Fic: Arm's Reach/Length
SHOW! I will see you in a few hours! Until then, here is my offering:
TITLE: Arm's Reach/Length
AUTHOR: i_speak_tongue
GENRE: Gen, pre-series, teen!chesters, h/c, angst
CHAR: Dean, Sam, John
SPOILERS: none
RATING: PG-13, with swearing
WORDS: 3495
DISC: These fictional characters are fiction. And they aren't mine. And they are not real. Really.
SUMMARY: John better teach Sam how to take care of his brother, because he sure as hell won't be there to do it.
The highway is empty, a steady rain has finally broken the heat and one of the greatest Smokey Robinson songs, Hell, one of the greatest songs period, just came on the radio. It’s been the kind of day that’s too damn hard to come by lately; the hunt went exactly as planned, and John’s actually getting home a little ahead of schedule, with not a scratch on him.
He’s counting on finding two things when he gets back to the motel at around 1 am. One, the place a goddamn pigsty, and two, Dean up watching bad cable TV shows despite the fact that it’s a school night.
Because, shit. He’s not an idiot. He trusts the boys to keep out of real trouble, trusts Dean to watch out for his little brother when it really counts. And keeping potato chip crumbs out of Sam’s bed just isn’t a priority-for John or the boys. Hell, he’s pretty sure there was a time when Sam’s car seat had a grape jelly stain on it for a good month before he got around to cleaning it. Come to think of it, maybe Sam just grew out of the thing first. So he can’t really say the boys have learned by example on that front.
So when he pulls up to the Four Keys Motel in Portsmouth, Ohio and doesn’t see the blue flicker of the television through the thin yellow drapes he figures his luck has yet to run out.
He’s quiet with his keys and the door. Prays he can move Sam over to Dean’s bed without waking either of them. Wonders if he can manage to dig out the old Blue Öyster Cult tapes he picked up at a garage sale from his duffel and put them out on the table without turning on the light. If he can remember where the hell the table is to begin with.
Turns out, he’s only inside a few seconds before the fucking cassette tapes are the last thing on his mind. First of all, the place is stuffy like the windows haven’t been open in days, which, on a night like tonight is just plain crazy. And then there’s the fact that Dean’s snoring this weirdly soft snore that sounds a hell of a lot like wheezing, really. And when John’s eyes finally adjust to the light he sees the other bed. Empty.
So that’s when he kind of loses his shit.
“Dean!” He gropes around the lump in the bed sheets until he has the kid by the shoulders, shakes him. “Dean, wake up!”
Dean lets out some kind of incoherent groan that might approximate the word “Dad,” and rubs at his eyes.
“Where’s your brother? Where the Hell is Sam?”
Dean blinks at him in a daze, and all John can think is… drugs. Is Dean dumb enough to even dare? He coughs into John’s face. “S’okay Dad. S’at Dwight’s house. Sleepin’ over.”
So he’s a tiny bit relieved, but Christ, they’ve had this conversation. And as much as it fucking kills John that his sons will never have anything close to a normal childhood, he knows way too much now. Knows Sam needs more than just a sleeping bag, a comic book and a flashlight at night. He needs salt lines and a shotgun under the bed.
“What the hell, Dean? When I said no sleepovers I fucking meant it!”
“I know… but,” Dean coughs again, and this time it folds him over so that John’s grip on his arms is the only thing that keeps him from falling off the bed. He groans a little and continues, “di’n wannim gettin’ sick.”
Dean doesn’t get sick. Dean gets food poisoning and indigestion and hangovers, sure. But he’s never had more than a few sniffles in the dead of winter. So it takes a second for John to catch on, to take in all the crumpled up tissues around the bed, the faint smell of barf wafting out of the bathroom and the heat, Jesus, the heat rolling off Dean’s body.
He presses his hand to Dean’s forehead and lets the guilt wash over him like a bucket of water falling from a booby-trapped door.
“And who the Hell is taking care of you?”
“I’m okay, dad.” His voice is going to shit, like he’s just swallowed a bottle of battery acid and somehow, John’s not convinced.
“You’re burning up, Dean. Why the hell didn’t you call me?”
Dean shrugs as John gives him a little push back down into bed. He damn well knows why Dean didn’t call him. Because he knew John would either not answer, or be disappointed that Dean couldn’t figure out how to deal with the problem on his own. Which is partially true. Except Dean made the wrong move here, and John would rather have had to tell Dean (or really, Sam, in this case) what to do than come home to find his kid sick and alone in a shitty motel room. That is just unacceptable.
“Alright. Where’s this Dwight kid’s phone number?”
