her, but her hair had to dry out, which did kill her. And personally, Dean wasn't up for a game of keeping her from the water as her hair dried. He had better things to do, like keep an eye on Sam.
Sam, who'd suddenly fallen back onto his bed while straightening the net. Dean had raced over to him, only to find him groggily coming too. Ten minutes later he'd started snapping at Dean, threatening to kill him if he touched Sam's computer again.
Yeah, Dean was so ready for the Bactrim to be over with.
“You don't want my help,” Sam said that night, once Dean had loaded the net into the car. His baby was gonna smell like gasoline inside, but Dean wasn't about to set flammable materials next to the guns in the trunk.
“I want you here where you're safe,” Dean replied, keeping his voice calm and measured, knowing Sam was about to take it the wrong way.
Sure enough, Sam flew forward, nostrils flared. “I'm not safe anywhere Dean, and if I'm here, something could go seriously wrong, and god knows you'd screw up the hunt-”
Dean slapped his hand over Sam's mouth, cutting his brother off. “You didn't mean that,” he said calmly. “Just like you didn't mean what you said yesterday or the days before that. It's okay, really. Let me deal with the rusulka, which is so easy a baby could do, which means I'll be done in ten minutes, then heading back. I'll pick up Chinese if you want, on the way. Okay?”
Sam's face was already crinkling with remorse and his eyes were already filling with tears, but he nodded underneath Dean's hand. “There's tissues in the bathroom, oh princess of mine,” Dean said, grinning to let Sam know he didn't mean it.
Sam snorted wetly as Dean pulled his hand away. “Jerk,” he said, but he was smiling now too.
“Bitch,” Dean replied. “I'll be back. I'll call if I need you, all right? Keep your phone open, please?”
Sam nodded, raging anger and tears long gone already. “Don't do something stupid,” he warned. “Someone has to keep me sane for the next few days.”
“Just those days?” Dean teased, and that got him the finger and a grin. He slid into the car and waited until Sam was safely back into the motel room before he took off.
The rusulka was just as easy as Dean had thought.
The Chinese was tastier than Dean had imagined.
Sam was fine for the rest of the evening, better than Dean had hoped.
Four days later, Sam popped the last pill of Bactrim he needed, then closed the lid tight on the bottle and tossed it to Dean. “What are you going to do with it?” he asked.
“Personally, I'd like to plug a round or five into it, but you won't let me,” Dean grumbled. Now that Sam was better, less on the raging and amnesiac side, he was back to being the logical one between the both of them. Said Dean would send the remnants of the pills into the air or into the soil.
Sam shook his head, a small smile on his lips. “Yeah, sorry to be the unfun party crasher.”
“Guess I'll have to settle for dumping them down the toilet,” Dean said, though it was a purposeful stride that carried him to the bathroom. The pills slid from the bottle into the water with no problem, and one flush carried them far, far away from his brother. “And good riddance,” Dean muttered.
“Y'know, talking to yourself while watching toilet water swirl around is considered to be the beginnings of an unstable mind.”
Dean's mature response was to stick out his tongue, still watching until the last of the pills disappeared. Satisfied that they were gone, he dumped the empty pill bottle into the trash.
“Need any tissues?” he asked, though he wasn't surprised when Sam shook his head. Sam was on the mend, apparently feeling just fine these days. Dean still watched for sneezing, wheezing, choking, and coughing, but Sam had done very little of it the past few days. His brother would be fine.
Fine in other ways, too. He hadn't blacked out since the incident with the net, and the last temper check had been two days ago. Last memory loss had been yesterday, but it'd been a small thing. Sam would be fine.
“Hey, uh, Dean?”
Dean glanced up and found Sam biting his lip. “What's the matter?” he asked, instantly alert. God, only one little pill, he couldn't possibly have had a reaction to it-
“I'm...god, Dean, I'm so sorry. About everything I've said.”
Oh. The usual emotions: angst, guilt, everything that said Sam's too-big head and too-big heart were working overtime. Dean let out a silent sigh of relief. “It's okay, Sam,” he said, waving him off and snagging his bag to carry outside.
“No, it's not. I didn't mean it, any of it.”
“Sammy,” Dean said, cutting him off. He turned around to gaze at his brother, who was practically wringing his hands over it. This, right here, should've been Dean's first clue that something was up with his brother. This is what Sam did. He angsted, he was emo, he was guilty about everything in life.
But he didn't resent Dean. He didn't hate Dean. He didn't think Dean was incompetent or stupid. He didn't get angry and violent over little nothings. If he got angry, it was for a reason.
This was Sam.
Dean smiled back at his brother. “I know you didn't mean it,” he said. “Chill, dude. It's all right, seriously. You might not like hunting, and believe me, I get it. I do. The job sucks.”
“But we do good work,” Sam insisted, and Dean's smile broadened. “And I know that.”
“I know you do,” Dean said softly. Though he knew why Sam was really still hunting, and it didn't have to do with the job. No, it had to do with family, and they both knew it.
Dean turned back to the door, hefting his duffel higher onto his back. “C'mon princess, we gotta check out. Time's a'wastin'.”
“Check out? Dean, what are you talking about? Didn't we just get here?”
Dean froze, whipping around in fear. Sam had his own bag pulled high, a grin on his face. “A cautionary tale,” he said, even as he headed out past Dean. “Don't call me princess, and I won't do things like that.”
“You little brat,” Dean breathed, and Sam gave a small laugh as he tossed his bag in the trunk. Dean began to grin, already plotting his revenge. Maybe stick another spoon in his mouth while he was sleeping. Put gel in his hair while he was napping. Something that would cause Sam's sleepy face to turn quickly into that of surprise.
So long as Sam wasn't coughing or sneezing his way through the prank, Dean figured they'd be okay.
He tossed his own bag in the trunk and slammed it shut. “We leaving or what?” Sam called, already in the passenger side.
Dean slid into the driver's side with a smile. “Yeah, Sammy. We're leaving.”
END
A/N: The drug Bactrim was actually my lovely auctionee's idea, who had her own un-fun with the drug and shared her experience, saying it would make for a great h/c story. I agreed. (By the way, all of these reactions are real Bactrim reactions. Always look at the labels when about to take a drug. People can have reactions to anything, even if they've never had the drug before.)
~Nebula