Half-Spent Was the Night
TITLE: Half-Spent Was the Night
AUTHOR: i_speak_tongue
GENRE: gen, h/c, x-mas, season 3, slightly AU
SPOILERS: Generally for season 3
RATING: PG 13
WORDS:2087
A/N: Wrote this for the holiday h/c meme over at hoodie_time, for nwspaprtaxis, who basically asked for Dean in an Ilizarov apparatus (ie, very very broken leg) stuck in the hospital over the holidays and there are kids involved somehow. Basically. Here, I've taken the liberty of erasing A Very Supernatural Christmas from history, and making up my own, crueler version. Also, title is from the beautiful old Christmas carol, Lo, How a Rose E'er Blooming. Listen to Sufjan's version and dare your heart not to swell.
half-spent was the night
It’s not time yet.
Dean’s crying. He’s crying and Sam’s holding his face, telling him he’s going to be fine.
Everything’s cold and white except for where it’s red and burning. His leg hurts so bad the pain hits his tongue, his eyelashes, his eardrums. Like it’s screaming at every cell in his body for help. Please. Don’t leave me here.
Sam presses his lips to Dean’s hairline and doesn’t move until someone yells at him. And Dean doesn’t remember anything after that and he doesn’t want to.
***
“Dean!”
He wakes up to the pounding heart in his chest. Sweat beading on his forehead. Christ. Same fucking nightmare every night. And not for the first time, he wonders how long it will stave off the other ones. The nightmares that haven’t come true yet.
“You okay?”
That’s a loaded question. If it was Sam lying here, he probably wouldn’t dare ask him that. But Sam knows Dean. And Dean knows Sam. And Dean says, “Fine,” even though his leg is shattered and currently being held together by gears and pins and bolts and nuts that look like they should be part of a motorcycle engine. And everyone’s happy.
Well, maybe not happy. But at least relieved he’s not puking every time he wakes up anymore. Looking at his leg, feeling it, still makes him nauseous. But if he concentrates he can breath through it. It’s taken some practice.
“What are my numbers?” Dean asks. He wants to get the hell out of here. But his doctor’s worried about infection, and Dean’s had a low grade fever since the operation. It’s being a real prissy bitch about leaving, and Sam not letting him go anywhere either, until he’s a cool 98.5.
Sam squints at the monitor over the bed. “Uh... 101.54,” he says slowly, knowing full well Dean’s not going to like it. “Sorry, man.”
“Shit, Sam. I’ve been here over two weeks now. Is it… crap. When’s Christmas?”
“Today’s the 24th, Dean.”
“Seriously?” Dean sighs and it comes out all uneven. Maybe it’s the codeine, maybe it’s the fever, but he feels like crap all of a sudden.
He tugs at the collar of his sweat-stained t-shirt and Sam presses a cold pack to his forehead. This part normally comes after the puking, but Dean’s not about to quibble. It feels nice, and the way Sam leans over him as he hold it there, the way he looks down at him like the only thing in the world he cares about in that moment is making Dean feel better? That’s… yeah. That’s pretty nice too.
“Hey,” Sam says softly, “not like we really do anything for Christmas anyways.”
“Yeah, but-“
“And the holidays would suck even harder if you died of a bone infection lying in some shitty motel room eating pork rinds, watching Die Hard.”
“That makes me feel so much better. Thanks,” Dean says. And neither of them acknowledge(not with words, anyways) that he’s going to die somewhere of something in a few months and it’s going to be a lot worse than a bone infection.
***
Under any other circumstances, Dean would be happy to see tall, sleek Shivani, nurse extraordinaire. But he knows what time it is, and what she’s here to do to him. And so when she casually says, “Hello, beautiful,” as she slips into his room with her little metal tray, he tries really hard not to cry. Might as well save it for when he’s actually in agony.
“Hey.”
“You’re getting a roommate,” she tells him, leaving the tray on the little table by his bed.
“As long as they don’t snore.”