------+------+------
Rhonda Butterfill, mother of Dwight, seems about as pleased to drive Sam home in the middle of the night as she did to be woken by a phone call from a bossy and gruff sounding man 30 minutes earlier. The perverse curiosity that most suburban moms get when they step onto the wrong side of the tracks overcomes her though, and by the time John is saying a blunt thank you and practically slamming the door in her face she’s a little too mesmerized by their whole Dickensian situation to even notice.
Sam is home, and that’s all that matters. He looks half asleep, and is in fact still in a pair of Dean’s old plaid pajama pants and an inside out t-shirt, his backpack swung loose over a hunched shoulder.
“Am I in trouble?” he asks, because he damn well knows just as well as Dean that they aren’t allowed to sleep over at friend’s places.
John glances over at Dean, half-asleep and shivering under two heavy blankets.
“What do you think?”
“Dad, Dean like… he practically kicked me out. Said he was contagious or whatever, and that he’d get in even more trouble if he let me get sick too.”
“You trying to pin the blame on your sick brother? For Pete’s sake, Sam.”
“I’m not… I mean… God! It’s just an explanation.“
John knows what it is. A survival instinct. Knows Sam doesn’t mean anything by it. But still, the kid has a thing or two to learn. “Have a coffee,” he says, nods towards the pot that’s nearly finished percolating in the little kitchenette beside the bathroom.
“What?”
“Dean’s sick, and you’re gonna take care of him. So you might need some fuel to keep you on your feet.”
------+------+------
As they both sip at hot Dixie cups, Sam stares at Dean tossing and turning, and worries at his bottom lip. “Is he okay?”
John shakes his head. “Would I be standin’ here having a coffee if he wasn’t? He’s sick Sam, but he’ll get better. Sooner rather than later now that he’s not shivering alone in the dark.”
“I’m sorry Dad. I really am. I just… Dean’s never sick, you know? I didn’t know what to do. I still don’t….” Sam says, and John feels for the kid, he really does. Figures it’s partly his own damn fault too, because all this time he’s made it pretty clear that Dean is the one who should be looking out for Sam.
Thing is, Dean can’t do a very good job of it if he’s delirious with fever.
“You just think on what Dean did for you last time you were sick. You remember?”
“Kinda…. I mean, it’s been a few years.”
John nods. Healthy kids. Some damn good genes working for them. He puts his coffee down, grabs the first aid kit from where he placed it by Dean’s bedside, and hands it to Sam.
“Think you can remember what a thermometer looks like?”
Sam rolls his eyes.
It’s going to be a long night.
------+------+------
“Don’t friggin’ touch me!”
John’s not sure whether to laugh at or reprimand his sons as he watches Sam try to poke Dean in the face with the thermometer while Dean flails his arm at Sam in the most pathetic attempt to disarm an opponent ever witnessed. So he settles for an overly-dramatic groan of annoyance.
“Da-ad!” Sam whines, clearly hoping John will jump in and order Dean to back down or something. It’s not happening. John stays firmly planted in his chair on the other side of the room, and starts his second tiny cup of coffee.
“It’s all on you, Sam. Why don’t you use that impressive brain of yours, huh?”
Sam nods and squints at his brother who’s busy pulling the blankets up over his head. He takes a step back along the bed and sits down on the edge.
“Okay, Dean,” Sam says quietly. “Do you wanna do it?”
The lump under the blankets coughs.
“Dean?”
Finally, the blankets rustle and a hand emerges from the edge, palm up. Sam places the thermometer across it and it clenches tightly and slips back under the covers. He watches the lump in the bed suspiciously, as if he’s wary that Dean might be melting the damn thing down under there.
“Is it in your mouth?”
“Mmhmm.”
“Under your tongue?”
“Mmhmm!” Dean sounds ticked. He’s not lying. Sam glances back at John and he nods for Sam, acknowledging the small victory.
“Good. Keep it there for another minute,” Sam adds.
John’s pretty impressed with how well Sam knows his brother sometimes, and this is no exception. He knows Dean needs to feel in control somehow, needs to feel like he’s the one driving. Because most of the time, he is. It’s why he didn’t call John, it’s why he kicked Sam out of the motel. And it’s why he’s usually so damn good at looking out for his brother and why he’s shaping up to be a fucking spectacular hunter. Like Mary used to say, good fruit always comes with a few fruit flies.
Eventually, Dean comes out from under the blankets with blotchy pink cheeks, greasy, mussed up hair and that old glass thermometer sticking out the side of his mouth. John wonders if his memory is that bad, or if Dean really does looks worse than he did five minutes ago. Of course, depriving oneself of oxygen under a pile of cheap motel blankets never did wonders for anyone’s health. Still.
