Fic: Taking Some Time (SPN) Chapter Fifteen
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.
A/N: Dean in the last part of this chapter is very close to how I've been feeling the last few days, with my own back and neck issues. It's tough. It'll get better again... but right now, it's tough. So a very big, special thanks for supporting this story. It's helpful.
Taking Some Time
Chapter Fifteen
Dean needed a drink. Like really needed a drink. His hands were shaking, his heart pounding. His mouth filled up with saliva at the thought of a sip of jack, or beer, or anything. He just needed something.
He was sitting on his bed in his room, nebuliser mark over his face, mist flying around him. After his walk and his crying session, he was finding it harder to get a breath. He didn’t know if it was from anxiety or the chest infection or what, but he was feeling terrible. He just needed to shake this off, everything was closing in around him and he felt trapped. He just wanted something to go right. Why shouldn’t one thing go right for him? Oh yeah, he’d done insurmountable torture in hell.
He sniffed, trying to breathe through his nose but everything was so clogged, painful and throbbing behind his cheekbones. Yep, don’t forget that pesky sinus infection either. He grumbled under his breath. Maybe a drink wasn’t a good idea. He needed to kick this, so the antibiotics needed a chance to work. He could see that now. Didn’t mean if someone put a bottle in front of him he’d be able to say no.
After he’d spoken to Sam he’d shut himself in his room. He was achy, in pain, but he decided to clamp down on voicing it. He figured Sam knew by now. And now he knew what it was from, how it all happened. Dean had never mentioned it to him because he’d never wanted to admit that his dad had gotten it wrong. Sure, they were both partly to blame for things going the way they did, but John had said he had it under control, thought he knew exactly what to do… and he didn’t listen. Dean had told him not to send him in there alone and he didn’t listen. He never friggen listened. And two people died. Kids.
Dean’s chest was clenching up and he coughed, realising the mist had disappeared and the sweet medicine had run out. He lifted his clumsy right hand and pulled the mask off his face. He attempted to breathe through his nose but he was so stuffy, nothing was getting through there.
“Okay,” he whispered to himself, “You need to relax.”
He stumbled into his bathroom and turned on the hot tap in the shower, perching himself on the toilet lid, and pushing the door shut. Steam was what he needed. That might break up the solid block in his nasal passage.
For a while it didn’t seem to be doing anything at all. The heat had made him sweat, but his sweat was cold. A droplet ran down his back between his shoulder blades like an icy finger tracing his spine. He shivered and wrapped his arm around his chest. A cough bubbled up that he directed towards his shoulder.
“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, giving a subconscious sniff.
Air vibrated up his nasal passage into his sinuses, and he snuffled wetly.
He hastily grabbed the toilet paper from the roll and ripped off about 1000 squares, quickly bundling them to his face.
“Huh’TTSSSCHHuh! Oh my god…”
He blew his nose and a mass of hot, sticky mucus came rushing out, gurgling into the scratchy toilet paper. He glanced briefly at the mess before folding it in on itself to find a dry part, quickly, as he sneezed three more times. Wet, forceful. He blew again. Green.
He coughed until he saw stars, the same green gunk coming up out of his lungs to land in the toilet paper.
“Better out than in,” he grumbled, congestedly, his breath hot, voice crackling.
He must have sneezed another ten times before there was a tentative knock on the door and Sam’s concerned voice.
“Dean? You okay? You don’t sound so good.”
“You can come in,” he tried to talk through the congestion, ended up coughing.
Sam opened the door and his jaw dropped.
“Dean! It’s a friggen sauna in here! Are you trying to bring your fever back?” he quickly shut the water off and turned to his brother, taking in his appearance in a glance.
Dean knew he looked like crap. Sitting hunched on the edge of the toilet, wads of used up toilet paper on the floor and another bunch nestled over his face, catching his hot breath. He could hear the rattle in his own lungs as he breathed, could feel the sweat dripping, running towards the end of his nose to get lost in the toilet paper. He felt sick to his stomach and was trying so hard not to throw up, because the congestion that was clearing out his nose was also clearing down the back, running down his throat and into his belly, churning. He swallowed thickly.