“I don’t think many seven year old girls do.”
Dean raises an eyebrow.
“Pediatrics is running low on beds. Some leaky pipes or something.” She takes his foot, the one on his fucked-up leg, and holds it between her soft, lithe hands, rubbing it warm. She does this as a gesture, to soothe his nerves before she gets down to business. And Dean’s not ungrateful.
“Are her parents cool with that? I mean… I’m not…”
“You’re not a child?” Shivani smiles, shiny brown lips spread ear to ear. “Who told you that?” It’s contagious. The corner of Dean’s mouth curls upwards as he rolls his eyes.
“You were the youngest, least grumpy person with an extra bed,” she explains. “And she’s in between foster homes, so… no parents.” The smile is gone. Just as quickly. Her hands slip off his foot.
“That sucks.”
Shivani nods, snatches up her special little wrench from the tray, and the sound sends a shiver up Dean’s spine.
“Still running a little hot, I see,” she says, peeking at Dean’s monitor.
Dean doesn’t answer. He’s too preoccupied with following her hands as one rests gently on the bottom ring near his ankle, and the other hovers over a nut with the wrench.
“Ready?” she asks. Dean clamps his teeth together, gathers bed sheet in his fists, and nods.
The pain she inflicts increases with each half-millimeter turn. Dean counts with her to sixteen (one for each nut), closes his eyes and tries not to imagine hers tuning completely black.
***
Sam sips his coffee, watches as Shivani injects a little something extra into Dean’s IV port. He smiles softly at her and says thank you and she leaves the two of them behind.
“Tough one, today, huh?” he says.
The drugs haven’t hit Dean yet and he can’t quite bring himself to talk. Or move. Or blink.
“It’s okay. Just give it a minute.” Sam splays his hand out on Dean’s chest, as if he’s transferring strength to him like some kind of Shaman. And in that moment, Dean can’t stand it. Feels like this is all just going to make it harder once he’s finally dragged to Hell and there’s no one there to hold his hand while he’s splayed wide open and burned and broken. No one there to tell him it’s okay. Because it won’t be.
“Stop it,” he growls, shoving Sam’s hand away.
“Hey…”
And almost immediately, he aches for Sam’s touch again.
“I can’t, Sam.”
“Can’t what?”
He feels the painkillers brush over his nerves like wheat in the wind, feels that now-familiar soft dizziness start to weigh him down.
“Gotta be ready. Not gonna have you with me down there.”
“Ready? Dean…”
“Gonna be alone. Down there.”
“Well, you’re not alone now, alright?” Sam almost sound angry, and Dean wants to stop his brother from squeezing his hand but he’s too tired. He’s only capable of turning his head away and feeling his eyelids droop slowly closed and feeling a vague and unshakable sense of security that Sam is here.
***
She’s small. Dean forgets how small they are sometimes. Thinks about when he was seven and didn’t really feel little at all. Not next to his baby brother. But he supposes he must have been. Her big blue eyes look like they’re trying to take everything in at once, almost as if she’s excited to be in the hospital. And then it occurs to him that this could very well be a step up from wherever she was before.
Sadly, he can relate.
Once she’s been tucked into bed by the nurse in the Winnie-the-Pooh scrubs, handed a pile of coloring books and patted on the head, she’s immediately curious about Dean. And “What’s on your leg?” seems to be the most pressing question.
“It’s called an Ilizarov apparatus,” Sam tells her, pronouncing the words ridiculously slowly.
Dean shakes his head, vaguely embarrassed. “Sounds like a freakin’ Robert Ludlum novel…” he mumbles. Not like the kid’s bound to catch that particular reference.
“Does it hurt?” she asks.
“Yep.” Lying doesn’t even occur to him for some reason.
“My tummy hurts too. Some guy took out my appendix.”
“Some guy, huh?”
“Yeah. He was okay, I guess. But he had weird teeth. You’ve got nice teeth.”
“Thanks,” Dean says, feels a blush tingle up his cheeks.