John’s muscles are halfway to pushing him up out of his seat before he stops himself.
“What’s it say, Sam?”
Sam holds the thermometer under the lamp on the night table. “One... oh…. two? 102. Is that high?” he asks, looking up at his father. John holds tight to the arms of his chair.
“Kind of. Yeah,” he tells Sam.
Sam can do this. John really doesn’t need to help. Really.
“So now what?” Sam asks.
“He’s bound to be pretty dehydrated. You need to make sure he gets some fluids in him.”
“Water?”
“Bingo.”
Sam diligently fetches a cup of water from the bathroom and brings it back to Dean, waits while Dean pulls himself up in bed a little.
“Thanks Sammy,” Dean says, taking the cup with both hands. He takes a few small sips, winces and sets the water aside.
John wonders if maybe he should have asked Sam to tie him to the chair earlier.
“You’re supposed to finish it,” Sam says to Dean.
“Don’t feel like it.”
“You’re dehydrated. Drink it!”
“Nope.”
“Dean, you have to drink it.”
“I’ll drink it later.”
“Later when?”
“Laaaa-terrrrrrr!”
“Dean, if you don’t-“ Sam starts, but Dean’s suddenly coughing pretty hard, and Sam stares at him as he wipes tears from his eyes with the back of his hands.
John can’t help himself. “Sam. Kleenex.”
Sam swipes the box off the floor, hands it to his brother and Dean quickly makes use of a few, wiping at his eyes and nose and sounding generally miserable through the whole process.
“Are you okay?”
“Nughuuh. Head… hurts.” It’s the first time in a very long time John’s heard Dean say anything hurts. He gets up and grabs the keys to the truck.
“Sam, you make him take some of that Tylenol from the kit, you hear?”
“Dad? Where’re you… don’t go!”
“Gonna pick up some supplies. Won’t be long.”
“But Dad…”
“Take care of your brother, Sam.”
It kills John to leave them like this, but there’s just no way Dean’s getting better without more sophisticated supplies than water, extra strength Tylenol and a box of store-brand tissues. And as much as it pains his ego to admit it, they can’t afford any ER visits right now, so if he’s going to kick this flu bug’s ass before Dean needs an IV to get him back on his feet, he‘ll need to do it swiftly.
John peels out of the parking lot and tries to remember where the closest drugstore is.
------+------+------
In twenty minutes he manages to grab cough syrup, Gatorade, chicken noodle soup mix, Tiger Balm, Vitamin C, a fifth of bourbon, two lemons and a jar of honey. He’s had plenty of experience making quick pit-stops for supplies, and when almost every CVS in America has nearly the exact same layout, it makes things a hell of a lot easier. As for the bourbon, well, if he learned anything from his father, it was the wonders of a hot toddy.
------+------+------
Back at the motel, things have… deteriorated. Dean’s curled in a ball, and Sam’s knelt on the bed next to him, holding a wet washcloth to the back of his neck. And Sam’s in a different shirt from the one he was wearing before. John lingers in the doorway a few seconds, clinging tightly to the plastic bags while he gets his emotions in check. The tenderness he sees in Sam isn’t new, but it doesn’t surface much these days. John had forgotten how much it reminds him of Mary.
“”M’ sorry, Sammy…” Dean mumbles miserably.
“Whatever. I think it was your t-shirt anyways.”
“Din’t wanna get you sick…”
Man, the kid is incorrigible.
“Hey. Your brother’s fine,” John says, closing the door and stepping closer to the bed. “You’re the one who’s sick. You gotta let Sam take care of you, understand?”
“He puked. I think his fever’s up, Dad,” Sam says, his eyes skating worriedly over Dean’s huddled form.
Here endeth the lesson. As much as Sam has to learn about how to treat flu symptoms, John just doesn’t have a cold enough heart to sit back and direct anymore. It’s time to act. John drops the bags at the foot of the bed and kneels within arms reach of his boy.
“Okay. You did real good, Sam. It’s just a nasty flu, is all,” John reassures him, running his hand over the back of Dean’s head and taking over for Sam with the washcloth. “You wanna shake out a few more Tylenol? Doubt he kept the other ones down.” Dean’s posture changes, relaxes slightly into John’s touch in a way he couldn’t with the younger brother who he’s meant to protect.
Sam nods nervously, and does as he’s told. Even finds a bottle of Gatorade and twists it open, hold it at the ready. John coaxes Dean to unfurl enough to take a few sips, swallow the pills and let John press the cool rag to his forehead.