“Whoa, man,” Sam was crouched in front of him, hand on his good shoulder, which Dean realised was keeping him from falling on his face, “You look like you’re gonna pass out.”
“I’m okay,” he mumbled, not game enough to remove the tissues. He sneezed again.
“Well, I guess the steam worked,” Sam glanced around at the state of the room, the state of his brother.
“Yeah,” Dean’s voice crackled and he coughed again, sticky chunks landing in the toilet paper, “Gross…” he mumbled, because… yeah, gross.
“I was coming to ask you if you wanted lunch. I was gonna make burgers.”
“Urgh,” Dean groaned, sniffing experimentally and lowering the toilet paper.
“Do you want soup?” Sam asked as if the question was a surprise even to him.
Dean furrowed his brow, panting through his mouth, “Chick’n noodle?”
Sam smiled, patted his brother’s knee, “Chicken noodle.”
…
Dean submitted to his brother’s help, mostly because he was still sneezing every five seconds. But at least he could breathe… well, sort of. Sam propped him up in his bed on a stack of pillows, placing a tissue box at his elbow.
Dean bunched the tissues gratefully around his nose and didn’t stop sneezing.
“Do you want me to move the TV in here?” Sam asked, looking over Dean’s feeble body.
“Nah,” Dean’s voice cracked, unable to make an ‘n’ sound in his current state.
He was still pouting over the conversation from earlier that day. Hiding out in his room was his plan, and even though Sam was needed to help him up off the toilet and to his bed, didn’t mean he was going to talk to him more than he had to.
“Okay,” Sam said, hovering by the door, “I’ll just make you some soup.”
Dean nodded, sneezing into a tissue.
…
He fell asleep while waiting for the soup. Woke up in a cold sweat, trembling and afraid, Sam’s name on his lips, feeling every sensation of a knife being drawn from throat to naval, fire in his gut.
He couldn’t hear Sam thundering down the hallway so he must have been having a quiet night terror, muttering and whispering and whimpering, not thrashing and screaming and crying.
He coughed a sticky lump into some tissues and threw them on the floor. He had a dull ache in his ribs, a knotted feeling in his lower back, and a hot knife through his shoulder. His nose was raw and felt hollow, abused, but better than it had been.
Sam tapped on his door and opened it, bringing in a tray with a bowl on it, as well as a glass of orange juice and an array of pills.
Dean laughed, “Where’d you get that tray?”
Sam smiled, looking like he felt a little silly, “Bobby bought it with all that stuff.”
“Feel like I’m at a bed and breakfast.”
Sam chuckled, “Yeah…” he placed the tray at his brother’s side.
“Smells great,” Dean lifted the bowl onto his lap.
“Surprised you can smell anything,” Sam said, sitting down on the edge of the bed.
“Yeah, me too.”
Sam picked at a thread on the bedspread.
Dean took a tentative mouthful of noodles and broth.
Sam was looking up at him expectantly, waiting for the verdict.
“This is great,” Dean’s voice crackled, but he didn’t bother clearing his throat. Instead he took another spoonful of the soup to his lips, relishing the warmth on his throat.
“It’s canned,” Sam smirked.
Dean shrugged, “Good things come in cans.”
Sam looked down, smiling, “Fruit.”
“Soup,” Dean nodded towards the bowl.
“Beans.”
“Spaghetti.”
“Soda.”
“Beer.”
Sam’s expression changed and Dean glanced away out the window. Why the hell did he mention beer?
“Uh, you should take your medicine when you’re finished with that. You’ve gotta be hurting now,” Sam said, standing up.
Dean nodded, but didn’t say anything.
“You need anything else?”
