Fic: Taking Some Time (SPN) Chapter Seven
Genre: Sick!fic, Epic, Slightly AU
Category: Gen
Rating: T
Characters: Dean, Sam, Bobby
Warning: Very mild language. Descriptions of Hell. Can be considered slightly AU as Dean is not healed from his old wounds when Castiel raised him from perdition.
Disclaimer: They're pretty, but they're not mine.
Summary: Dean is a little worse off coming off a hunt than he let on. He's fresh from hell and caring a lot of scars, physically and mentally. A bad back, bad shoulder, PTSD, insomnia, alcohol abuse, and a nasty virus to top it all off. Maybe the boys need to take a break and try to get Dean back on track. It might be harder than they thought.
Taking Some Time
Chapter Seven
“It’s burning.”
“Dean, I’m trying to -“
“It’s burning!”
“Crap.”
“Take it off the heat. My God.”
“Shut up,” Sam said, stirring the eggs in the pan. There were only a few black charred bits.
“Dude, you ruined scrambled eggs.”
“It’s fine. It’s not even that burnt. See?” he tilted the pan, showing it to his big brother.
Dean groaned.
“Just go lie down. I can handle it.”
Dean narrowed his eyes, but got up off the barstool, “Watch that you don’t burn the toast.”
“Dude.”
“Alright, I’m going.”
Sam watched Dean wander over to the couch. His shaky palm ran over his brow, before he coughed long and hard into his elbow. Sam tried to sound nonchalant.
“You alive over there?”
“Yeah,” he croaked, lying down with a loud groan. “Goin’ stir crazy here, though. I gotta get out, Sam.”
Sam furrowed his brow. He knew what Dean meant by ‘out’. He meant a bar, with smoke and loud music and alcohol, lots and lots of alcohol. It was only a matter of time before Dean scoped out the local haunt. But then again maybe he didn’t mean that. Maybe he meant a hunt. Sam didn’t know what would be worse right now.
Dean sneezed and it snapped Sam from his thoughts.
“Bless you,” he said, checking on the toast in the oven. They lacked the luxuries of even a toaster at the moment. All they had was one frying pan. He thought he’d done a big shop, but every second he seemed to realize there were more and more things that they still needed.
Dean sniffled, then cursed.
“Sam, can you grab me a tissue?”
Sam grabbed the box of tissues off the bench and placed them in front of his brother on the coffee table, ripping out a few and handing them to him.
Dean looked awful today, like worse than he had the previous few days. He was puffy around his eyes, his nose was framed red and the skin was red and peeling a little beneath his 3 day stubble on his upper lip. He was pale and sweaty and shivering…
“What?” Dean muffled through the wad of tissues.
“Huh?” Sam said.
“Why’re you staring at me?”
“I’m not,” Sam lied, wrinkling his nose, before heading back to the kitchen.
Dean blew his nose.
Sam pottered in the kitchen, plating up the scrambled eggs and toast, with a side of burnt bacon. He didn’t care. He liked his crispy.
By the time he’d put the plates on the table, Dean was in a fitful doze. He was making small whimpering noises, eyes flitting about under his closed lids.
“Hey, Dean, wake up.”
“What?” Dean startled, sitting up quickly as if he had to be ready for something.
“You alright?”
Dean’s answer was stolen from him when he started coughing again. Sam went over and rubbed a hand up and down his spine, careful not to jolt him. His back was warm and clammy through his shirt. Sam could feel him shuddering with the force of the coughs, and shaking with fever chills.
Dean recovered from his coughing fit and placed his right hand carefully over his left shoulder, like he was trying to hold it in place.
“You need ice?” Sam asked, still hovering at his side.
Dean grunted, “After breakfast.”
For the second time that morning Dean extended his arm to Sam in a silent plea for help in standing up. That in itself was worrying.
Dean stumbled once he got to his feet and clutched at Sam’s shirt.
“Whoa, you okay?”
“Yeah,” Dean pressed his eyes closed, “Head rush.”
Sam knew the fever probably had something to do with that, and the way he weaved across the room like his legs were made of jelly. Sam pulled the chair out for him and directed him into it. Dean’s eyes were roving, taking him longer to focus on things that were right in front of him.
“Not bad, Sammy,” Dean grinned, when he finally focused on his plate.
“Thanks,” Sam smiled, sitting across from Dean.