Sam hands John the thermometer without prompting.
“How’s your head?”
“Okay.”
“Hmm. We need to take your temp again, son. That okay by you?”
Dean manages a slight nod and John slips the thin glass stem past Dean’s bright red lips.
“So what the Hell did Sam do to deserve that, huh?” John kids, nudging softly at Dean’s shoulder. A half-smile sneaks up Dean’s face and it helps in easing John’s tense muscles.
It’s not that he’s very worried about Dean. Not anymore. But it’s pretty damn hard to shake the image of his son here alone the past two days, and even harder not to think about how much longer he would have suffered like that if John hadn’t had a particularly easy time with the job he just finished. And that’s fucking terrifying, to be honest. In some weird way, he needs to make up for it, needs to be there for Dean the way Dean’s there for Sam, even if it’s a luxury he can’t afford normally. He tells himself this one time, it’s different. Next time Sam will know better, will take care of Dean even if Dean resists it. And he knows Sam’s capable. He can be pretty damn manipulative when he wants to be. Besides, Dean’s his most frequent victim.
But this time?
John rest a hand on Dean’s arm and takes the thermometer.
“Right. Let’s see how good my eyes are,” John says as he squints up at the little red line while he holds it in the light. He reads it twice to make sure, but both times it says the same thing. Dean’s fever’s hovering just under 103.5. He’s really goddamn sick.
“Sammy?” He doesn’t even know where the kid is. Can’t be far in this tiny motel room. John keeps his eyes fixed on Dean.
“Did it go down?” Sam asks, and John can hear him swallow hard.
“Not yet, son.” It’s okay. John’s still got a few tricks up his sleeve. Dean’ll be fine. He’ll be fine. “I need you to run Dean a bath okay. Lukewarm water. Just a little cooler than the air, understand?”
“Yeah. Yes Sir.”
------+------+------
Dean is none too keen on the lukewarm bath but it does the trick, brings his fever down just enough for the poor kid to finally keep some fluids down. It’s slow going because it hurts him so damn much to swallow, but he sets his mind to it. And that’s all it takes with Dean.
John and Sam sleep in shifts, keep Dean cool while he struggles to rest through fits of coughing and aching muscles. By dawn and their last switchover, John sees something in Sam’s bleary eyes, an understanding that wasn’t there the day before, an acknowledgement. Like he’s learned how to be a brother to Dean in a way that’s different form being his little brother.
By noon, Dean’s fever is down to 100.5 and he’s insisting he rub the Tiger Balm on his own chest thank-you-very-much while John concocts him his first hot toddy and Sam makes a sandwich run to the Deli down the street. It’s been days since Dean’s kept down any solid food, and his shaking hands are a testament to that. Less easily alleviated is Dean’s sore throat. But John’s hoping the cocktail he’s handing him will at least help.
Propped up in bed on four or five pillows, Dean nods in thanks.
“Your Grandpa Winchester’s recipe. Had my first one when I was oh… 8 or 9.”
Dean blows on the hot drink and takes a tentative sip. Hardens his features as he swallows then lets out a quick puff of air and nods his head.
“Grandpa Winchester didn’t fool around,” he rasps softly, his voice almost a whisper. He takes another, longer sip.
“No he did not,” John says, and smiles just a little.
He sits at the edge of Dean’s bed, watches him drink, his eyes still a little unfocused, his bare chest shining from the Tiger Balm-that John can feel even in his lungs-and his hands surrounding the mug like a precious chalice. He looks up at John and asks him, “How’d ya know?”
“Know what, kiddo?”
“How did you… know to come back?”
John closes his eyes for a second. Thinks maybe he’s imagined this. Because if it’s real, he has no good answer, nothing to tell Dean that won’t either be a blatant lie or a truth so bitter that even John doesn’t want to think about it. Fate? If it’s fate then it’s a tease, a cosmic joke made to point out how crappy a father John really is. Luck then? But who is John kidding. When has luck ever been on their side?
He can’t answer Dean’s question. So Dean does it for him, because John's always been too fucking transparent for this kid.
“You didn’t.”
“Dean, I-“
Dean shakes his head. “Dunno why I thought…. was stupid…”
“No, it’s not. I mean, maybe something, someone out there is on our side. You never know, son.”
Lies it is then.
“Yeah… maybe,” Dean whispers and finishes his Bourbon.
END
Uh, wow, that turned out to be way more depressing than I thought it would be. Alas, when the angst calls to me, I must answer.
