Fic: Driver Picks the Music 1/2 (SPN)
Some more sick Dean, because that's my thing. ;)
Driver Picks the Music
Part One
Dean stands over the sink in the bathroom of the bunker. He's coughing, again, or still. It's worse now. He can't even remember when it started. He had it three weeks ago when they were hunting werewolves in Toledo. It was dry, niggly, grating then. Annoying more than anything. Sam had noticed. He always does. So Dean had bought some over the counter, weak ass cough syrup just to shut his brother up.
Dean's hands are shaking as he pulls the same bottle out of the medicine cupboard and swallows the last dregs of it. 'For dry, tickly coughs' the bottle advertises.
Yeah, so maybe it's not the best kind for him anymore, seeing as yesterday it shifted from dry and tickly to wet and bubbly. Now it's so bad he can't even lie down flat, sputtering, choking on his own lung juice whenever he tries. So, basically, he's stopped trying.
He coughs again and it's so bad he has to grip the sides of the sink to stay upright.
And just in the last few hours, not only has his lungs felt full, but things seem to have spread to his head as well. A battle going on between his white blood cells and whatever mutated virus that has figuratively tried to plant a flag on his respiratory system. His sinuses full of the dead soldiers that are rapidly losing the battle.
He stumbles over to the toilet and rips off a length of toilet paper, bringing it to his nose and blowing.
Just the sheer act of breathing in deeply and forcing the air out through his nose, sets him off coughing again, and this time he thinks he might suffocate.
When he manages to swallow past the furry lump in his throat he's hit with a wave of nausea. The room starts rocking back and forth like he's on a boat and he has to slide down the wall onto his bum so he doesn't get thrown overboard.
He decides it's too difficult to get up so he stays there, swallowing thickly and coughing every minute or so.
Now it's 5am and maybe he managed to get a few minutes sleep, head burrowed in his folded arms resting on his knees. He has no idea how long he's been down here on the bathroom floor but it's probably time to get up, considering how cold it now is. He uncurls and stands and the movement forces a cough, because any freaking thing he does forces a cough. He catches his reflection in the mirror and it's not a pretty sight. He's almost grey, face slick with sweat. He throws some cold water over his face and heads out to the library. Maybe he can get a start on a lead for their next job.
"Come on, man."
It's the first thing Dean hears. He blinks and tries to push himself up slightly. He's fallen asleep on the table.
As he sits up higher, he's aware of a wet washcloth on the back of his neck, rapidly heating up with his elevated body temperature.
"Hey, there he is."
Sam's been talking to him this whole time.
Dean coughs and almost whimpers at the pain in his chest. He's coughed so much the last few weeks the muscles in his chest are aching something chronic. There's another pain too though, something deeper, something red hot.
"Geez, how long have you been coughing like that?"
Dean rubs his eye with his finger, "Since Toledo."
"Not like that you haven't," Sam states, "And it was before that, in Jacksonville."
"Dude."
Dean leaves it at that because talking is energy he can't afford.
"How long, Dean?"
Dean blinks, looking at his brother for the first time. He looks concerned.
"What?"
"When did you start coughing like a pool cleaner?"
Dean thinks it's a weird analogy.
He shrugs. Saves on energy.
"Come on," he says again, hand on Dean's shoulder.
Dean flinches away, "Hands are freezing," he mumbles.
"No, you're just cooking."
"Cooking?" Dean rubs his eyes again.
"Stand up, dude."
Dean rattles off a cough again, feeling sweat form on his brow.
Sam's hand is rubbing his back and it feels warmer now.
When Dean's done Sam puts a hand under his elbow and forces him to stand. Dean's leg shake like a newborn calf and he plants his palms on the table and hunches over, waiting for the world to stop spinning.
"Come on," Sam says again and it's like he's trying to pull him.
"Wait," Dean gasps before he coughs again, "Gon' be sick."
Sam rushes beside him and Dean can just close his eyes and pray the contents of his stomach stay where they are. His prayers are not answered.
Sam's there just in time though, with a trashcan under Dean's chin.
Dean has nothing to throw up but his body tries anyway. It's useless really. And it's wasting energy he doesn't have.
"Jesus, Dean."
And Dean feels somewhat validated by that, because it means it’s as bad as it feels.
The washcloth from the back of his neck is gone and is now finding its way over the curves of his face.
Next thing he knows he's in the impala. Which is weird, he thinks, because he doesn't remember getting in the impala.
"How you doing?"
Dean blinks out the window.
"Where we going?"
Sam frowns and Dean feels like he asked the wrong question.
"The doctor."
"Sam, I don't -" need a friggen doctor, is what he wants to say but a cough steals his voice and he thinks better of finishing the sentence. Yeah, alright, he needs a doctor.
"Glad we agree," Sam says and Dean thinks he hears a streak of amusement in his voice and that's just not fair.
"Should have known your cough was gonna get this bad. It's gone on way too long."
Dean winces and rubs his chest. It has gone on a while, he'll give Sam that.
Dean sits on the exam table and gets a shot of penicillin in the arm. He's let Sam answer most of the questions because now anytime he tries to talk he coughs instead. If the last four weeks haven't made him sick to death of the coughing, the last 24 hours have.
Dean's given an inhaler and some triple strength antibiotics and advised to rest and take Tylenol for the fever. Sam bundles him into the impala and they head home to the soundtrack of Sam’s freaking country crap.
Dean reaches out a shaky hand to change the station, only to have it gently pushed aside. Dean glares and Sam smirks.
“Driver picks the music.”