Dean picked away at his eggs with his fork, and used his fingers when he got to the bacon and the toast, left arm completely out of commission.
Sam could hear him breathing from where he sat.
“You feeling any worse today?” Sam asked, trying for indifference.
Dean glanced up, then back down. He sniffed in preparation to speak but started coughing again. Sam couldn’t tell if it was a forced attempt so he didn’t have to answer the question, but when he started turning red he stowed that thought.
Dean turned away from the table and leaned over, his hand propping him up on his knee. He coughed sporadically.
“You need your neb?” Sam asked, frowning, watching Dean struggle.
Dean got a breath and managed to nod.
Sam was up and grabbing it in a second.
Once the mask was fitted around Dean’s face, Sam squatted down on his haunches in front of him.
“Well, the doctor said we need to get you to cough, and the neb would make it easier to cough it up, so this is good. Means you’re getting better,” he chewed the inside of his lip as he struggled to convince himself.
Dean nodded, breathing eased for the moment.
“I’ll put this away for later,” Sam said, reaching for Dean’s plate.
A warm clammy hand stilled him, heavy on his wrist.
“Don’t even think about it,” Dean panted, small smirk on his face.
…
Dean knelt over the toilet and threw up his breakfast. His hands were shaking again. He knew he wasn’t sick in his stomach. It was because he was sick in his mind. Nervous, jumpy all the time, and he hadn’t had a drink yet. His new painkillers were awesome, but they made him freaking dizzy, and that didn’t help the nausea.
He pushed off the floor and flushed away his mess. The shower was still running from when he’d had to lunge out in the direction of the toilet. He stepped back in, allowing a small whimper to pass his lips as he hugged his left arm close, his back now in spasms as well, and wasn’t that delightful.
He heard a rap on the door.
Son of a bitch.
“Hey, Dean, you okay in there?”
Dean bit his lip to stop from whimpering again, taking a moment to collect himself.
“Dean,” Sam’s tone was much more panicked now due to the lack of response.
“I’m fine,” I grated out, voice shaking only slightly.
“You need a hand?”
“No,” Dean leaned his head back against the tiled wall, let a tear slip free, “No, I’m good.”
“You don’t sound good.”
Persistent son of a bitch.
Dean cleared his throat, tears flowing steadily with ease from both eyes now.
“Can you bring me some clothes?” his voice choked on the last few words.
“Yeah, okay. Hang on.”
Dean felt sick again. He didn’t want Sam to have to help him shower, help him dry off, help him into his clothes. He didn’t want that. He didn’t want that.
He heard a knock again, “Dean?”
Dean sniffed, stifling emotion, pushing down the tears. He didn’t want Sam to see him cry.
“Dean, I’m coming in…”
Sam paused.
Dean stood leaning against the wall, shower still on, unable to move to turn it off. He didn’t respond.
Sam opened the door.
“Don’t friggen look at me,” Dean grunted.
Sam had a hand over his eyes, clothes in the other.
“Do you… need help?”
Yes, yes. God yes, I need help.
“No… just leave the clothes,” his voice almost hitched with a sob, his emotions getting away from him again, but he stifled it. Power through.
“Dean…”
“You can hand me the towel.”
Sam had his back to Dean, while he reached for his towel.
“You gonna shut the water off?”
Dean huffed, “Workin’ up to it.”
“Jesus, Dean…”
He bit his lip again, so hard he thought he’d bleed. He imagined the water turning red, blood spurting from the showerhead. He shut the water off.
He weighed up his options in a split second. He could stand there, freezing, soaking wet, until his body allowed him to move enough to at least put boxers on, or he could swallow his pride and any dignity he had left and let Sam help him.
“Kay, hand me the towel.”
Sam blindly held it out to his brother.
“I’m gonna use it to cover my junk, and you’re gonna help me into my pants.”
“Okay. Okay, sure,” Sam said, immediately finding him his boxers, and setting the rest of the clothes on the counter, back still to Dean.
Dean did his best at drying with one arm, the other numb at his side. He held the towel against his downstairs region.
“Alright, hurry up with those,” he ordered Sam.
Sam turned around obediently and took in his brother in an instant. Just like Dean’d taught him to. But Sam was all business when he had a job to do. He just squatted down at his brother’s feet, without a word, and started helping him into his boxers.
Once they were high enough for Dean to grab without bending, he took over.
Sam took a deep breath, standing up, “Okay, you wanna sit? I can dry you off, dude.”