Eugh. Sorry for the cut issues. LJ is crap tonight.
TITLE: Arm's Reach/Length
AUTHOR: i_speak_tongue
GENRE: Gen, pre-series, teen!chesters, h/c, angst
CHAR: Dean, Sam, John
SPOILERS: none
RATING: PG-13, with swearing
WORDS: 3495
DISC: These fictional characters are fiction. And they aren't mine. And they are not real. Really.
SUMMARY: John better teach Sam how to take care of his brother, because he sure as hell won't be there to do it.
The highway is empty, a steady rain has finally broken the heat and one of the greatest Smokey Robinson songs, Hell, one of the greatest songs period, just came on the radio. It’s been the kind of day that’s too damn hard to come by lately; the hunt went exactly as planned, and John’s actually getting home a little ahead of schedule, with not a scratch on him.
He’s counting on finding two things when he gets back to the motel at around 1 am. One, the place a goddamn pigsty, and two, Dean up watching bad cable TV shows despite the fact that it’s a school night.
Because, shit. He’s not an idiot. He trusts the boys to keep out of real trouble, trusts Dean to watch out for his little brother when it really counts. And keeping potato chip crumbs out of Sam’s bed just isn’t a priority-for John or the boys. Hell, he’s pretty sure there was a time when Sam’s car seat had a grape jelly stain on it for a good month before he got around to cleaning it. Come to think of it, maybe Sam just grew out of the thing first. So he can’t really say the boys have learned by example on that front.
So when he pulls up to the Four Keys Motel in Portsmouth, Ohio and doesn’t see the blue flicker of the television through the thin yellow drapes he figures his luck has yet to run out.
He’s quiet with his keys and the door. Prays he can move Sam over to Dean’s bed without waking either of them. Wonders if he can manage to dig out the old Blue Öyster Cult tapes he picked up at a garage sale from his duffel and put them out on the table without turning on the light. If he can remember where the hell the table is to begin with.
Turns out, he’s only inside a few seconds before the fucking cassette tapes are the last thing on his mind. First of all, the place is stuffy like the windows haven’t been open in days, which, on a night like tonight is just plain crazy. And then there’s the fact that Dean’s snoring this weirdly soft snore that sounds a hell of a lot like wheezing, really. And when John’s eyes finally adjust to the light he sees the other bed. Empty.
So that’s when he kind of loses his shit.
“Dean!” He gropes around the lump in the bed sheets until he has the kid by the shoulders, shakes him. “Dean, wake up!”
Dean lets out some kind of incoherent groan that might approximate the word “Dad,” and rubs at his eyes.
“Where’s your brother? Where the Hell is Sam?”
Dean blinks at him in a daze, and all John can think is… drugs. Is Dean dumb enough to even dare? He coughs into John’s face. “S’okay Dad. S’at Dwight’s house. Sleepin’ over.”
So he’s a tiny bit relieved, but Christ, they’ve had this conversation. And as much as it fucking kills John that his sons will never have anything close to a normal childhood, he knows way too much now. Knows Sam needs more than just a sleeping bag, a comic book and a flashlight at night. He needs salt lines and a shotgun under the bed.
“What the hell, Dean? When I said no sleepovers I fucking meant it!”
“I know… but,” Dean coughs again, and this time it folds him over so that John’s grip on his arms is the only thing that keeps him from falling off the bed. He groans a little and continues, “di’n wannim gettin’ sick.”
Dean doesn’t get sick. Dean gets food poisoning and indigestion and hangovers, sure. But he’s never had more than a few sniffles in the dead of winter. So it takes a second for John to catch on, to take in all the crumpled up tissues around the bed, the faint smell of barf wafting out of the bathroom and the heat, Jesus, the heat rolling off Dean’s body.
He presses his hand to Dean’s forehead and lets the guilt wash over him like a bucket of water falling from a booby-trapped door.
“And who the Hell is taking care of you?”
“I’m okay, dad.” His voice is going to shit, like he’s just swallowed a bottle of battery acid and somehow, John’s not convinced.
“You’re burning up, Dean. Why the hell didn’t you call me?”
Dean shrugs as John gives him a little push back down into bed. He damn well knows why Dean didn’t call him. Because he knew John would either not answer, or be disappointed that Dean couldn’t figure out how to deal with the problem on his own. Which is partially true. Except Dean made the wrong move here, and John would rather have had to tell Dean (or really, Sam, in this case) what to do than come home to find his kid sick and alone in a shitty motel room. That is just unacceptable.
“Alright. Where’s this Dwight kid’s phone number?”
