Fic: Taking Some Time (SPN) Chapter Twelve
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. Angst.
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 Twelve
Dean hit his knees and began to list to the side, and, dammit, if he landed on that left shoulder Sam would be dealing with more than just nauseous Dean. Sam raced to his brother and guided him back onto his lap, cradling his torso and head as Dean crumpled in a heap. Sam tried to avoid the sick on Dean’s shirt.
“You’re fine, huh?”
Dean glared up at Sam, then swallowed convulsively. Sam tilted Dean to the side and he threw up again, on the floor.
“Don’ feel good, S’mmy…” Dean moaned, coughing.
“Yeah, I know, man.”
Sam ran his hand over Dean’s forehead and cheek. He was warm, sure, but he wasn’t burning up.
“Think I need to call the doctor out?” Sam asked his limp brother.
Dean didn’t respond, eyes rolling back in his head.
“Dean, Dean, Dean! Hey!”
Dean’s eyes sprung back open.
“Stay awake, Dean. I know you feel sick, but stay awake. I gotta get you cleaned up.”
Sam pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed Bobby, while Dean turned and threw up again, coughing up strings of yellow bile.
Sam braced a hand on Dean’s chest, rubbing up and down the line of his sternum, feeling the desperate inhales, and racing heart beneath his hand.
“Hey, Sam.”
“Bobby! I need you to come home. Dean’s sick.”
“I’m jumping in the car now, son. What’s wrong?”
“Just hurry. I might need you to help me lift him.”
Sam hung up the phone as Bobby continued to bark in his ear. Okay, he probably shouldn’t have left it at that, but Dean was growing heavier on his lap and he needed to try and get him to a bed before he was completely out for the count.
“Dean, hey. With me?” he said, tapping his cheek.
Dean looked at Sam for a long time through half shut eyes, as if trying to work out who it was talking to him.
“Sammy.”
“Yeah, it’s me. It’s Sammy. Come on,” Sam tried to hoist him up, but Dean didn’t seem to want to move.
“Help me out,” Sam said, through gritted teeth. He didn’t want to hurt Dean more than he already was.
“’M good, here…” Dean mumbled, “Leave me alone.”
Sam threw his head back, “Why do you have to be such a jerk? I’m trying to help you. You can’t stay on the floor.”
“Get off me,” Dean began to bat at Sam’s hands.
“Jesus, Dean!”
Sam closed his eyes, counted to ten, took a deep breath.
It’s not his fault. It’s not his fault. It’s not his fault.
“Dizzy, Sam… Can’t get up.”
Sam felt a pang of guilt. Dean’s medication made him dizzy. He was too dizzy to get up. That’s why he was feeling so sick.
“Okay, okay, sorry,” Sam muttered, lying Dean down on the ground, “We’ll just wait, okay? We’ll wait till you can get up. Let me clean you up.”
Dean wasn’t wearing his sling, which was probably a blessing because the damn thing was expensive and Sam didn’t want to have to wash vomit out of it. He unbuttoned Dean’s shirt, before realizing he probably wouldn’t be able to get it off around his shoulders. Okay, one thing at a time.
Dean eyes were closed but Sam could tell he wasn’t unconscious, because they weren’t gently closed, they were slammed shut.
“Dean, I’m just gonna grab a towel. I’ll be right back.”
Dean moaned and Sam took that as a sign he understood.
Sam cleaned up the floor around Dean, grabbing a pillow from his bed and sliding it under Dean’s head. He grabbed the trashcan from his room just in case Dean got dizzy again. He still couldn’t take Dean’s shirt off so he just folded it on itself for the meantime. There wasn’t much on it anyway.
“Feel better?” Sam asked, sitting on the floor next to Dean, watching his bare chest heave up and down.
Dean opened his eyes to look at Sam and closed them again quickly.
“Whoa, bad idea,” he groaned.
“It’ll pass, man. It’ll just take a little time.”
“At least it doesn’t hurt so bad,” Dean chuckled.