Dean wasn’t sure he wouldn’t collapse if he tried to walk.
Sam helped him.
He got through to the bedroom, and eased down onto the bed. He tilted backwards and Sam righted him.
“Just a second. Let me dry you. Then you can lie down.”
Dean drifted, as Sam ran the towel over him. It was soft. Softer than anything in hell. Hell was hard. Hard, dark and cold.
“Dean, how hot did you have the shower?” Sam asked.
Dean shrugged, then winced, “I dunno…”
“’Cause you’re really warm.”
A palm found his forehead and pressed in firm.
“Holy crap…”
“’S alright, Sammy.”
“No, it’s not, Dean,” he mumbled, “Okay, you can lie back.”
Sam helped him down onto his bed, rolling him onto his right side.
“Here, put this pillow between your legs.”
Dean didn’t know how suddenly Sam seemed to know exactly what to do.
“I’ll be right back.”
Dean teetered on the line of consciousness. He struggled to stay where he was. To stay on the bed, with soft pillows and soft sheets and soft brother’s voices. As he tiptoed towards sleep everything grew hard. Hard racks, hard hooks in his side, hard voices, no voices… alone. Again.
“Dean, hey. Open your mouth.”
Dean clung to Sam’s voice, forced his eyes open.
“Gotta take your temperature, stay with me.”
I’m with you, Sammy.
“Good,” Sam laughed.
The thermometer was placed under his tongue and eventually it beeped.
…
Sam removed the thermometer from his brother’s slack mouth.
103.4.
“Dean?”
Dean was out.
Sam rose quickly and turned on the ceiling fan to full, wishing now he’d left Dean wet. His fever was too high. Way too high.
He went out to the kitchen. He checked the freezer. They didn’t have any ice left. How could Sam have not anticipated this? Dean was running through ice rapidly and he’d used up the last of it about an hour ago. They didn’t have a back up. They didn’t have ice packs, cold packs, nothing. He opened the fridge in his useless search and saw the takeaway container carrying Maxine’s homemade lasagne. It had a landline number scrawled on the top, beneath the words ‘Dave and Maxine’.
Sam reached for his phone, dialling the number with slippery fingers.
“Hello? Maxine?”
“Sam, is that you?”
“I need some help.”
…
Category: Gen
Rating: T
Characters: Dean, Sam, Bobby
Warning: Very mild language. Descriptions of Hell. Can be considered slightly AU as Dean is not healed from his old wounds when Castiel raised him from perdition.
Disclaimer: They're pretty, but they're not mine.
Summary: Dean is a little worse off coming off a hunt than he let on. He's fresh from hell and caring a lot of scars, physically and mentally. A bad back, bad shoulder, PTSD, insomnia, alcohol abuse, and a nasty virus to top it all off. Maybe the boys need to take a break and try to get Dean back on track. It might be harder than they thought.
Taking Some Time
Chapter Seven
“It’s burning.”
“Dean, I’m trying to -“
“It’s burning!”
“Crap.”
“Take it off the heat. My God.”
“Shut up,” Sam said, stirring the eggs in the pan. There were only a few black charred bits.
“Dude, you ruined scrambled eggs.”
“It’s fine. It’s not even that burnt. See?” he tilted the pan, showing it to his big brother.
Dean groaned.
“Just go lie down. I can handle it.”
Dean narrowed his eyes, but got up off the barstool, “Watch that you don’t burn the toast.”
“Dude.”
“Alright, I’m going.”
Sam watched Dean wander over to the couch. His shaky palm ran over his brow, before he coughed long and hard into his elbow. Sam tried to sound nonchalant.
“You alive over there?”
“Yeah,” he croaked, lying down with a loud groan. “Goin’ stir crazy here, though. I gotta get out, Sam.”
Sam furrowed his brow. He knew what Dean meant by ‘out’. He meant a bar, with smoke and loud music and alcohol, lots and lots of alcohol. It was only a matter of time before Dean scoped out the local haunt. But then again maybe he didn’t mean that. Maybe he meant a hunt. Sam didn’t know what would be worse right now.
Dean sneezed and it snapped Sam from his thoughts.
“Bless you,” he said, checking on the toast in the oven. They lacked the luxuries of even a toaster at the moment. All they had was one frying pan. He thought he’d done a big shop, but every second he seemed to realize there were more and more things that they still needed.
Dean sniffled, then cursed.
