"Freedom at Point Zero"
“Freedom at Point Zero”
Prompt (by mad_server): Dean gets sick after the Jefferson Starship incident. Sam and/or Bobby watch him like a hawk. Written for the Running Hot feverfic meme, hosted by ariadnes_string.
A/N: Um… angstier than I was intending, sorry! I'm excising it by proxy. Title from the Jefferson Starship album of the same name.
Wordcount: 1000ish
It starts out quickly, a rollercoaster ride that you’re strapped into until the thing derails. One minute Dean’s staring out the window or fiddling with the radio volume, the next he’s spiking a fever so high that if Sam asked him his favorite band, he just might say Jefferson Starship.
~~~~~
“You look kind of… droopy,” Sam tells him after Dean finally turns the radio off completely.
“What do you expect?” Dean growls. “I just killed the Annie Wilkes of all creatures.”
“I know, I know.” Sam sighs and looks his brother over. “You sure you’re okay after drinking that phoenix ash?”
“I’m awesome.” Dean kneads at his forehead, then rests against the cold glass of the passenger side window. “Just tired.”
Sam pauses, shifts his hands to eleven and one. “We’re all tired.”
There are a lot of potential responses to this: currently, Dean’s too fucking tired for any of them. He closes his eyes, doesn’t move again until they’re parked underneath a starless sky somewhere in Washington. Sam’s filling up the car, and if Dean squints, he can see Bobby inside the gas station.
He feels like one of those ‘take a penny, leave a penny’ jars on the counters of the diners he and Sam have eaten their lunches in since the beginning of time, only no one ever remembered to leave him anything. They just took, and took, and took until there was nothing left, and if they could take into the negative values, hell, they’d do that too, and they had.
~~~~~
Bobby’s coming out of the door now, balancing three travel mugs. The sound of the gas tank filling stops suddenly, and Sam raps on the window, gesturing that he’s going to go inside to pay. Dean nods at him. It doesn’t matter.
Dean gets out of the car. He’s not sure if he can completely trust even his legs anymore. He shivers.
“Kid,” Bobby says when he hands over his coffee. “You look off.”
“What, first I’m droopy and now I’m off? What’s next, you gonna tell me that I need a nose job?” His voice doesn’t quite come out the way he’d thought, and Dean bends over, coughing. When he straightens up, Bobby’s right up in his face, touching his hand to his forehead. There’s a quick flashback to the salvage yard and the last time Bobby had his hands all over his face, but then Bobby’s looking scared, not angry, and he’s yelling at Sam to get his ass over here.
Dean’s leaned up against the car, his coffee setting on the roof and probably getting cold before he ever has a chance to drink it. Story of his life: the Reader’s Digest version.
“Your brother’s got a fever,” Bobby informs Sam.
Sam pauses with his travel mug midway to his mouth. “Oh. Oh.” He comes closer to Dean, fits his hand over his face. “Shit.”
Dean clears his throat. “You guest-starring on Nip/Tuck this season, too?”
Sam glares at him.
“You should check out that fever,” Bobby tells him. “Or would you like having your organs turn to goo?”
“Well, it’d be something new.”
Bobby rolls his eyes. “Sam. A little help would be nice.”
And sure, Sam coerces him into some Tylenol, more than the recommended dosage, because hey, who isn’t liver damage’s best friend around here.
~~~~~
It doesn’t help.
Half an hour later, Dean’s lying in the backseat with his head in Sam’s lap and Bobby’s driving the car. Sam’s not sure if he’s ever seen Bobby drive the Impala before, and it just adds to the inherent wrong-ness of the current situation.
Sam had tried to keep Dean awake, talking with him, but the monosyllables kept coming at longer and longer intervals and the flush kept crawling up his neck and settling in his cheeks.
And then it had all sped up again, the freefall part of the rollercoaster equation. Oh, was freefall not supposed to be in there? Yeah, this coaster didn’t come with seat belts. You had to bring those yourself, except sometimes you forgot.
The moments are like a flip book: Bobby pulling over on the side of the dark road, Dean waking up and telling Sam something about an octopus, the heat rising off him like a crematorium oven. It’s not a picture book, there are words, too:
“Hospital,” Bobby says.
