Fic: 11 Days (SPN)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, angst
Category: GenRating: M
Characters: Dean, Sam
Warnings/Spoilers: There is vomit and graphic detail and A LOT of swearing. Massive, massive spoilers for season 7. Do not continue reading if you haven't seen season 7.
Word Count: 2340
Disclaimer: I don't own Dean Winchester (unfortunately).
Summary: This is pretty much just mindless, plotless, senseless whump. I was actually feeling really shitty about myself because I get chronic migraines and chronic back pain and sometimes, briefly, it just really gets me down. So, the things I can't say, Dean Winchester can say for me. Basically set in season 7 some time, pre bunker but post Bobby. Maybe Sam's crazy, maybe he's not... The whole thing is from Dean's perspective when he's in a really bad place.
11 Days
Dean Winchester could handle being sick. Dean Winchester could handle just about anything. In fact, he’d been through everything and he knew he could handle it. If handling it meant drinking till he passed out, pushing things down, shoving other crap on top of it and then pushing that down with more booze. Yeah, he could handle anything.
What he couldn’t handle, was being sick for this long.
5 days.
5 days they’d been in this crap motel, and honestly there was no end in sight. Yes, in the grand scheme of things, 5 days wasn’t that long to be sick. 5 days wasn’t that long to someone with a chronic disease, or starving in Africa or some shit. But it was friggen long for Dean friggen Winchester.
And it wouldn’t be so damn bad if it was just a case of the sniffles, just a mild head cold, a couple of sneezes, a lingering cough that made it annoying to get to sleep but not impossible, but it wasn’t. Dean didn’t know what it was. All he knew was, it was fucking torture.
It started a week ago with a headache. Not the normal, everyday, drank too much again last night, got hit in the head a little too hard, fucking stressful friggen life, headache, but a migraine, as Sam called it. Now, he had a little sympathy for the kid. All those years yellow eyes tortured him with death visions, that caused him excruciating pain. He understood now, and he kind of wished he still didn’t.
They’d pulled off the road so he could sleep it off, even though it was 2 in the afternoon. But the sunlight on the road was blinding him, sending searing pain right through his brain, and he thought his head was going to split in half.
Sammy was in the front seat, clicking on his laptop, probably researching the hunt they were heading to. It couldn’t really wait. People were dying. But, fuck, Dean was dying too. He was curled in the back seat waiting for the painkillers to kick in before he threw them up all over the asphalt. He was dizzy and nauseous and almost blind in his left eye and “It’s all symptoms of a migraine, Dean. You’re not dying.” And fuck you, Sammy was all he could think, even though he couldn’t speak. Because speaking was noise and he couldn’t take hearing it.
After a few hours the pain had died down, but it never left. They’d started driving again, Sam behind the wheel because Dean was seeing spots all over the road. And for the next few days he was shoving Percocet down his throat, trying to keep on top of that “migraine” that still lingered behind his eye.
Even then Sam had started bitching again. Dean tried to hide it but he’d kept asking Sammy to drive and he’d caught him popping pills more than once. And then it was, “Do we need to see a doctor?” and “You should be better by now,” even things like, “You can’t be taking so much of that, Dean,” pursed lips and everything. Like Dean hadn’t been taking it already. For the pain in his back, the twinges in his shoulder, the ache in his knees, even just to get to sleep at night when alcohol wasn’t enough. He was no stranger to painkillers, even the heavy duty ones. This, though, this was different. And more than just the pain in his head, the constant dizziness and stomach turning, it was making him fucking depressed.
Sam had put his foot down when Dean almost climbed out of the still moving car to throw up his cheeseburger, extra bacon, from the diner 20 miles back. And by that point Dean didn’t care. Sam drove them to the nearest motel, a fucking fish under the sea themed room, 1000 fucking miles from the ocean.
Sam was all hands, and hushed voice, and “God, you’re burning up, Dean.”
Dean didn’t need to be told. He knew. He fucking knew. It was like fire, wrapping around him, bubbling his flesh, skin and meat falling off his bones.
“Shhh, Dean. You’re not there. You got out, remember? You’re not in hell.”
But he was. He fucking was. Because this was just the way it hurt.
Dean had woken up that morning to Sammy’s head pressing into his hip, wet towels in his armpits and, God forbid, his groin. He was covered in sweat, like he’d been run dry. His voice was a scrape and it made him cough, lungs seizing up. Sammy’s hands were on him again, and he wanted to tell him to go away, that he wasn’t a friggen pansy, but maybe he was, because it felt nice and he didn’t want him to stop. Please, don’t stop, Sammy.