“Sam, can you grab me a tissue?”
Sam grabbed the box of tissues off the bench and placed them in front of his brother on the coffee table, ripping out a few and handing them to him.
Dean looked awful today, like worse than he had the previous few days. He was puffy around his eyes, his nose was framed red and the skin was red and peeling a little beneath his 3 day stubble on his upper lip. He was pale and sweaty and shivering…
“What?” Dean muffled through the wad of tissues.
“Huh?” Sam said.
“Why’re you staring at me?”
“I’m not,” Sam lied, wrinkling his nose, before heading back to the kitchen.
Dean blew his nose.
Sam pottered in the kitchen, plating up the scrambled eggs and toast, with a side of burnt bacon. He didn’t care. He liked his crispy.
By the time he’d put the plates on the table, Dean was in a fitful doze. He was making small whimpering noises, eyes flitting about under his closed lids.
“Hey, Dean, wake up.”
“What?” Dean startled, sitting up quickly as if he had to be ready for something.
“You alright?”
Dean’s answer was stolen from him when he started coughing again. Sam went over and rubbed a hand up and down his spine, careful not to jolt him. His back was warm and clammy through his shirt. Sam could feel him shuddering with the force of the coughs, and shaking with fever chills.
Dean recovered from his coughing fit and placed his right hand carefully over his left shoulder, like he was trying to hold it in place.
“You need ice?” Sam asked, still hovering at his side.
Dean grunted, “After breakfast.”
For the second time that morning Dean extended his arm to Sam in a silent plea for help in standing up. That in itself was worrying.
Dean stumbled once he got to his feet and clutched at Sam’s shirt.
“Whoa, you okay?”
“Yeah,” Dean pressed his eyes closed, “Head rush.”
Sam knew the fever probably had something to do with that, and the way he weaved across the room like his legs were made of jelly. Sam pulled the chair out for him and directed him into it. Dean’s eyes were roving, taking him longer to focus on things that were right in front of him.
“Not bad, Sammy,” Dean grinned, when he finally focused on his plate.
“Thanks,” Sam smiled, sitting across from Dean.
Dean picked away at his eggs with his fork, and used his fingers when he got to the bacon and the toast, left arm completely out of commission.
Sam could hear him breathing from where he sat.
“You feeling any worse today?” Sam asked, trying for indifference.
Dean glanced up, then back down. He sniffed in preparation to speak but started coughing again. Sam couldn’t tell if it was a forced attempt so he didn’t have to answer the question, but when he started turning red he stowed that thought.
Dean turned away from the table and leaned over, his hand propping him up on his knee. He coughed sporadically.
“You need your neb?” Sam asked, frowning, watching Dean struggle.
Dean got a breath and managed to nod.
Sam was up and grabbing it in a second.
Once the mask was fitted around Dean’s face, Sam squatted down on his haunches in front of him.
“Well, the doctor said we need to get you to cough, and the neb would make it easier to cough it up, so this is good. Means you’re getting better,” he chewed the inside of his lip as he struggled to convince himself.
Dean nodded, breathing eased for the moment.
“I’ll put this away for later,” Sam said, reaching for Dean’s plate.
A warm clammy hand stilled him, heavy on his wrist.
“Don’t even think about it,” Dean panted, small smirk on his face.
…
Dean knelt over the toilet and threw up his breakfast. His hands were shaking again. He knew he wasn’t sick in his stomach. It was because he was sick in his mind. Nervous, jumpy all the time, and he hadn’t had a drink yet. His new painkillers were awesome, but they made him freaking dizzy, and that didn’t help the nausea.
He pushed off the floor and flushed away his mess. The shower was still running from when he’d had to lunge out in the direction of the toilet. He stepped back in, allowing a small whimper to pass his lips as he hugged his left arm close, his back now in spasms as well, and wasn’t that delightful.
He heard a rap on the door.
Son of a bitch.
“Hey, Dean, you okay in there?”
Dean bit his lip to stop from whimpering again, taking a moment to collect himself.
“Dean,” Sam’s tone was much more panicked now due to the lack of response.
“I’m fine,” I grated out, voice shaking only slightly.
“You need a hand?”
“No,” Dean leaned his head back against the tiled wall, let a tear slip free, “No, I’m good.”
“You don’t sound good.”
Persistent son of a bitch.
Dean cleared his throat, tears flowing steadily with ease from both eyes now.