“Yeah… but it’s not doing your back any good lying on the ground. You ready to move yet?”
Dean shook his head slightly.
“Gonna throw up?” Sam asked, moving the trashcan closer.
“No,” Dean breathed.
Sam sighed, “You can’t wait a week for this doctor…”
“What does it matter, Sam?” Dean paused to cough, “I’m useless now anyway…”
“No, you’re not. Shut up,” Sam bit back. Dean saying crap like that pissed him off, because Dean was the person he looked up to, who he saw as indestructible, and if he was useless, what did that make Sam?
…
Bobby arrived and helped Sam get him up, shirt off, and onto the couch, because Dean didn’t want to go to bed during the day, because that might imply that he was sick or something. Jerk.
Once he did get through the worst of the dizziness, though, he looked much better. Less grey, more white… well, it was an improvement.
“What you buy me?” Dean croaked, craning his neck to look at Bobby and Sam lugging groceries and other assorted items through the front door.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Bobby chuckled.
“Seriously, what did you buy?” Sam asked, placing the bags on the ground, “There’s a lot of stuff here.”
“Well, you boys have never had a permanent address. And if I’m gonna be spending some time here, I’d like more than one pot and one spoon to cook with.”
Sam rolled his eyes.
“So, boring stuff,” Dean huffed, lying back down. His handprint scar looked redder today, maybe because his whole shoulder was red, mottled with yellow and green bruises.
“Boring, huh. I guess I’ll just take the DVD player back…”
Dean’s eyes grew wide and he looked over, “Seriously?”
Sam’s facial expression probably mirrored Dean’s. He’d never really had anything like that. He was used to watching crappy soap operas and porn, with awful quality, on a 12 inch screen. This place had a TV, a big TV from what they were used to, and now they had a DVD player too?
Sam sighed sadly, “That’s awesome, Bobby, but we don’t have any movies.”
“Yeah, well, I thought so. I picked you up a couple.”
Sam felt his face go red.
“Bobby you didn’t have to…”
“Sure, I did. Ain’t no trouble at all.”
“Yeah, he wanted to do it, Sam. Come on,” Dean added, earning another chuckle from the older man.
“Why don’t you set the thing up, Sam, while I fix us some lunch.”
“Should’a had you come round sooner,” Dean grinned.
“Well someone had to take out that werewolf pack.”
Bobby had said it flippantly, and it was too late then to take it back. Dean’s face hardened. Without his shirt on Sam could see all the muscles in his chest and shoulders stiffen. Bobby’s face grew dark, knowing what he’d done. Dean hated this. He hated lying around all day.
“What’s it matter? I’m useless now anyway…”
Dean was built to hunt. It had been engrained in him since the day he carried Sam out of their burning house. And now he was here. Like this.
Dean pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the lounge.
“Dean…”
“I’m, uh… I’m just gonna get a shirt and go for a drive.”
“Dean, you can’t drive…”
Dean stood up, solid, and walked down the hall to his room.
“Sam, I didn’t mean…”
“No, it’s not your fault, Bobby.”
Dean came back out wearing a t-shirt. Still no sling. Sam didn’t know how he’d got the thing over his head by himself, but his pain pills were pretty effective, didn’t mean he wasn’t going to hurt later for it though.
“Keys,” he demanded.
“Dean.”
“Keys, Sam,” Dean held out his hand and Sam reluctantly pulled them from his pocket and handed them to his brother.
“Dean, come on, son. Sam’s about to set the DVD player up.”
“Thanks, but I’ll pass,” Dean grumbled, as he shut walked out the front door, slamming it behind him.