Dean watched the bowl teeter on his lap as he raised the spoon, “Got a spare hand?”
Sam took a step towards him.
“I’m kidding,” he smiled, “I’m fine.”
Sam furrowed his brow like he didn’t believe it, “Okay… I’ll be outside. I’m gonna borrow Dave’s mower and mow the lawn.”
“You sound excited.”
Sam smirked, “Enjoy your soup. Get some rest.”
…
He could feel the tears burn behind his eyes, his breath quickening, because no position was comfortable. Any way he moved the pain in his back was still there, intensifying. He could feel himself teetering on the edge of a full blown panic attack, because it hurt so bad.
You’re fine. You’re fine. You’re fine.
He was shaken from his daze by the familiar rock riff as his phone buzzed near his hip. It was Bobby.
“Hey, what’s up?” his voice was strained.
Crap, get it together.
“Hey, Dean. Is Sam there? He’s not answering his phone.”
Dean struggled forward, sitting up on the edge of his bed, panting.
“He’s mowing the lawn, believe it or not. Why? What do you need?” Dean coughed when he got to the end of his sentence, tilting the mouthpiece of the phone away from his face.
“I need him to look something up for me. I’m in a bit of a jam. Need to know what can kill a Ciguapa.”
“A what now?”
“A Ciguapa. They’re usually found in the Dominican republic.”
“Well, what the hell is one doing here?” Dean winced, coughed again.
“Dean… could you get Sam for me, son?”
Dean pushed himself to his feet, fighting through the black spots in his vision.
“Dammit, Bobby. I’m fine. I’ll call you back.”
Dean flipped his phone closed and leant against the wall. He took a breath, wiped his nose on his sleeve and pushed off, making his way to Sam’s room. He snagged his laptop and headed for the kitchen, settling himself in front of it at the breakfast bar. He grabbed the bottle of Tylenol and shoved a couple in his mouth. He was going to need something to get through this.
“Okay, Ciguapa… See-gwaa-pah.” he exaggerated the syllables as he moved his mouth.
His eyes widened as he read about it.
“What the hell’s Bobby doing taking this on alone?” he muttered to himself.
He took his hand off the track pad to rub at his lower back, feeling the blood run away from his face.
“Shit,” he pressed the heel of his palm into his eye.
He took a moment, then sniffed, blinking owlishly.
Get. It. Together.
He tapped away, researching the lore. These looked like nasty suckers. Kinda hot though, he thought, staring at a depiction of the creature.
His back spasmed and he froze.
Oh, God. It’s too much…
He pulled open sweaty eyelids, focusing on the computer in front of him. There it was.
He grabbed his phone and called Bobby.
“Dean, tell me you got somethin’,” Bobby sounded out of breath.
Called in the nick of time.
“You gotta burn her,” he grunted, “But don’t get close. You can’t let her look you in the eye and don’t let her touch your skin. Use a flare gun or something.”
“Thanks, boy!”
Bobby hung up and Dean pressed his phone to his forehead. It killed him not to be with Bobby right now, but this had given him something. He could help. He didn’t have to be out of the game completely. Now he had something… Now he had hope.
He pushed himself up out of the chair and heard the door open as Sam walked in. He gripped the countertop, vision sliding, world tilting.
“Dean? You alright?”
Sam was across the room in two seconds.
Being upright had caused a surge of pain that was hard to see through, but he was coming out of it slowly, colour and sound returning to the world.
He opened his mouth to answer but Sam was already talking again.
“Ciguapa? What the hell is that? Are you hunting?”
“Bobby called,” Dean grumbled, “Needed help.”
“Huh,” Sam was bent over, reading off the screen.
“Sam?” Dean asked, feeling the panic rise up his chest.
“Yeah.”
“It’s bad.”
Sam looked at him, really looked at him, and Dean was glad he saw understanding in his eyes, because he was at the point where he couldn’t do it alone. The pain was too much.
Sam straightened and put a hand around his brothers arm, “What do you need?”