“What’s your name?”
“Dean. What’s yours?”
“Beth.”
“That’s a really nice name.”
“Thanks. I’m gonna be a dentist, you know,” she informs them.
“Really?”
“Yep. Because if you’re a dentist, you get to have a waiting room with a big fish tank and toys and stuff, and you get to ask people what flavor of fluoride they want and you get to take x-rays and you get those funny fake teeth and a bunch of stickers.”
Sam chuckles, gives Dean that get a load of this kook look that they’ll send each other’s way sometimes during an interview. She does seem pretty energetic for a kid who just had a superfluous organ removed.
“Sounds like a sweet deal.”
***
The lights are off. Dean’s leg is throbbing and he’s been lying here awake for what feels like hours, imagining what it might feel like if his entire body was in an Ilizarov apparatus, what it might feel like to have every bone broken and then stabbed through with little metal rods. And then maybe set on fire. Doesn’t exactly have the same effect as counting sheep.
“Dean?” It’s the loudest whisper Dean’s ever heard.
“Huh?”
“Dean, it’s Beth.”
“Yeah. Hey. You okay?” Dean asks, echoing her not-really-a-whisper.
“It’s Christmas tomorrow.”
“Yeah.”
“Are you excited?”
“Uh… I don’t know.” He’s never been excited about Christmas, not that he can remember, anyways. But since Thanksgiving he’d been thinking about how this would be his very last one, thinking maybe this year, for once, he could try to get into the spirit of things. And then he ended up here, getting his sneak preview of Hell, and it crushed any Christmas spirit he may have had right along with his tibia and fibula.
“My family doesn’t really do Christmas,” he adds.
“Sometimes I don’t. Santa can’t find me sometimes because I move around a lot. But I think he’ll find us here.”
Christ.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Because this building’s really big and he’ll be able to see it from the sky for sure. Don’t you think so?” Such hope. How do you say no to that?
“Sure. He’ll find us. But you need to be asleep when he comes.”
“But it’s haaaaard,” she whines.
“Just try, okay?”
“Fiiiiine.”
“Goodnight, Beth.”
He lies there, listen to her breathing and waits for the soft puffs to sound out an undisturbed rhythm. And when he’s sure she’s asleep, he reaches behind him, carefully, quietly feels around on his nightstand for his phone. His shoulder pulls on his waist, which pulls on his hip which pulls on his leg and pain blossoms there, has him questioning if he’ll be able to get anything accomplished before he passes out cold. He bites down on his lip to keep from groaning and he clings to the phone for dear life once it’s finally in his grasp.
There’s just no way his last Christmas is going to involve watching a little girl cry because she didn’t get any presents. That’s just… no.
It’s only 9:30. There’s bound to be something open. Maybe.
911 get present 4 7 yr old grl aka beth
He hits send and waits for his brother’s reply. Shit. Sam’s going to fucking kill him.
Whatever.
***
He wakes just before the snow-bleached sun begins its morning crawl across the ceiling. Sam slips in quietly not long after, carrying a couple of boxes wrapped in comic strip covered newsprint. Dean sighs with relief as Sam places one carefully at the foot of Beth’s bed, where her feet aren’t even close to reaching.
He has another one, the right size for maybe a new air filter for the impala. Sam balances it on Dean’s chest and smiles with his eyes.
Across the room, Beth is waking up, gasping at the package she’s spotted on the edge of her bed.
“Merry Christmas,” Sam says.
Dean isn’t sure what to say. The last thing Sam gave Dean for Christmas was his amulet. He’s never taken it off, and it’s always been enough for every year after that. He knows why they usually let the day go by with barely an acknowledgement, knows it isn’t easy.
“He found us,” Beth whispers, for real this time.
Dean looks up at his brother. “Why?”
Sam looks over at the little girl as she tears through the paper and he nods like he’s agreeing with a sermon only he can hear.
“This is what we have, Dean. This. Here. Now. We can’t let them take that.”
the end.