“Fuck,” Sam says. (No one ever said it was a kid’s book.)
“Ngghhh,” Dean says. Whether that’s a species of octopus, Sam doesn’t know. He and Bobby glare at each other over the Impala’s hood, and then Sam tosses the keys at him, hard, and goes around to the passenger side to get his brother and move him to the back seat, formerly the dominion of Dean-o and Sammy, now the relegation of hangovers and gunshot wounds.
~~~~~
Bobby’s doing eighty, and Sam pours out his flask of holy water over a bandanna and places it on Dean’s forehead. Maybe the good religious karma will seep through. Never mind that Sam remembers filling it up at a drinking fountain with gum stuck to the spout.
More book words:
“Thermometer?” asks Bobby.
“Broken,” Sam spits.
The illustration on that page is of Bobby shaking his head.
Dean doesn’t say anything, so Sam fills in. “Please,” says Sam.
~~~~~
The fever dissipates as rapidly as it came. It’s almost like Dean’s system decided to burn off all the phoenix ash, and it’s not like it’s the first time he’s been resurrected.
They check into a no-name motel, and Sam gives Bobby a ride back to his car while Dean sleeps it off. When he gets back, it’s almost eight a.m. and there’s light coming through the gap in the curtains that Sam was too tense to close early this morning.
“Hey.” Dean’s voice is rough, but he sounds like he’s all there, or at least what passes for it these days. Sam pulls the curtains shut roughly, and comes and sits on the side of Dean’s bed.
“Sam?” Dean’s watching him, tracking his movements.
Sam rubs his face, not sure what emotion he wants to express. This was the end of the line, where the track ended. The point zero- where you decided which way you were going to go.
“Dean-” There’s too much to say.
“Just don’t go chasing any more rabbits, okay?” Sam pats his brother’s shoulder through the blankets.
Dean breathes hard, squinting. “That was Airplane, not Starship.”
“What?”
“Jefferson.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “Sleep,” he says. “Go back to sleep.”
Prompt (by mad_server): Dean gets sick after the Jefferson Starship incident. Sam and/or Bobby watch him like a hawk. Written for the Running Hot feverfic meme, hosted by ariadnes_string.
A/N: Um… angstier than I was intending, sorry! I'm excising it by proxy. Title from the Jefferson Starship album of the same name.
Wordcount: 1000ish
It starts out quickly, a rollercoaster ride that you’re strapped into until the thing derails. One minute Dean’s staring out the window or fiddling with the radio volume, the next he’s spiking a fever so high that if Sam asked him his favorite band, he just might say Jefferson Starship.
~~~~~
“You look kind of… droopy,” Sam tells him after Dean finally turns the radio off completely.
“What do you expect?” Dean growls. “I just killed the Annie Wilkes of all creatures.”
“I know, I know.” Sam sighs and looks his brother over. “You sure you’re okay after drinking that phoenix ash?”
“I’m awesome.” Dean kneads at his forehead, then rests against the cold glass of the passenger side window. “Just tired.”
Sam pauses, shifts his hands to eleven and one. “We’re all tired.”
There are a lot of potential responses to this: currently, Dean’s too fucking tired for any of them. He closes his eyes, doesn’t move again until they’re parked underneath a starless sky somewhere in Washington. Sam’s filling up the car, and if Dean squints, he can see Bobby inside the gas station.
He feels like one of those ‘take a penny, leave a penny’ jars on the counters of the diners he and Sam have eaten their lunches in since the beginning of time, only no one ever remembered to leave him anything. They just took, and took, and took until there was nothing left, and if they could take into the negative values, hell, they’d do that too, and they had.
~~~~~
Bobby’s coming out of the door now, balancing three travel mugs. The sound of the gas tank filling stops suddenly, and Sam raps on the window, gesturing that he’s going to go inside to pay. Dean nods at him. It doesn’t matter.
Dean gets out of the car. He’s not sure if he can completely trust even his legs anymore. He shivers.
“Kid,” Bobby says when he hands over his coffee. “You look off.”