------+------+------
Rhonda Butterfill, mother of Dwight, seems about as pleased to drive Sam home in the middle of the night as she did to be woken by a phone call from a bossy and gruff sounding man 30 minutes earlier. The perverse curiosity that most suburban moms get when they step onto the wrong side of the tracks overcomes her though, and by the time John is saying a blunt thank you and practically slamming the door in her face she’s a little too mesmerized by their whole Dickensian situation to even notice.
Sam is home, and that’s all that matters. He looks half asleep, and is in fact still in a pair of Dean’s old plaid pajama pants and an inside out t-shirt, his backpack swung loose over a hunched shoulder.
“Am I in trouble?” he asks, because he damn well knows just as well as Dean that they aren’t allowed to sleep over at friend’s places.
John glances over at Dean, half-asleep and shivering under two heavy blankets.
“What do you think?”
“Dad, Dean like… he practically kicked me out. Said he was contagious or whatever, and that he’d get in even more trouble if he let me get sick too.”
“You trying to pin the blame on your sick brother? For Pete’s sake, Sam.”
“I’m not… I mean… God! It’s just an explanation.“
John knows what it is. A survival instinct. Knows Sam doesn’t mean anything by it. But still, the kid has a thing or two to learn. “Have a coffee,” he says, nods towards the pot that’s nearly finished percolating in the little kitchenette beside the bathroom.
“What?”
“Dean’s sick, and you’re gonna take care of him. So you might need some fuel to keep you on your feet.”
------+------+------
As they both sip at hot Dixie cups, Sam stares at Dean tossing and turning, and worries at his bottom lip. “Is he okay?”
John shakes his head. “Would I be standin’ here having a coffee if he wasn’t? He’s sick Sam, but he’ll get better. Sooner rather than later now that he’s not shivering alone in the dark.”
“I’m sorry Dad. I really am. I just… Dean’s never sick, you know? I didn’t know what to do. I still don’t….” Sam says, and John feels for the kid, he really does. Figures it’s partly his own damn fault too, because all this time he’s made it pretty clear that Dean is the one who should be looking out for Sam.
Thing is, Dean can’t do a very good job of it if he’s delirious with fever.
“You just think on what Dean did for you last time you were sick. You remember?”
“Kinda…. I mean, it’s been a few years.”
John nods. Healthy kids. Some damn good genes working for them. He puts his coffee down, grabs the first aid kit from where he placed it by Dean’s bedside, and hands it to Sam.
“Think you can remember what a thermometer looks like?”
Sam rolls his eyes.
It’s going to be a long night.
------+------+------
“Don’t friggin’ touch me!”
John’s not sure whether to laugh at or reprimand his sons as he watches Sam try to poke Dean in the face with the thermometer while Dean flails his arm at Sam in the most pathetic attempt to disarm an opponent ever witnessed. So he settles for an overly-dramatic groan of annoyance.
“Da-ad!” Sam whines, clearly hoping John will jump in and order Dean to back down or something. It’s not happening. John stays firmly planted in his chair on the other side of the room, and starts his second tiny cup of coffee.
“It’s all on you, Sam. Why don’t you use that impressive brain of yours, huh?”
Sam nods and squints at his brother who’s busy pulling the blankets up over his head. He takes a step back along the bed and sits down on the edge.
“Okay, Dean,” Sam says quietly. “Do you wanna do it?”
The lump under the blankets coughs.
“Dean?”
Finally, the blankets rustle and a hand emerges from the edge, palm up. Sam places the thermometer across it and it clenches tightly and slips back under the covers. He watches the lump in the bed suspiciously, as if he’s wary that Dean might be melting the damn thing down under there.
“Is it in your mouth?”
“Mmhmm.”
“Under your tongue?”
“Mmhmm!” Dean sounds ticked. He’s not lying. Sam glances back at John and he nods for Sam, acknowledging the small victory.
“Good. Keep it there for another minute,” Sam adds.
John’s pretty impressed with how well Sam knows his brother sometimes, and this is no exception. He knows Dean needs to feel in control somehow, needs to feel like he’s the one driving. Because most of the time, he is. It’s why he didn’t call John, it’s why he kicked Sam out of the motel. And it’s why he’s usually so damn good at looking out for his brother and why he’s shaping up to be a fucking spectacular hunter. Like Mary used to say, good fruit always comes with a few fruit flies.
Eventually, Dean comes out from under the blankets with blotchy pink cheeks, greasy, mussed up hair and that old glass thermometer sticking out the side of his mouth. John wonders if his memory is that bad, or if Dean really does looks worse than he did five minutes ago. Of course, depriving oneself of oxygen under a pile of cheap motel blankets never did wonders for anyone’s health. Still.