AUTHOR: i_speak_tongue
GENRE: gen, h/c, x-mas, season 3, slightly AU
SPOILERS: Generally for season 3
RATING: PG 13
WORDS:2087
A/N: Wrote this for the holiday h/c meme over at hoodie_time, for nwspaprtaxis, who basically asked for Dean in an Ilizarov apparatus (ie, very very broken leg) stuck in the hospital over the holidays and there are kids involved somehow. Basically. Here, I've taken the liberty of erasing A Very Supernatural Christmas from history, and making up my own, crueler version. Also, title is from the beautiful old Christmas carol, Lo, How a Rose E'er Blooming. Listen to Sufjan's version and dare your heart not to swell.
half-spent was the night
It’s not time yet.
Dean’s crying. He’s crying and Sam’s holding his face, telling him he’s going to be fine.
Everything’s cold and white except for where it’s red and burning. His leg hurts so bad the pain hits his tongue, his eyelashes, his eardrums. Like it’s screaming at every cell in his body for help. Please. Don’t leave me here.
Sam presses his lips to Dean’s hairline and doesn’t move until someone yells at him. And Dean doesn’t remember anything after that and he doesn’t want to.
***
“Dean!”
He wakes up to the pounding heart in his chest. Sweat beading on his forehead. Christ. Same fucking nightmare every night. And not for the first time, he wonders how long it will stave off the other ones. The nightmares that haven’t come true yet.
“You okay?”
That’s a loaded question. If it was Sam lying here, he probably wouldn’t dare ask him that. But Sam knows Dean. And Dean knows Sam. And Dean says, “Fine,” even though his leg is shattered and currently being held together by gears and pins and bolts and nuts that look like they should be part of a motorcycle engine. And everyone’s happy.
Well, maybe not happy. But at least relieved he’s not puking every time he wakes up anymore. Looking at his leg, feeling it, still makes him nauseous. But if he concentrates he can breath through it. It’s taken some practice.
“What are my numbers?” Dean asks. He wants to get the hell out of here. But his doctor’s worried about infection, and Dean’s had a low grade fever since the operation. It’s being a real prissy bitch about leaving, and Sam not letting him go anywhere either, until he’s a cool 98.5.
Sam squints at the monitor over the bed. “Uh... 101.54,” he says slowly, knowing full well Dean’s not going to like it. “Sorry, man.”
“Shit, Sam. I’ve been here over two weeks now. Is it… crap. When’s Christmas?”
“Today’s the 24th, Dean.”
“Seriously?” Dean sighs and it comes out all uneven. Maybe it’s the codeine, maybe it’s the fever, but he feels like crap all of a sudden.
He tugs at the collar of his sweat-stained t-shirt and Sam presses a cold pack to his forehead. This part normally comes after the puking, but Dean’s not about to quibble. It feels nice, and the way Sam leans over him as he hold it there, the way he looks down at him like the only thing in the world he cares about in that moment is making Dean feel better? That’s… yeah. That’s pretty nice too.
“Hey,” Sam says softly, “not like we really do anything for Christmas anyways.”
“Yeah, but-“
“And the holidays would suck even harder if you died of a bone infection lying in some shitty motel room eating pork rinds, watching Die Hard.”
“That makes me feel so much better. Thanks,” Dean says. And neither of them acknowledge(not with words, anyways) that he’s going to die somewhere of something in a few months and it’s going to be a lot worse than a bone infection.
***
Under any other circumstances, Dean would be happy to see tall, sleek Shivani, nurse extraordinaire. But he knows what time it is, and what she’s here to do to him. And so when she casually says, “Hello, beautiful,” as she slips into his room with her little metal tray, he tries really hard not to cry. Might as well save it for when he’s actually in agony.
“Hey.”
“You’re getting a roommate,” she tells him, leaving the tray on the little table by his bed.
“As long as they don’t snore.”
“I don’t think many seven year old girls do.”