“I’m right here, Dean. I’m right here.”
That was how it had started. So, 5 days was a little generous, it was 7 if you included the head crushing, brain melting out your ears, beams of light stabbing into your eye, headache. Which Dean, of course, did.
He wished that was where it had begun and ended, but sadly, for him and his baby brother, it was still going on. And if he wasn’t depressed before, he was fucking depressed now.
The hunt was over. Sam had called Rudy to go and take care of it, because “You can’t hunt like this, Dean,”, “You’re going to get yourself killed,”, “You’re going to mess up and get me killed,”. And that was the one that had worked, because Dean didn’t give a shit about himself. Especially when he did feel this bad, better him dead then he wouldn’t have to feel this shit. But Sammy had pleaded, and the puppy eyes had worked, like they always did. Plus, he didn’t even feel like he could make it to the door.
So, that was, fuck, 4 days ago? He didn’t even know anymore. It was all just one long friggen day. 3 days after the migraine… 3 or 4 days later was when he actually got sick. The flu, or the plague, or some other deathly disease, because it did, it felt like he was dying. “Man flu” Sam had joked once and almost got gutted with Dean’s hunting knife so he didn’t say it again. He definitely didn’t say it after he walked into the bathroom and found Dean crying on the floor. Honestly, though Dean didn’t like to admit it, he liked to have a good old cry sometimes. The job was too much, his life was too much, he couldn’t get through it without a little tears now and again. And often he was able to choke it back to just one glistening tear on his cheek, but this time he couldn’t do it. He felt so sick. His head still pounded and the Percocet did nothing to offer him relief. So he’d stumbled into the bathroom, to cry and say “Why me, God? Why did you do this to me, as if I haven’t been through enough?”, also he needed to blow his nose and he’d run out of tissues. So, in his state he’d obviously forgotten to lock the bathroom door, or maybe it didn’t have a lock. He couldn’t remember. Anyway, that was how Sam found him, on the floor, toilet paper clutched in his hand, face red and streaming with tears and probably snot too.
“Dean, God, breathe, man. It’s alright.”
Shut the fuck up, Sammy. He couldn’t breathe, he was too busy crying, sucking in tiny breathes between sobs. He couldn’t fucking breathe.
He’d ended up back in bed after that, something about a fever spike, and maybe, yeah, maybe that had something to do with the crying. Or maybe not, fever or no, he’d needed to cry anyway.
He’d watched as Sam scurried around cleaning up after him, cooking him soup, plying him with pills, washing him down when he got too hot, and apparently wiping his tears when he cried. He almost felt bad for the kid, almost. He was still healthy. Fit as a fiddle. Sure, he had shadows under his eyes from being up all night because of Dean’s coughing, he probably hadn’t brushed his hair or shaved in a few days. Well, okay, he looked like crap. But he was well, and even that was enough to anger Dean.
He’d cried again that night when he realised what a horrible brother he was. He should have been happy that Sam was healthy. Fuck, he was ecstatic. And he was lucky that Sam wasn’t home, because he could hear himself whimpering.
That must have been 2 nights ago, because that was when Sam went out to find a bar to hustle pool, or poker, whatever was going. They were seriously low on funds, and Sam had spent the last of their money on more medicine. He’d wanted to tell him not to waste it, that he’d be better soon and wouldn’t even need it, but it would be a lie, and he really needed to stop lying to his brother.
Sam eventually stumbled in that night at 1 o’clock in the morning, up 500 bucks and 3 girls phone numbers. Dean was awake, because he was coughing, and he generally couldn’t get to sleep when he had a pound of bubbling lava in his lungs to get out. At least he wasn’t fucking crying.
So, 7 days. 7 days, and it was too much.
“Dean, you need a doctor, man. This is ridiculous,” Sam was cleaning the guns for the 100th time since they’d arrived. Kid was probably going crazy.
Dean just sneezed wetly into another tissue, a pile slowly building at his side. He had to clear his throat 3 times to get his voice to work.
“Can’t afford a doctor, Sam. Leave it alone.”
Sam huffed, snapping and clicking the gun back together with aggressive force.
“It’s been a week.”
Dean rolled his eyes. He knew how fucking long it’d been.
“I know how fucking long it’s been,” his tone was undercut when he choked and coughed, struggling to sit up. The shit didn’t come out if he was lying flat.
Sam helped him sit up and held him there against his chest until he finished coughing. His body was shaking, he couldn’t even sit up without help. He coughed a hunk of yellow mucus into a tissue and relaxed back, letting Sam know he could put him back down.