John’s muscles are halfway to pushing him up out of his seat before he stops himself.
“What’s it say, Sam?”
Sam holds the thermometer under the lamp on the night table. “One... oh…. two? 102. Is that high?” he asks, looking up at his father. John holds tight to the arms of his chair.
“Kind of. Yeah,” he tells Sam.
Sam can do this. John really doesn’t need to help. Really.
“So now what?” Sam asks.
“He’s bound to be pretty dehydrated. You need to make sure he gets some fluids in him.”
“Water?”
“Bingo.”
Sam diligently fetches a cup of water from the bathroom and brings it back to Dean, waits while Dean pulls himself up in bed a little.
“Thanks Sammy,” Dean says, taking the cup with both hands. He takes a few small sips, winces and sets the water aside.
John wonders if maybe he should have asked Sam to tie him to the chair earlier.
“You’re supposed to finish it,” Sam says to Dean.
“Don’t feel like it.”
“You’re dehydrated. Drink it!”
“Nope.”
“Dean, you have to drink it.”
“I’ll drink it later.”
“Later when?”
“Laaaa-terrrrrrr!”
“Dean, if you don’t-“ Sam starts, but Dean’s suddenly coughing pretty hard, and Sam stares at him as he wipes tears from his eyes with the back of his hands.
John can’t help himself. “Sam. Kleenex.”
Sam swipes the box off the floor, hands it to his brother and Dean quickly makes use of a few, wiping at his eyes and nose and sounding generally miserable through the whole process.
“Are you okay?”
“Nughuuh. Head… hurts.” It’s the first time in a very long time John’s heard Dean say anything hurts. He gets up and grabs the keys to the truck.
“Sam, you make him take some of that Tylenol from the kit, you hear?”
“Dad? Where’re you… don’t go!”
“Gonna pick up some supplies. Won’t be long.”
“But Dad…”
“Take care of your brother, Sam.”
It kills John to leave them like this, but there’s just no way Dean’s getting better without more sophisticated supplies than water, extra strength Tylenol and a box of store-brand tissues. And as much as it pains his ego to admit it, they can’t afford any ER visits right now, so if he’s going to kick this flu bug’s ass before Dean needs an IV to get him back on his feet, he‘ll need to do it swiftly.
John peels out of the parking lot and tries to remember where the closest drugstore is.
------+------+------
In twenty minutes he manages to grab cough syrup, Gatorade, chicken noodle soup mix, Tiger Balm, Vitamin C, a fifth of bourbon, two lemons and a jar of honey. He’s had plenty of experience making quick pit-stops for supplies, and when almost every CVS in America has nearly the exact same layout, it makes things a hell of a lot easier. As for the bourbon, well, if he learned anything from his father, it was the wonders of a hot toddy.
------+------+------
Back at the motel, things have… deteriorated. Dean’s curled in a ball, and Sam’s knelt on the bed next to him, holding a wet washcloth to the back of his neck. And Sam’s in a different shirt from the one he was wearing before. John lingers in the doorway a few seconds, clinging tightly to the plastic bags while he gets his emotions in check. The tenderness he sees in Sam isn’t new, but it doesn’t surface much these days. John had forgotten how much it reminds him of Mary.
“”M’ sorry, Sammy…” Dean mumbles miserably.
“Whatever. I think it was your t-shirt anyways.”
“Din’t wanna get you sick…”
Man, the kid is incorrigible.
“Hey. Your brother’s fine,” John says, closing the door and stepping closer to the bed. “You’re the one who’s sick. You gotta let Sam take care of you, understand?”
“He puked. I think his fever’s up, Dad,” Sam says, his eyes skating worriedly over Dean’s huddled form.
Here endeth the lesson. As much as Sam has to learn about how to treat flu symptoms, John just doesn’t have a cold enough heart to sit back and direct anymore. It’s time to act. John drops the bags at the foot of the bed and kneels within arms reach of his boy.
“Okay. You did real good, Sam. It’s just a nasty flu, is all,” John reassures him, running his hand over the back of Dean’s head and taking over for Sam with the washcloth. “You wanna shake out a few more Tylenol? Doubt he kept the other ones down.” Dean’s posture changes, relaxes slightly into John’s touch in a way he couldn’t with the younger brother who he’s meant to protect.
Sam nods nervously, and does as he’s told. Even finds a bottle of Gatorade and twists it open, hold it at the ready. John coaxes Dean to unfurl enough to take a few sips, swallow the pills and let John press the cool rag to his forehead.