…
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.
A/N: Dean in the last part of this chapter is very close to how I've been feeling the last few days, with my own back and neck issues. It's tough. It'll get better again... but right now, it's tough. So a very big, special thanks for supporting this story. It's helpful.
Taking Some Time
Chapter Fifteen
Dean needed a drink. Like really needed a drink. His hands were shaking, his heart pounding. His mouth filled up with saliva at the thought of a sip of jack, or beer, or anything. He just needed something.
He was sitting on his bed in his room, nebuliser mark over his face, mist flying around him. After his walk and his crying session, he was finding it harder to get a breath. He didn’t know if it was from anxiety or the chest infection or what, but he was feeling terrible. He just needed to shake this off, everything was closing in around him and he felt trapped. He just wanted something to go right. Why shouldn’t one thing go right for him? Oh yeah, he’d done insurmountable torture in hell.
He sniffed, trying to breathe through his nose but everything was so clogged, painful and throbbing behind his cheekbones. Yep, don’t forget that pesky sinus infection either. He grumbled under his breath. Maybe a drink wasn’t a good idea. He needed to kick this, so the antibiotics needed a chance to work. He could see that now. Didn’t mean if someone put a bottle in front of him he’d be able to say no.
After he’d spoken to Sam he’d shut himself in his room. He was achy, in pain, but he decided to clamp down on voicing it. He figured Sam knew by now. And now he knew what it was from, how it all happened. Dean had never mentioned it to him because he’d never wanted to admit that his dad had gotten it wrong. Sure, they were both partly to blame for things going the way they did, but John had said he had it under control, thought he knew exactly what to do… and he didn’t listen. Dean had told him not to send him in there alone and he didn’t listen. He never friggen listened. And two people died. Kids.
Dean’s chest was clenching up and he coughed, realising the mist had disappeared and the sweet medicine had run out. He lifted his clumsy right hand and pulled the mask off his face. He attempted to breathe through his nose but he was so stuffy, nothing was getting through there.
“Okay,” he whispered to himself, “You need to relax.”
He stumbled into his bathroom and turned on the hot tap in the shower, perching himself on the toilet lid, and pushing the door shut. Steam was what he needed. That might break up the solid block in his nasal passage.
For a while it didn’t seem to be doing anything at all. The heat had made him sweat, but his sweat was cold. A droplet ran down his back between his shoulder blades like an icy finger tracing his spine. He shivered and wrapped his arm around his chest. A cough bubbled up that he directed towards his shoulder.
“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, giving a subconscious sniff.
Air vibrated up his nasal passage into his sinuses, and he snuffled wetly.
He hastily grabbed the toilet paper from the roll and ripped off about 1000 squares, quickly bundling them to his face.
“Huh’TTSSSCHHuh! Oh my god…”
He blew his nose and a mass of hot, sticky mucus came rushing out, gurgling into the scratchy toilet paper. He glanced briefly at the mess before folding it in on itself to find a dry part, quickly, as he sneezed three more times. Wet, forceful. He blew again. Green.
He coughed until he saw stars, the same green gunk coming up out of his lungs to land in the toilet paper.
“Better out than in,” he grumbled, congestedly, his breath hot, voice crackling.
He must have sneezed another ten times before there was a tentative knock on the door and Sam’s concerned voice.
“Dean? You okay? You don’t sound so good.”
“You can come in,” he tried to talk through the congestion, ended up coughing.
Sam opened the door and his jaw dropped.
“Dean! It’s a friggen sauna in here! Are you trying to bring your fever back?” he quickly shut the water off and turned to his brother, taking in his appearance in a glance.
Dean knew he looked like crap. Sitting hunched on the edge of the toilet, wads of used up toilet paper on the floor and another bunch nestled over his face, catching his hot breath. He could hear the rattle in his own lungs as he breathed, could feel the sweat dripping, running towards the end of his nose to get lost in the toilet paper. He felt sick to his stomach and was trying so hard not to throw up, because the congestion that was clearing out his nose was also clearing down the back, running down his throat and into his belly, churning. He swallowed thickly.