…
Dean’s right hand gripped the steering wheel. He’d realized it was a mistake after he’d had to back the impala out of the garage with one hand. Baby was a big girl and wasn’t always the easiest at turning around. Still, he’d needed to get out, get away. It was bad enough how much he hurt. It was bad enough living tortured and tormented by nightmares and flashbacks of hell. That was bad enough. Hunting was his saving grace. Saving people. Doing something to try and erase all the things he’d done downstairs, how much pain he’d inflicted on others. It didn’t wipe it out, not at all, nothing ever could, but it eased the burden, took the bite out of the sting. Now he couldn’t even do that. He couldn’t even do what God had pulled him out of the pit to do. He was a failure. Useless. And he’d never be what he used to be. He’d never climb out of this hole he was drowning in. Never.
So he thought, hey, drown away, and found a bar.
It was the same bar they’d gone to for dinner that night he’d actually left the house. It was the only other thing he’d seen in this town.
He hadn’t brought a jacket. He was wearing a black t-shirt, jeans and boots. No sling. No ice for his shoulder, no heat for his back. Pain killers sitting like cement in his stomach. The taste of chalk in his mouth. His face and arms burned and prickled and he knew his fever was climbing slowly. Lava in his lungs, cotton wool in his head.
“Hey,” It was the gorgeous hostess from the other night behind the bar, “You’re back without your friend.”
Dean hugged his left arm into his chest as he sat down, wincing, “Brother,” he corrected, before coughing into his too tight fist.
“You okay?” she raised an eyebrow, “You’re looking even more beat up than the other night… No wonder you never called me.”
Her playful smile would usually have Dean leaning across the counter, wrapping her around his little finger, heading out the door with her, but today…
“Look, can I just get a whiskey?” he drawled, his voice catching on the mucus in his throat.
“Sure,” she looked concerned, but poured him a glass.
The place was dead right now, so she stayed in front of him and poured herself one too.
The whiskey burned his throat and he coughed urgently, body heaving, wet and nasty sounding. His shoulder was jostled by the fit, and his neck and shoulder muscles clenched in sympathy.
“Argh, son of a bitch,” he wrapped his right hand around his left shoulder, trying to hold it there. Really should have worn the sling, Winchester.
“Here.”
He looked up and the hostess, Riley, he read on her name tag, had poured a glass of water and set it in front of him.
“Need some asprin or something?” she asked.
Dean sipped the water and shook his head, “No, I’m on enough painkillers already,” he managed a smirk.
“Should you be drinking?” she quirked an eyebrow.
“Probably not,” Dean said, taking another sip of whiskey, “But I didn’t come here for a lecture.”
“Hey,” she held her hands up, “not trying to give you one. You seem like you got a lot going on. I’m not big on judging other people. You make your own decisions.”
Dean nodded, “I like your attitude, Riley.”
“Oh, we’re on a first name basis are we?” she grinned, “That would work if I knew your name, stranger?”
Dean smirked, but his gaze stayed down, towards his whiskey, “Dean,” he cleared his throat.
“Dean,” she nodded.
Dean stifled a sneeze against his wrist and accepted the napkin he pushed into his hand.
“Thanks,” he sniffed.
“No problem.”
…
Dean stayed until his pills started wearing off. He’d drunk quite a bit but he wasn’t drunk. Too much going on in his head. Too much adrenaline keeping him sober. In the last hour the bar had gotten more crowded, and the few people that had been there when he arrived were well and truly cut off.
He knew it was time to head back. That Sam and Bobby would be worried. More importantly he wasn’t going to miss taking his medication. Dizzy and puking his guts up was better than the fire in his back and shoulder, and he’d choose it every time. He’d felt a few shivers run through him and air was starting to hurt his exposed skin.
Yeah, time to go home.
He pushed off his barstool, deciding not to say goodbye to Riley, better to just cut and run. Nothing would ever happen anyway.
…
Dean came stumbling in just as the sun was going down. He smelled of whiskey and beer, and smoke. Limping slightly and hugging his arm, like it was about to fall off.
Sam wanted to yell and scream. Remind him he wasn’t supposed to be drinking. Punch him out and chain him to his bed so he could keep an eye on him. But Bobby had told him to let him be.
“Dean’s always been a guy to go away and think about things. He needs to be on his own sometimes.”