Dean raises an eyebrow.
“Pediatrics is running low on beds. Some leaky pipes or something.” She takes his foot, the one on his fucked-up leg, and holds it between her soft, lithe hands, rubbing it warm. She does this as a gesture, to soothe his nerves before she gets down to business. And Dean’s not ungrateful.
“Are her parents cool with that? I mean… I’m not…”
“You’re not a child?” Shivani smiles, shiny brown lips spread ear to ear. “Who told you that?” It’s contagious. The corner of Dean’s mouth curls upwards as he rolls his eyes.
“You were the youngest, least grumpy person with an extra bed,” she explains. “And she’s in between foster homes, so… no parents.” The smile is gone. Just as quickly. Her hands slip off his foot.
“That sucks.”
Shivani nods, snatches up her special little wrench from the tray, and the sound sends a shiver up Dean’s spine.
“Still running a little hot, I see,” she says, peeking at Dean’s monitor.
Dean doesn’t answer. He’s too preoccupied with following her hands as one rests gently on the bottom ring near his ankle, and the other hovers over a nut with the wrench.
“Ready?” she asks. Dean clamps his teeth together, gathers bed sheet in his fists, and nods.
The pain she inflicts increases with each half-millimeter turn. Dean counts with her to sixteen (one for each nut), closes his eyes and tries not to imagine hers tuning completely black.
***
Sam sips his coffee, watches as Shivani injects a little something extra into Dean’s IV port. He smiles softly at her and says thank you and she leaves the two of them behind.
“Tough one, today, huh?” he says.
The drugs haven’t hit Dean yet and he can’t quite bring himself to talk. Or move. Or blink.
“It’s okay. Just give it a minute.” Sam splays his hand out on Dean’s chest, as if he’s transferring strength to him like some kind of Shaman. And in that moment, Dean can’t stand it. Feels like this is all just going to make it harder once he’s finally dragged to Hell and there’s no one there to hold his hand while he’s splayed wide open and burned and broken. No one there to tell him it’s okay. Because it won’t be.
“Stop it,” he growls, shoving Sam’s hand away.
“Hey…”
And almost immediately, he aches for Sam’s touch again.
“I can’t, Sam.”
“Can’t what?”
He feels the painkillers brush over his nerves like wheat in the wind, feels that now-familiar soft dizziness start to weigh him down.
“Gotta be ready. Not gonna have you with me down there.”
“Ready? Dean…”
“Gonna be alone. Down there.”
“Well, you’re not alone now, alright?” Sam almost sound angry, and Dean wants to stop his brother from squeezing his hand but he’s too tired. He’s only capable of turning his head away and feeling his eyelids droop slowly closed and feeling a vague and unshakable sense of security that Sam is here.
***
She’s small. Dean forgets how small they are sometimes. Thinks about when he was seven and didn’t really feel little at all. Not next to his baby brother. But he supposes he must have been. Her big blue eyes look like they’re trying to take everything in at once, almost as if she’s excited to be in the hospital. And then it occurs to him that this could very well be a step up from wherever she was before.
Sadly, he can relate.
Once she’s been tucked into bed by the nurse in the Winnie-the-Pooh scrubs, handed a pile of coloring books and patted on the head, she’s immediately curious about Dean. And “What’s on your leg?” seems to be the most pressing question.
“It’s called an Ilizarov apparatus,” Sam tells her, pronouncing the words ridiculously slowly.
Dean shakes his head, vaguely embarrassed. “Sounds like a freakin’ Robert Ludlum novel…” he mumbles. Not like the kid’s bound to catch that particular reference.
“Does it hurt?” she asks.
“Yep.” Lying doesn’t even occur to him for some reason.
“My tummy hurts too. Some guy took out my appendix.”
“Some guy, huh?”
“Yeah. He was okay, I guess. But he had weird teeth. You’ve got nice teeth.”
“Thanks,” Dean says, feels a blush tingle up his cheeks.