Part 2: http://missbayliss.livejournal.com/16710.html
Driver Picks the Music
Part One
Dean stands over the sink in the bathroom of the bunker. He's coughing, again, or still. It's worse now. He can't even remember when it started. He had it three weeks ago when they were hunting werewolves in Toledo. It was dry, niggly, grating then. Annoying more than anything. Sam had noticed. He always does. So Dean had bought some over the counter, weak ass cough syrup just to shut his brother up.
Dean's hands are shaking as he pulls the same bottle out of the medicine cupboard and swallows the last dregs of it. 'For dry, tickly coughs' the bottle advertises.
Yeah, so maybe it's not the best kind for him anymore, seeing as yesterday it shifted from dry and tickly to wet and bubbly. Now it's so bad he can't even lie down flat, sputtering, choking on his own lung juice whenever he tries. So, basically, he's stopped trying.
He coughs again and it's so bad he has to grip the sides of the sink to stay upright.
And just in the last few hours, not only has his lungs felt full, but things seem to have spread to his head as well. A battle going on between his white blood cells and whatever mutated virus that has figuratively tried to plant a flag on his respiratory system. His sinuses full of the dead soldiers that are rapidly losing the battle.
He stumbles over to the toilet and rips off a length of toilet paper, bringing it to his nose and blowing.
Just the sheer act of breathing in deeply and forcing the air out through his nose, sets him off coughing again, and this time he thinks he might suffocate.
When he manages to swallow past the furry lump in his throat he's hit with a wave of nausea. The room starts rocking back and forth like he's on a boat and he has to slide down the wall onto his bum so he doesn't get thrown overboard.
He decides it's too difficult to get up so he stays there, swallowing thickly and coughing every minute or so.
Now it's 5am and maybe he managed to get a few minutes sleep, head burrowed in his folded arms resting on his knees. He has no idea how long he's been down here on the bathroom floor but it's probably time to get up, considering how cold it now is. He uncurls and stands and the movement forces a cough, because any freaking thing he does forces a cough. He catches his reflection in the mirror and it's not a pretty sight. He's almost grey, face slick with sweat. He throws some cold water over his face and heads out to the library. Maybe he can get a start on a lead for their next job.
"Come on, man."
It's the first thing Dean hears. He blinks and tries to push himself up slightly. He's fallen asleep on the table.
As he sits up higher, he's aware of a wet washcloth on the back of his neck, rapidly heating up with his elevated body temperature.
"Hey, there he is."
Sam's been talking to him this whole time.
Dean coughs and almost whimpers at the pain in his chest. He's coughed so much the last few weeks the muscles in his chest are aching something chronic. There's another pain too though, something deeper, something red hot.
"Geez, how long have you been coughing like that?"
Dean rubs his eye with his finger, "Since Toledo."
"Not like that you haven't," Sam states, "And it was before that, in Jacksonville."
"Dude."
Dean leaves it at that because talking is energy he can't afford.
"How long, Dean?"
Dean blinks, looking at his brother for the first time. He looks concerned.
"What?"
"When did you start coughing like a pool cleaner?"
Dean thinks it's a weird analogy.
He shrugs. Saves on energy.
"Come on," he says again, hand on Dean's shoulder.
Dean flinches away, "Hands are freezing," he mumbles.
"No, you're just cooking."
"Cooking?" Dean rubs his eyes again.
"Stand up, dude."
Dean rattles off a cough again, feeling sweat form on his brow.
Sam's hand is rubbing his back and it feels warmer now.
When Dean's done Sam puts a hand under his elbow and forces him to stand. Dean's leg shake like a newborn calf and he plants his palms on the table and hunches over, waiting for the world to stop spinning.
"Come on," Sam says again and it's like he's trying to pull him.
"Wait," Dean gasps before he coughs again, "Gon' be sick."
Sam rushes beside him and Dean can just close his eyes and pray the contents of his stomach stay where they are. His prayers are not answered.
Sam's there just in time though, with a trashcan under Dean's chin.
Dean has nothing to throw up but his body tries anyway. It's useless really. And it's wasting energy he doesn't have.
"Jesus, Dean."
And Dean feels somewhat validated by that, because it means it’s as bad as it feels.
The washcloth from the back of his neck is gone and is now finding its way over the curves of his face.
Next thing he knows he's in the impala. Which is weird, he thinks, because he doesn't remember getting in the impala.
"How you doing?"
Dean blinks out the window.
"Where we going?"
Sam frowns and Dean feels like he asked the wrong question.
"The doctor."
"Sam, I don't -" need a friggen doctor, is what he wants to say but a cough steals his voice and he thinks better of finishing the sentence. Yeah, alright, he needs a doctor.
"Glad we agree," Sam says and Dean thinks he hears a streak of amusement in his voice and that's just not fair.
"Should have known your cough was gonna get this bad. It's gone on way too long."
Dean winces and rubs his chest. It has gone on a while, he'll give Sam that.
Dean sits on the exam table and gets a shot of penicillin in the arm. He's let Sam answer most of the questions because now anytime he tries to talk he coughs instead. If the last four weeks haven't made him sick to death of the coughing, the last 24 hours have.
Dean's given an inhaler and some triple strength antibiotics and advised to rest and take Tylenol for the fever. Sam bundles him into the impala and they head home to the soundtrack of Sam’s freaking country crap.
Dean reaches out a shaky hand to change the station, only to have it gently pushed aside. Dean glares and Sam smirks.
“Driver picks the music.”
Part 2: http://missbayliss.livejournal.com/16710.html