Sam agreed, but it didn’t mean he had to like it.
“Hey,” he said, watching Dean settle on the couch.
Dean glanced at him, “Hey, Sammy.”
“You want some ice?”
Dean sighed, corners of his mouth turning up, “Yeah, thanks… that’s be awesome.”
Dean allowed Sam to help him into a button down, fix his sling over the top, lie his heat pad on the lounge, strap some ice to his shoulder and prop him up with some pillows so he could breathe comfortably. Sure, Sam was pissed that Dean had left, that he’d been making this hard for all of them, but it was the little things. It was moments like this when Dean accepted his help. When Dean realized he needed Sam. Those moments… they made it all worth it.
…
When Dean woke up from his nap he was sore and slightly hungover. Okay, maybe he had been a little drunk. He hadn’t dreamt, thank God, or whatever.
Sam was there, Bobby too, talking a few metres away in the kitchen.
“Keep it down,” Dean groaned, faking annoyance, “Some of us are trying to sleep.”
“Well, look who decided to join us,” Bobby smirked, “Thought you were gonna sleep through the night.”
Dean shifted, trying to ease the ache in his back.
“Yeah, well, all this sleeping makes me tired.”
Sam brought Dean a glass of water and a handful of pills.
“Dean, I called your doctor about the painkillers making you sick.”
“Mm…” Dean said, pushing himself to sit upright.
“He said it can happen with those drugs but he wants you to come in tomorrow so he can change you on to something else. He’s going to review your scans while you’re there as well.”
“How’d you swing that?” Dean croaked.
Sam tilted his head, “Are you hungry? Bobby making dinner.”
Dean rolled his eyes at Sam’s avoidance of the question.
“I’d kill for a burger.”
Bobby chuckled, “How did I know you were gonna say that?”
…
That night Dean, Sam and Bobby ate burgers and chips, courtesy of Bobby and his new cooking utensils, and watched Indiana Jones, on their new DVD player. And all the while Dean thought about what the doctor would say tomorrow, and pretended not to be terrified.
…
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. Angst.
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 Twelve
Dean hit his knees and began to list to the side, and, dammit, if he landed on that left shoulder Sam would be dealing with more than just nauseous Dean. Sam raced to his brother and guided him back onto his lap, cradling his torso and head as Dean crumpled in a heap. Sam tried to avoid the sick on Dean’s shirt.
“You’re fine, huh?”
Dean glared up at Sam, then swallowed convulsively. Sam tilted Dean to the side and he threw up again, on the floor.
“Don’ feel good, S’mmy…” Dean moaned, coughing.
“Yeah, I know, man.”
Sam ran his hand over Dean’s forehead and cheek. He was warm, sure, but he wasn’t burning up.
“Think I need to call the doctor out?” Sam asked his limp brother.
Dean didn’t respond, eyes rolling back in his head.
“Dean, Dean, Dean! Hey!”
Dean’s eyes sprung back open.
“Stay awake, Dean. I know you feel sick, but stay awake. I gotta get you cleaned up.”
Sam pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed Bobby, while Dean turned and threw up again, coughing up strings of yellow bile.
Sam braced a hand on Dean’s chest, rubbing up and down the line of his sternum, feeling the desperate inhales, and racing heart beneath his hand.
“Hey, Sam.”
“Bobby! I need you to come home. Dean’s sick.”
“I’m jumping in the car now, son. What’s wrong?”
“Just hurry. I might need you to help me lift him.”
Sam hung up the phone as Bobby continued to bark in his ear. Okay, he probably shouldn’t have left it at that, but Dean was growing heavier on his lap and he needed to try and get him to a bed before he was completely out for the count.
“Dean, hey. With me?” he said, tapping his cheek.
Dean looked at Sam for a long time through half shut eyes, as if trying to work out who it was talking to him.
“Sammy.”
“Yeah, it’s me. It’s Sammy. Come on,” Sam tried to hoist him up, but Dean didn’t seem to want to move.