“What’s your name?”
“Dean. What’s yours?”
“Beth.”
“That’s a really nice name.”
“Thanks. I’m gonna be a dentist, you know,” she informs them.
“Really?”
“Yep. Because if you’re a dentist, you get to have a waiting room with a big fish tank and toys and stuff, and you get to ask people what flavor of fluoride they want and you get to take x-rays and you get those funny fake teeth and a bunch of stickers.”
Sam chuckles, gives Dean that get a load of this kook look that they’ll send each other’s way sometimes during an interview. She does seem pretty energetic for a kid who just had a superfluous organ removed.
“Sounds like a sweet deal.”
***
The lights are off. Dean’s leg is throbbing and he’s been lying here awake for what feels like hours, imagining what it might feel like if his entire body was in an Ilizarov apparatus, what it might feel like to have every bone broken and then stabbed through with little metal rods. And then maybe set on fire. Doesn’t exactly have the same effect as counting sheep.
“Dean?” It’s the loudest whisper Dean’s ever heard.
“Huh?”
“Dean, it’s Beth.”
“Yeah. Hey. You okay?” Dean asks, echoing her not-really-a-whisper.
“It’s Christmas tomorrow.”
“Yeah.”
“Are you excited?”
“Uh… I don’t know.” He’s never been excited about Christmas, not that he can remember, anyways. But since Thanksgiving he’d been thinking about how this would be his very last one, thinking maybe this year, for once, he could try to get into the spirit of things. And then he ended up here, getting his sneak preview of Hell, and it crushed any Christmas spirit he may have had right along with his tibia and fibula.
“My family doesn’t really do Christmas,” he adds.
“Sometimes I don’t. Santa can’t find me sometimes because I move around a lot. But I think he’ll find us here.”
Christ.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Because this building’s really big and he’ll be able to see it from the sky for sure. Don’t you think so?” Such hope. How do you say no to that?
“Sure. He’ll find us. But you need to be asleep when he comes.”
“But it’s haaaaard,” she whines.
“Just try, okay?”
“Fiiiiine.”
“Goodnight, Beth.”
He lies there, listen to her breathing and waits for the soft puffs to sound out an undisturbed rhythm. And when he’s sure she’s asleep, he reaches behind him, carefully, quietly feels around on his nightstand for his phone. His shoulder pulls on his waist, which pulls on his hip which pulls on his leg and pain blossoms there, has him questioning if he’ll be able to get anything accomplished before he passes out cold. He bites down on his lip to keep from groaning and he clings to the phone for dear life once it’s finally in his grasp.
There’s just no way his last Christmas is going to involve watching a little girl cry because she didn’t get any presents. That’s just… no.
It’s only 9:30. There’s bound to be something open. Maybe.
911 get present 4 7 yr old grl aka beth
He hits send and waits for his brother’s reply. Shit. Sam’s going to fucking kill him.
Whatever.
***
He wakes just before the snow-bleached sun begins its morning crawl across the ceiling. Sam slips in quietly not long after, carrying a couple of boxes wrapped in comic strip covered newsprint. Dean sighs with relief as Sam places one carefully at the foot of Beth’s bed, where her feet aren’t even close to reaching.
He has another one, the right size for maybe a new air filter for the impala. Sam balances it on Dean’s chest and smiles with his eyes.
Across the room, Beth is waking up, gasping at the package she’s spotted on the edge of her bed.
“Merry Christmas,” Sam says.
Dean isn’t sure what to say. The last thing Sam gave Dean for Christmas was his amulet. He’s never taken it off, and it’s always been enough for every year after that. He knows why they usually let the day go by with barely an acknowledgement, knows it isn’t easy.
“He found us,” Beth whispers, for real this time.
Dean looks up at his brother. “Why?”
Sam looks over at the little girl as she tears through the paper and he nods like he’s agreeing with a sermon only he can hear.
“This is what we have, Dean. This. Here. Now. We can’t let them take that.”
the end.
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