“Whoa, man,” Sam was crouched in front of him, hand on his good shoulder, which Dean realised was keeping him from falling on his face, “You look like you’re gonna pass out.”
“I’m okay,” he mumbled, not game enough to remove the tissues. He sneezed again.
“Well, I guess the steam worked,” Sam glanced around at the state of the room, the state of his brother.
“Yeah,” Dean’s voice crackled and he coughed again, sticky chunks landing in the toilet paper, “Gross…” he mumbled, because… yeah, gross.
“I was coming to ask you if you wanted lunch. I was gonna make burgers.”
“Urgh,” Dean groaned, sniffing experimentally and lowering the toilet paper.
“Do you want soup?” Sam asked as if the question was a surprise even to him.
Dean furrowed his brow, panting through his mouth, “Chick’n noodle?”
Sam smiled, patted his brother’s knee, “Chicken noodle.”
…
Dean submitted to his brother’s help, mostly because he was still sneezing every five seconds. But at least he could breathe… well, sort of. Sam propped him up in his bed on a stack of pillows, placing a tissue box at his elbow.
Dean bunched the tissues gratefully around his nose and didn’t stop sneezing.
“Do you want me to move the TV in here?” Sam asked, looking over Dean’s feeble body.
“Nah,” Dean’s voice cracked, unable to make an ‘n’ sound in his current state.
He was still pouting over the conversation from earlier that day. Hiding out in his room was his plan, and even though Sam was needed to help him up off the toilet and to his bed, didn’t mean he was going to talk to him more than he had to.
“Okay,” Sam said, hovering by the door, “I’ll just make you some soup.”
Dean nodded, sneezing into a tissue.
…
He fell asleep while waiting for the soup. Woke up in a cold sweat, trembling and afraid, Sam’s name on his lips, feeling every sensation of a knife being drawn from throat to naval, fire in his gut.
He couldn’t hear Sam thundering down the hallway so he must have been having a quiet night terror, muttering and whispering and whimpering, not thrashing and screaming and crying.
He coughed a sticky lump into some tissues and threw them on the floor. He had a dull ache in his ribs, a knotted feeling in his lower back, and a hot knife through his shoulder. His nose was raw and felt hollow, abused, but better than it had been.
Sam tapped on his door and opened it, bringing in a tray with a bowl on it, as well as a glass of orange juice and an array of pills.
Dean laughed, “Where’d you get that tray?”
Sam smiled, looking like he felt a little silly, “Bobby bought it with all that stuff.”
“Feel like I’m at a bed and breakfast.”
Sam chuckled, “Yeah…” he placed the tray at his brother’s side.
“Smells great,” Dean lifted the bowl onto his lap.
“Surprised you can smell anything,” Sam said, sitting down on the edge of the bed.
“Yeah, me too.”
Sam picked at a thread on the bedspread.
Dean took a tentative mouthful of noodles and broth.
Sam was looking up at him expectantly, waiting for the verdict.
“This is great,” Dean’s voice crackled, but he didn’t bother clearing his throat. Instead he took another spoonful of the soup to his lips, relishing the warmth on his throat.
“It’s canned,” Sam smirked.
Dean shrugged, “Good things come in cans.”
Sam looked down, smiling, “Fruit.”
“Soup,” Dean nodded towards the bowl.
“Beans.”
“Spaghetti.”
“Soda.”
“Beer.”
Sam’s expression changed and Dean glanced away out the window. Why the hell did he mention beer?
“Uh, you should take your medicine when you’re finished with that. You’ve gotta be hurting now,” Sam said, standing up.
Dean nodded, but didn’t say anything.
“You need anything else?”
Dean watched the bowl teeter on his lap as he raised the spoon, “Got a spare hand?”