“Can you bring me some clothes?” his voice choked on the last few words.
“Yeah, okay. Hang on.”
Dean felt sick again. He didn’t want Sam to have to help him shower, help him dry off, help him into his clothes. He didn’t want that. He didn’t want that.
He heard a knock again, “Dean?”
Dean sniffed, stifling emotion, pushing down the tears. He didn’t want Sam to see him cry.
“Dean, I’m coming in…”
Sam paused.
Dean stood leaning against the wall, shower still on, unable to move to turn it off. He didn’t respond.
Sam opened the door.
“Don’t friggen look at me,” Dean grunted.
Sam had a hand over his eyes, clothes in the other.
“Do you… need help?”
Yes, yes. God yes, I need help.
“No… just leave the clothes,” his voice almost hitched with a sob, his emotions getting away from him again, but he stifled it. Power through.
“Dean…”
“You can hand me the towel.”
Sam had his back to Dean, while he reached for his towel.
“You gonna shut the water off?”
Dean huffed, “Workin’ up to it.”
“Jesus, Dean…”
He bit his lip again, so hard he thought he’d bleed. He imagined the water turning red, blood spurting from the showerhead. He shut the water off.
He weighed up his options in a split second. He could stand there, freezing, soaking wet, until his body allowed him to move enough to at least put boxers on, or he could swallow his pride and any dignity he had left and let Sam help him.
“Kay, hand me the towel.”
Sam blindly held it out to his brother.
“I’m gonna use it to cover my junk, and you’re gonna help me into my pants.”
“Okay. Okay, sure,” Sam said, immediately finding him his boxers, and setting the rest of the clothes on the counter, back still to Dean.
Dean did his best at drying with one arm, the other numb at his side. He held the towel against his downstairs region.
“Alright, hurry up with those,” he ordered Sam.
Sam turned around obediently and took in his brother in an instant. Just like Dean’d taught him to. But Sam was all business when he had a job to do. He just squatted down at his brother’s feet, without a word, and started helping him into his boxers.
Once they were high enough for Dean to grab without bending, he took over.
Sam took a deep breath, standing up, “Okay, you wanna sit? I can dry you off, dude.”
Dean wasn’t sure he wouldn’t collapse if he tried to walk.
Sam helped him.
He got through to the bedroom, and eased down onto the bed. He tilted backwards and Sam righted him.
“Just a second. Let me dry you. Then you can lie down.”
Dean drifted, as Sam ran the towel over him. It was soft. Softer than anything in hell. Hell was hard. Hard, dark and cold.
“Dean, how hot did you have the shower?” Sam asked.
Dean shrugged, then winced, “I dunno…”
“’Cause you’re really warm.”
A palm found his forehead and pressed in firm.
“Holy crap…”
“’S alright, Sammy.”
“No, it’s not, Dean,” he mumbled, “Okay, you can lie back.”
Sam helped him down onto his bed, rolling him onto his right side.
“Here, put this pillow between your legs.”
Dean didn’t know how suddenly Sam seemed to know exactly what to do.
“I’ll be right back.”
Dean teetered on the line of consciousness. He struggled to stay where he was. To stay on the bed, with soft pillows and soft sheets and soft brother’s voices. As he tiptoed towards sleep everything grew hard. Hard racks, hard hooks in his side, hard voices, no voices… alone. Again.
“Dean, hey. Open your mouth.”
Dean clung to Sam’s voice, forced his eyes open.
“Gotta take your temperature, stay with me.”
I’m with you, Sammy.
“Good,” Sam laughed.
The thermometer was placed under his tongue and eventually it beeped.
…
Sam removed the thermometer from his brother’s slack mouth.
103.4.
“Dean?”
Dean was out.
Sam rose quickly and turned on the ceiling fan to full, wishing now he’d left Dean wet. His fever was too high. Way too high.
He went out to the kitchen. He checked the freezer. They didn’t have any ice left. How could Sam have not anticipated this? Dean was running through ice rapidly and he’d used up the last of it about an hour ago. They didn’t have a back up. They didn’t have ice packs, cold packs, nothing. He opened the fridge in his useless search and saw the takeaway container carrying Maxine’s homemade lasagne. It had a landline number scrawled on the top, beneath the words ‘Dave and Maxine’.
Sam reached for his phone, dialling the number with slippery fingers.
“Hello? Maxine?”
“Sam, is that you?”
“I need some help.”
…