“Help me out,” Sam said, through gritted teeth. He didn’t want to hurt Dean more than he already was.
“’M good, here…” Dean mumbled, “Leave me alone.”
Sam threw his head back, “Why do you have to be such a jerk? I’m trying to help you. You can’t stay on the floor.”
“Get off me,” Dean began to bat at Sam’s hands.
“Jesus, Dean!”
Sam closed his eyes, counted to ten, took a deep breath.
It’s not his fault. It’s not his fault. It’s not his fault.
“Dizzy, Sam… Can’t get up.”
Sam felt a pang of guilt. Dean’s medication made him dizzy. He was too dizzy to get up. That’s why he was feeling so sick.
“Okay, okay, sorry,” Sam muttered, lying Dean down on the ground, “We’ll just wait, okay? We’ll wait till you can get up. Let me clean you up.”
Dean wasn’t wearing his sling, which was probably a blessing because the damn thing was expensive and Sam didn’t want to have to wash vomit out of it. He unbuttoned Dean’s shirt, before realizing he probably wouldn’t be able to get it off around his shoulders. Okay, one thing at a time.
Dean eyes were closed but Sam could tell he wasn’t unconscious, because they weren’t gently closed, they were slammed shut.
“Dean, I’m just gonna grab a towel. I’ll be right back.”
Dean moaned and Sam took that as a sign he understood.
Sam cleaned up the floor around Dean, grabbing a pillow from his bed and sliding it under Dean’s head. He grabbed the trashcan from his room just in case Dean got dizzy again. He still couldn’t take Dean’s shirt off so he just folded it on itself for the meantime. There wasn’t much on it anyway.
“Feel better?” Sam asked, sitting on the floor next to Dean, watching his bare chest heave up and down.
Dean opened his eyes to look at Sam and closed them again quickly.
“Whoa, bad idea,” he groaned.
“It’ll pass, man. It’ll just take a little time.”
“At least it doesn’t hurt so bad,” Dean chuckled.
“Yeah… but it’s not doing your back any good lying on the ground. You ready to move yet?”
Dean shook his head slightly.
“Gonna throw up?” Sam asked, moving the trashcan closer.
“No,” Dean breathed.
Sam sighed, “You can’t wait a week for this doctor…”
“What does it matter, Sam?” Dean paused to cough, “I’m useless now anyway…”
“No, you’re not. Shut up,” Sam bit back. Dean saying crap like that pissed him off, because Dean was the person he looked up to, who he saw as indestructible, and if he was useless, what did that make Sam?
…
Bobby arrived and helped Sam get him up, shirt off, and onto the couch, because Dean didn’t want to go to bed during the day, because that might imply that he was sick or something. Jerk.
Once he did get through the worst of the dizziness, though, he looked much better. Less grey, more white… well, it was an improvement.
“What you buy me?” Dean croaked, craning his neck to look at Bobby and Sam lugging groceries and other assorted items through the front door.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Bobby chuckled.
“Seriously, what did you buy?” Sam asked, placing the bags on the ground, “There’s a lot of stuff here.”
“Well, you boys have never had a permanent address. And if I’m gonna be spending some time here, I’d like more than one pot and one spoon to cook with.”
Sam rolled his eyes.
“So, boring stuff,” Dean huffed, lying back down. His handprint scar looked redder today, maybe because his whole shoulder was red, mottled with yellow and green bruises.
“Boring, huh. I guess I’ll just take the DVD player back…”
Dean’s eyes grew wide and he looked over, “Seriously?”
Sam’s facial expression probably mirrored Dean’s. He’d never really had anything like that. He was used to watching crappy soap operas and porn, with awful quality, on a 12 inch screen. This place had a TV, a big TV from what they were used to, and now they had a DVD player too?
Sam sighed sadly, “That’s awesome, Bobby, but we don’t have any movies.”
“Yeah, well, I thought so. I picked you up a couple.”
Sam felt his face go red.
“Bobby you didn’t have to…”
“Sure, I did. Ain’t no trouble at all.”