Sam took a step towards him.
“I’m kidding,” he smiled, “I’m fine.”
Sam furrowed his brow like he didn’t believe it, “Okay… I’ll be outside. I’m gonna borrow Dave’s mower and mow the lawn.”
“You sound excited.”
Sam smirked, “Enjoy your soup. Get some rest.”
…
He could feel the tears burn behind his eyes, his breath quickening, because no position was comfortable. Any way he moved the pain in his back was still there, intensifying. He could feel himself teetering on the edge of a full blown panic attack, because it hurt so bad.
You’re fine. You’re fine. You’re fine.
He was shaken from his daze by the familiar rock riff as his phone buzzed near his hip. It was Bobby.
“Hey, what’s up?” his voice was strained.
Crap, get it together.
“Hey, Dean. Is Sam there? He’s not answering his phone.”
Dean struggled forward, sitting up on the edge of his bed, panting.
“He’s mowing the lawn, believe it or not. Why? What do you need?” Dean coughed when he got to the end of his sentence, tilting the mouthpiece of the phone away from his face.
“I need him to look something up for me. I’m in a bit of a jam. Need to know what can kill a Ciguapa.”
“A what now?”
“A Ciguapa. They’re usually found in the Dominican republic.”
“Well, what the hell is one doing here?” Dean winced, coughed again.
“Dean… could you get Sam for me, son?”
Dean pushed himself to his feet, fighting through the black spots in his vision.
“Dammit, Bobby. I’m fine. I’ll call you back.”
Dean flipped his phone closed and leant against the wall. He took a breath, wiped his nose on his sleeve and pushed off, making his way to Sam’s room. He snagged his laptop and headed for the kitchen, settling himself in front of it at the breakfast bar. He grabbed the bottle of Tylenol and shoved a couple in his mouth. He was going to need something to get through this.
“Okay, Ciguapa… See-gwaa-pah.” he exaggerated the syllables as he moved his mouth.
His eyes widened as he read about it.
“What the hell’s Bobby doing taking this on alone?” he muttered to himself.
He took his hand off the track pad to rub at his lower back, feeling the blood run away from his face.
“Shit,” he pressed the heel of his palm into his eye.
He took a moment, then sniffed, blinking owlishly.
Get. It. Together.
He tapped away, researching the lore. These looked like nasty suckers. Kinda hot though, he thought, staring at a depiction of the creature.
His back spasmed and he froze.
Oh, God. It’s too much…
He pulled open sweaty eyelids, focusing on the computer in front of him. There it was.
He grabbed his phone and called Bobby.
“Dean, tell me you got somethin’,” Bobby sounded out of breath.
Called in the nick of time.
“You gotta burn her,” he grunted, “But don’t get close. You can’t let her look you in the eye and don’t let her touch your skin. Use a flare gun or something.”
“Thanks, boy!”
Bobby hung up and Dean pressed his phone to his forehead. It killed him not to be with Bobby right now, but this had given him something. He could help. He didn’t have to be out of the game completely. Now he had something… Now he had hope.
He pushed himself up out of the chair and heard the door open as Sam walked in. He gripped the countertop, vision sliding, world tilting.
“Dean? You alright?”
Sam was across the room in two seconds.
Being upright had caused a surge of pain that was hard to see through, but he was coming out of it slowly, colour and sound returning to the world.
He opened his mouth to answer but Sam was already talking again.
“Ciguapa? What the hell is that? Are you hunting?”
“Bobby called,” Dean grumbled, “Needed help.”
“Huh,” Sam was bent over, reading off the screen.
“Sam?” Dean asked, feeling the panic rise up his chest.
“Yeah.”
“It’s bad.”
Sam looked at him, really looked at him, and Dean was glad he saw understanding in his eyes, because he was at the point where he couldn’t do it alone. The pain was too much.
Sam straightened and put a hand around his brothers arm, “What do you need?”
…