“What, first I’m droopy and now I’m off? What’s next, you gonna tell me that I need a nose job?” His voice doesn’t quite come out the way he’d thought, and Dean bends over, coughing. When he straightens up, Bobby’s right up in his face, touching his hand to his forehead. There’s a quick flashback to the salvage yard and the last time Bobby had his hands all over his face, but then Bobby’s looking scared, not angry, and he’s yelling at Sam to get his ass over here.
Dean’s leaned up against the car, his coffee setting on the roof and probably getting cold before he ever has a chance to drink it. Story of his life: the Reader’s Digest version.
“Your brother’s got a fever,” Bobby informs Sam.
Sam pauses with his travel mug midway to his mouth. “Oh. Oh.” He comes closer to Dean, fits his hand over his face. “Shit.”
Dean clears his throat. “You guest-starring on Nip/Tuck this season, too?”
Sam glares at him.
“You should check out that fever,” Bobby tells him. “Or would you like having your organs turn to goo?”
“Well, it’d be something new.”
Bobby rolls his eyes. “Sam. A little help would be nice.”
And sure, Sam coerces him into some Tylenol, more than the recommended dosage, because hey, who isn’t liver damage’s best friend around here.
~~~~~
It doesn’t help.
Half an hour later, Dean’s lying in the backseat with his head in Sam’s lap and Bobby’s driving the car. Sam’s not sure if he’s ever seen Bobby drive the Impala before, and it just adds to the inherent wrong-ness of the current situation.
Sam had tried to keep Dean awake, talking with him, but the monosyllables kept coming at longer and longer intervals and the flush kept crawling up his neck and settling in his cheeks.
And then it had all sped up again, the freefall part of the rollercoaster equation. Oh, was freefall not supposed to be in there? Yeah, this coaster didn’t come with seat belts. You had to bring those yourself, except sometimes you forgot.
The moments are like a flip book: Bobby pulling over on the side of the dark road, Dean waking up and telling Sam something about an octopus, the heat rising off him like a crematorium oven. It’s not a picture book, there are words, too:
“Hospital,” Bobby says.
“Fuck,” Sam says. (No one ever said it was a kid’s book.)
“Ngghhh,” Dean says. Whether that’s a species of octopus, Sam doesn’t know. He and Bobby glare at each other over the Impala’s hood, and then Sam tosses the keys at him, hard, and goes around to the passenger side to get his brother and move him to the back seat, formerly the dominion of Dean-o and Sammy, now the relegation of hangovers and gunshot wounds.
~~~~~
Bobby’s doing eighty, and Sam pours out his flask of holy water over a bandanna and places it on Dean’s forehead. Maybe the good religious karma will seep through. Never mind that Sam remembers filling it up at a drinking fountain with gum stuck to the spout.
More book words:
“Thermometer?” asks Bobby.
“Broken,” Sam spits.
The illustration on that page is of Bobby shaking his head.
Dean doesn’t say anything, so Sam fills in. “Please,” says Sam.
~~~~~
The fever dissipates as rapidly as it came. It’s almost like Dean’s system decided to burn off all the phoenix ash, and it’s not like it’s the first time he’s been resurrected.
They check into a no-name motel, and Sam gives Bobby a ride back to his car while Dean sleeps it off. When he gets back, it’s almost eight a.m. and there’s light coming through the gap in the curtains that Sam was too tense to close early this morning.
“Hey.” Dean’s voice is rough, but he sounds like he’s all there, or at least what passes for it these days. Sam pulls the curtains shut roughly, and comes and sits on the side of Dean’s bed.
“Sam?” Dean’s watching him, tracking his movements.
Sam rubs his face, not sure what emotion he wants to express. This was the end of the line, where the track ended. The point zero- where you decided which way you were going to go.
“Dean-” There’s too much to say.
“Just don’t go chasing any more rabbits, okay?” Sam pats his brother’s shoulder through the blankets.
Dean breathes hard, squinting. “That was Airplane, not Starship.”
“What?”
“Jefferson.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “Sleep,” he says. “Go back to sleep.”