“Yeah, he wanted to do it, Sam. Come on,” Dean added, earning another chuckle from the older man.
“Why don’t you set the thing up, Sam, while I fix us some lunch.”
“Should’a had you come round sooner,” Dean grinned.
“Well someone had to take out that werewolf pack.”
Bobby had said it flippantly, and it was too late then to take it back. Dean’s face hardened. Without his shirt on Sam could see all the muscles in his chest and shoulders stiffen. Bobby’s face grew dark, knowing what he’d done. Dean hated this. He hated lying around all day.
“What’s it matter? I’m useless now anyway…”
Dean was built to hunt. It had been engrained in him since the day he carried Sam out of their burning house. And now he was here. Like this.
Dean pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the lounge.
“Dean…”
“I’m, uh… I’m just gonna get a shirt and go for a drive.”
“Dean, you can’t drive…”
Dean stood up, solid, and walked down the hall to his room.
“Sam, I didn’t mean…”
“No, it’s not your fault, Bobby.”
Dean came back out wearing a t-shirt. Still no sling. Sam didn’t know how he’d got the thing over his head by himself, but his pain pills were pretty effective, didn’t mean he wasn’t going to hurt later for it though.
“Keys,” he demanded.
“Dean.”
“Keys, Sam,” Dean held out his hand and Sam reluctantly pulled them from his pocket and handed them to his brother.
“Dean, come on, son. Sam’s about to set the DVD player up.”
“Thanks, but I’ll pass,” Dean grumbled, as he shut walked out the front door, slamming it behind him.
…
Dean’s right hand gripped the steering wheel. He’d realized it was a mistake after he’d had to back the impala out of the garage with one hand. Baby was a big girl and wasn’t always the easiest at turning around. Still, he’d needed to get out, get away. It was bad enough how much he hurt. It was bad enough living tortured and tormented by nightmares and flashbacks of hell. That was bad enough. Hunting was his saving grace. Saving people. Doing something to try and erase all the things he’d done downstairs, how much pain he’d inflicted on others. It didn’t wipe it out, not at all, nothing ever could, but it eased the burden, took the bite out of the sting. Now he couldn’t even do that. He couldn’t even do what God had pulled him out of the pit to do. He was a failure. Useless. And he’d never be what he used to be. He’d never climb out of this hole he was drowning in. Never.
So he thought, hey, drown away, and found a bar.
It was the same bar they’d gone to for dinner that night he’d actually left the house. It was the only other thing he’d seen in this town.
He hadn’t brought a jacket. He was wearing a black t-shirt, jeans and boots. No sling. No ice for his shoulder, no heat for his back. Pain killers sitting like cement in his stomach. The taste of chalk in his mouth. His face and arms burned and prickled and he knew his fever was climbing slowly. Lava in his lungs, cotton wool in his head.
“Hey,” It was the gorgeous hostess from the other night behind the bar, “You’re back without your friend.”
Dean hugged his left arm into his chest as he sat down, wincing, “Brother,” he corrected, before coughing into his too tight fist.
“You okay?” she raised an eyebrow, “You’re looking even more beat up than the other night… No wonder you never called me.”
Her playful smile would usually have Dean leaning across the counter, wrapping her around his little finger, heading out the door with her, but today…
“Look, can I just get a whiskey?” he drawled, his voice catching on the mucus in his throat.
“Sure,” she looked concerned, but poured him a glass.
The place was dead right now, so she stayed in front of him and poured herself one too.
The whiskey burned his throat and he coughed urgently, body heaving, wet and nasty sounding. His shoulder was jostled by the fit, and his neck and shoulder muscles clenched in sympathy.
“Argh, son of a bitch,” he wrapped his right hand around his left shoulder, trying to hold it there. Really should have worn the sling, Winchester.
“Here.”
He looked up and the hostess, Riley, he read on her name tag, had poured a glass of water and set it in front of him.
“Need some asprin or something?” she asked.