Sam hands John the thermometer without prompting.
“How’s your head?”
“Okay.”
“Hmm. We need to take your temp again, son. That okay by you?”
Dean manages a slight nod and John slips the thin glass stem past Dean’s bright red lips.
“So what the Hell did Sam do to deserve that, huh?” John kids, nudging softly at Dean’s shoulder. A half-smile sneaks up Dean’s face and it helps in easing John’s tense muscles.
It’s not that he’s very worried about Dean. Not anymore. But it’s pretty damn hard to shake the image of his son here alone the past two days, and even harder not to think about how much longer he would have suffered like that if John hadn’t had a particularly easy time with the job he just finished. And that’s fucking terrifying, to be honest. In some weird way, he needs to make up for it, needs to be there for Dean the way Dean’s there for Sam, even if it’s a luxury he can’t afford normally. He tells himself this one time, it’s different. Next time Sam will know better, will take care of Dean even if Dean resists it. And he knows Sam’s capable. He can be pretty damn manipulative when he wants to be. Besides, Dean’s his most frequent victim.
But this time?
John rest a hand on Dean’s arm and takes the thermometer.
“Right. Let’s see how good my eyes are,” John says as he squints up at the little red line while he holds it in the light. He reads it twice to make sure, but both times it says the same thing. Dean’s fever’s hovering just under 103.5. He’s really goddamn sick.
“Sammy?” He doesn’t even know where the kid is. Can’t be far in this tiny motel room. John keeps his eyes fixed on Dean.
“Did it go down?” Sam asks, and John can hear him swallow hard.
“Not yet, son.” It’s okay. John’s still got a few tricks up his sleeve. Dean’ll be fine. He’ll be fine. “I need you to run Dean a bath okay. Lukewarm water. Just a little cooler than the air, understand?”
“Yeah. Yes Sir.”
------+------+------
Dean is none too keen on the lukewarm bath but it does the trick, brings his fever down just enough for the poor kid to finally keep some fluids down. It’s slow going because it hurts him so damn much to swallow, but he sets his mind to it. And that’s all it takes with Dean.
John and Sam sleep in shifts, keep Dean cool while he struggles to rest through fits of coughing and aching muscles. By dawn and their last switchover, John sees something in Sam’s bleary eyes, an understanding that wasn’t there the day before, an acknowledgement. Like he’s learned how to be a brother to Dean in a way that’s different form being his little brother.
By noon, Dean’s fever is down to 100.5 and he’s insisting he rub the Tiger Balm on his own chest thank-you-very-much while John concocts him his first hot toddy and Sam makes a sandwich run to the Deli down the street. It’s been days since Dean’s kept down any solid food, and his shaking hands are a testament to that. Less easily alleviated is Dean’s sore throat. But John’s hoping the cocktail he’s handing him will at least help.
Propped up in bed on four or five pillows, Dean nods in thanks.
“Your Grandpa Winchester’s recipe. Had my first one when I was oh… 8 or 9.”
Dean blows on the hot drink and takes a tentative sip. Hardens his features as he swallows then lets out a quick puff of air and nods his head.
“Grandpa Winchester didn’t fool around,” he rasps softly, his voice almost a whisper. He takes another, longer sip.
“No he did not,” John says, and smiles just a little.
He sits at the edge of Dean’s bed, watches him drink, his eyes still a little unfocused, his bare chest shining from the Tiger Balm-that John can feel even in his lungs-and his hands surrounding the mug like a precious chalice. He looks up at John and asks him, “How’d ya know?”
“Know what, kiddo?”
“How did you… know to come back?”
John closes his eyes for a second. Thinks maybe he’s imagined this. Because if it’s real, he has no good answer, nothing to tell Dean that won’t either be a blatant lie or a truth so bitter that even John doesn’t want to think about it. Fate? If it’s fate then it’s a tease, a cosmic joke made to point out how crappy a father John really is. Luck then? But who is John kidding. When has luck ever been on their side?
He can’t answer Dean’s question. So Dean does it for him, because John's always been too fucking transparent for this kid.
“You didn’t.”
“Dean, I-“
Dean shakes his head. “Dunno why I thought…. was stupid…”
“No, it’s not. I mean, maybe something, someone out there is on our side. You never know, son.”
Lies it is then.
“Yeah… maybe,” Dean whispers and finishes his Bourbon.
END
Uh, wow, that turned out to be way more depressing than I thought it would be. Alas, when the angst calls to me, I must answer.
Eugh. Sorry for the cut issues. LJ is crap tonight.