Comment-fic
I posted a rather weird comment-fic over at the hoodie-time Dean H/C meme if anyone's interested. Fevered!Dean POV so it's rather scrambled and stream of semi-conciousness.
"Hunting the Wild Whatchamacallit" - Gen PG13"
"Hunting the Wild Whatchamacallit" - Gen PG13
Dean's fine. He's fine Sam. Sam needs to stop bugging the crap out of him. Hovering around with soup and blankets and oozing apology and guilt everywhere for nothing. Not nothing. They're out in the bush tracking something that's very big and very dark and building up to what promises to be a massacre of the nearby town of a couple thousand people, and that's totally not nothing. They're both out hunting because there's too much area to cover and track, and no way is Dean letting Sammy hunt this thing on his own. But Sam keeps looking at him like hunting this thing is gonna kill Dean when it's not, he's fine, it's just a damn cold, Sam.
So it's ass o'clock in the morning again and they're squishing their way through undergrowth in the old woods on the outskirts of town again and Dean's fine, just fine, but he's taking as much syrup and pills and crap as he can to keep from coughing (but not enough to go loopy because the fever's doing a swell job of that on its own) because while he's not letting Sammy do this hunt on his own, he's also not gonna bring the woolly whatsit down on them by hacking up a lung. Sam's been lecturing him about goddamn expectorants and getting the mucus out so it doesn't get infected and turn into pneumonia, but whatever. The crap Dean's been gacking out of his lungs and snorfing out of his sinuses back at the hotel (in the two hours they've been spending there out of every twenty-four) is all kinds of crazy technicolors and red streaks that mean infection and bad and 'don't get out of bed, dumbass', but this monster/demon/witch/whateverthehell won't wait for him to do a run of antibiotics and doesn't care about the color of his mucus. Sam would care if he knew. Sam would probably care very very loudly, but Dean's mucus pigmentation is gonna be private for as long as it takes to finish the hunt. All he has to do is not cough. The gunk can stay in his lungs until they catch the thing, then Sam can yell about people dying from pneumonia, once people aren't in danger of dying from the whatchamacallit. Whatever it is.
Sam had reeled off about five possibles at the start and the details of what they might be hunting keep slithering past each other in Dean's head as he and Sam lurk squishily through the woods in February, no, March now, coming in like a lion if a lion was made out of ice, wind and water. Today it's sleeting, isn't that wonderful, except it actually is kind of awesome because the slush is numbing the aches in Dean's everything and soaking into Dean's hair and cooling his head down and taking the edge off the headache that's like a pocket of molten lead behind his eyes. Sam also needs to stop trying to make him wear a hat because Dean wants that slush keeping him awake and cool and Dean Winchester doesn't do hats anyway. He won't put the hood up on the hoodie Sam made him wear, (Sam's spare, the one that's a billion sizes too big for Dean, but Sam wouldn't let him leave the hotel without it, though the way Dean feels he'd rather strip to a t-shirt and soak up all the cold the pelting slush can give him) he won't put the hood up either because the hood blocks his already-stuffed ears and he can't catch the little sounds building under the noise of slush hitting leaves, and Sam twitching and fussing and pouring more frigging soup out of the frigging thermos, and the goop in Dean's own lungs rattling and gurgling like, like...
Little sounds building. He heard that. Focus. Little scratching thumping sounds, getting closer, louder. That way.
Dean slaps Sam in the shoulder and they're off. All it'll take is one dead thingamabob, the town'll be safe, Dean can pass out and then Sam can fuss all he wants to.
- - -
(that's it)
"Hunting the Wild Whatchamacallit" - Gen PG13"
"Hunting the Wild Whatchamacallit" - Gen PG13
Dean's fine. He's fine Sam. Sam needs to stop bugging the crap out of him. Hovering around with soup and blankets and oozing apology and guilt everywhere for nothing. Not nothing. They're out in the bush tracking something that's very big and very dark and building up to what promises to be a massacre of the nearby town of a couple thousand people, and that's totally not nothing. They're both out hunting because there's too much area to cover and track, and no way is Dean letting Sammy hunt this thing on his own. But Sam keeps looking at him like hunting this thing is gonna kill Dean when it's not, he's fine, it's just a damn cold, Sam.
So it's ass o'clock in the morning again and they're squishing their way through undergrowth in the old woods on the outskirts of town again and Dean's fine, just fine, but he's taking as much syrup and pills and crap as he can to keep from coughing (but not enough to go loopy because the fever's doing a swell job of that on its own) because while he's not letting Sammy do this hunt on his own, he's also not gonna bring the woolly whatsit down on them by hacking up a lung. Sam's been lecturing him about goddamn expectorants and getting the mucus out so it doesn't get infected and turn into pneumonia, but whatever. The crap Dean's been gacking out of his lungs and snorfing out of his sinuses back at the hotel (in the two hours they've been spending there out of every twenty-four) is all kinds of crazy technicolors and red streaks that mean infection and bad and 'don't get out of bed, dumbass', but this monster/demon/witch/whateverthehell won't wait for him to do a run of antibiotics and doesn't care about the color of his mucus. Sam would care if he knew. Sam would probably care very very loudly, but Dean's mucus pigmentation is gonna be private for as long as it takes to finish the hunt. All he has to do is not cough. The gunk can stay in his lungs until they catch the thing, then Sam can yell about people dying from pneumonia, once people aren't in danger of dying from the whatchamacallit. Whatever it is.
Sam had reeled off about five possibles at the start and the details of what they might be hunting keep slithering past each other in Dean's head as he and Sam lurk squishily through the woods in February, no, March now, coming in like a lion if a lion was made out of ice, wind and water. Today it's sleeting, isn't that wonderful, except it actually is kind of awesome because the slush is numbing the aches in Dean's everything and soaking into Dean's hair and cooling his head down and taking the edge off the headache that's like a pocket of molten lead behind his eyes. Sam also needs to stop trying to make him wear a hat because Dean wants that slush keeping him awake and cool and Dean Winchester doesn't do hats anyway. He won't put the hood up on the hoodie Sam made him wear, (Sam's spare, the one that's a billion sizes too big for Dean, but Sam wouldn't let him leave the hotel without it, though the way Dean feels he'd rather strip to a t-shirt and soak up all the cold the pelting slush can give him) he won't put the hood up either because the hood blocks his already-stuffed ears and he can't catch the little sounds building under the noise of slush hitting leaves, and Sam twitching and fussing and pouring more frigging soup out of the frigging thermos, and the goop in Dean's own lungs rattling and gurgling like, like...
Little sounds building. He heard that. Focus. Little scratching thumping sounds, getting closer, louder. That way.
Dean slaps Sam in the shoulder and they're off. All it'll take is one dead thingamabob, the town'll be safe, Dean can pass out and then Sam can fuss all he wants to.
- - -
(that's it)