Dean sipped the water and shook his head, “No, I’m on enough painkillers already,” he managed a smirk.
“Should you be drinking?” she quirked an eyebrow.
“Probably not,” Dean said, taking another sip of whiskey, “But I didn’t come here for a lecture.”
“Hey,” she held her hands up, “not trying to give you one. You seem like you got a lot going on. I’m not big on judging other people. You make your own decisions.”
Dean nodded, “I like your attitude, Riley.”
“Oh, we’re on a first name basis are we?” she grinned, “That would work if I knew your name, stranger?”
Dean smirked, but his gaze stayed down, towards his whiskey, “Dean,” he cleared his throat.
“Dean,” she nodded.
Dean stifled a sneeze against his wrist and accepted the napkin he pushed into his hand.
“Thanks,” he sniffed.
“No problem.”
…
Dean stayed until his pills started wearing off. He’d drunk quite a bit but he wasn’t drunk. Too much going on in his head. Too much adrenaline keeping him sober. In the last hour the bar had gotten more crowded, and the few people that had been there when he arrived were well and truly cut off.
He knew it was time to head back. That Sam and Bobby would be worried. More importantly he wasn’t going to miss taking his medication. Dizzy and puking his guts up was better than the fire in his back and shoulder, and he’d choose it every time. He’d felt a few shivers run through him and air was starting to hurt his exposed skin.
Yeah, time to go home.
He pushed off his barstool, deciding not to say goodbye to Riley, better to just cut and run. Nothing would ever happen anyway.
…
Dean came stumbling in just as the sun was going down. He smelled of whiskey and beer, and smoke. Limping slightly and hugging his arm, like it was about to fall off.
Sam wanted to yell and scream. Remind him he wasn’t supposed to be drinking. Punch him out and chain him to his bed so he could keep an eye on him. But Bobby had told him to let him be.
“Dean’s always been a guy to go away and think about things. He needs to be on his own sometimes.”
Sam agreed, but it didn’t mean he had to like it.
“Hey,” he said, watching Dean settle on the couch.
Dean glanced at him, “Hey, Sammy.”
“You want some ice?”
Dean sighed, corners of his mouth turning up, “Yeah, thanks… that’s be awesome.”
Dean allowed Sam to help him into a button down, fix his sling over the top, lie his heat pad on the lounge, strap some ice to his shoulder and prop him up with some pillows so he could breathe comfortably. Sure, Sam was pissed that Dean had left, that he’d been making this hard for all of them, but it was the little things. It was moments like this when Dean accepted his help. When Dean realized he needed Sam. Those moments… they made it all worth it.
…
When Dean woke up from his nap he was sore and slightly hungover. Okay, maybe he had been a little drunk. He hadn’t dreamt, thank God, or whatever.
Sam was there, Bobby too, talking a few metres away in the kitchen.
“Keep it down,” Dean groaned, faking annoyance, “Some of us are trying to sleep.”
“Well, look who decided to join us,” Bobby smirked, “Thought you were gonna sleep through the night.”
Dean shifted, trying to ease the ache in his back.
“Yeah, well, all this sleeping makes me tired.”
Sam brought Dean a glass of water and a handful of pills.
“Dean, I called your doctor about the painkillers making you sick.”
“Mm…” Dean said, pushing himself to sit upright.
“He said it can happen with those drugs but he wants you to come in tomorrow so he can change you on to something else. He’s going to review your scans while you’re there as well.”
“How’d you swing that?” Dean croaked.
Sam tilted his head, “Are you hungry? Bobby making dinner.”
Dean rolled his eyes at Sam’s avoidance of the question.
“I’d kill for a burger.”
Bobby chuckled, “How did I know you were gonna say that?”
…
That night Dean, Sam and Bobby ate burgers and chips, courtesy of Bobby and his new cooking utensils, and watched Indiana Jones, on their new DVD player. And all the while Dean thought about what the doctor would say tomorrow, and pretended not to be terrified.
…