“If you won’t go to a doctor…”
“Stop,” Dean rasped, “I’m fine,” he swallowed, “I’ll be fine.”
Sam’s angry gaze softened and he sighed again, “Dean, I can’t watch you like this. You’re really sick, man.”
“I’m getting better,” he paused to sneeze, “It’s not as bad as it was.”
Sam nodded, brow furrowed, then went back to cleaning the guns.
It didn’t help that every sneeze felt like it was cracking his skull, and the migraine that he’d tried to will out of existence was back again more forcefully with each one. But he didn’t need a hospital, and he didn’t need a fucking doctor. He just needed one of those guns Sam was cleaning and he’d finish the job himself.
“Can you at least turn the TV on? I can hear you thinking from over here,” he groaned, spreading a hand across his forehead.
Sam laughed, a sad laugh, not the laugh he used to laugh, and, fuck, if that didn’t make Dean more depressed.
He flicked the TV on and it was that Mexican soap opera that always seemed to be on at 4 o’clock in the afternoon. Which would have been fine, except that was what he used to watch with Bobby, and Bobby was fucking dead.
Sam fumbled to change the channel.
“Turn it off, Sam.”
“I’m sorry, Dean…”
“Fucking turn it off!”
Sammy leapt up and pulled the cord out of the wall, “Jesus, Dean,” he sighed.
Dean was coughing again, and good, because that gave him something else to think about. Sam did the same thing again, pulled him up and slid in behind him, sitting Dean up against his chest, a hand wrapped around him so he didn’t fall forward.
“I got you, man,” he soothed.
It was another 4 days before they left that motel. Sam loaded up the car, stole 2 blankets, a towel, and pretty much everything from the bathroom. Dean wasn’t better. But he was well enough to get back on the road, and that was all that mattered. He paused in the doorway, squinting in the early morning sun. The impala was shining, not thick with red dust like she should have been in this environment. No, Sam had cleaned her yesterday. He was bent over the trunk, shoving the bags in, and Dean managed a smile, the first one in over a week. The light finally got to him and he tucked into his elbow to sneeze. He ended up coughing for a while in the same position and felt Sam’s hand on his shoulder.
“We can stay,” was all he said, more of a question really, and so much more in it. Are you really up for this? You really scared me, Dean. Are you sure you’re all right?
Dean squinted up at him, and wanted to say everything.
I’m sorry I scared you, Sammy. I’m sorry I cried. I’m sorry you’ve had no sleep looking after me. Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you. Thanks, Sammy.
“Fuck no,” he grinned.
And then Sammy laughed, that laugh he used to laugh, and clapped Dean on the shoulder. And maybe he didn’t say it, maybe he didn’t say everything he wanted to, but Sammy’s smile lit up and his eyes glinted in the sun and he thought, well, maybe he did. Or maybe he didn’t even need to.
End.
Category: GenRating: M
Characters: Dean, Sam
Warnings/Spoilers: There is vomit and graphic detail and A LOT of swearing. Massive, massive spoilers for season 7. Do not continue reading if you haven't seen season 7.
Word Count: 2340
Disclaimer: I don't own Dean Winchester (unfortunately).
Summary: This is pretty much just mindless, plotless, senseless whump. I was actually feeling really shitty about myself because I get chronic migraines and chronic back pain and sometimes, briefly, it just really gets me down. So, the things I can't say, Dean Winchester can say for me. Basically set in season 7 some time, pre bunker but post Bobby. Maybe Sam's crazy, maybe he's not... The whole thing is from Dean's perspective when he's in a really bad place.
11 Days
Dean Winchester could handle being sick. Dean Winchester could handle just about anything. In fact, he’d been through everything and he knew he could handle it. If handling it meant drinking till he passed out, pushing things down, shoving other crap on top of it and then pushing that down with more booze. Yeah, he could handle anything.
What he couldn’t handle, was being sick for this long.
5 days.
5 days they’d been in this crap motel, and honestly there was no end in sight. Yes, in the grand scheme of things, 5 days wasn’t that long to be sick. 5 days wasn’t that long to someone with a chronic disease, or starving in Africa or some shit. But it was friggen long for Dean friggen Winchester.
And it wouldn’t be so damn bad if it was just a case of the sniffles, just a mild head cold, a couple of sneezes, a lingering cough that made it annoying to get to sleep but not impossible, but it wasn’t. Dean didn’t know what it was. All he knew was, it was fucking torture.
It started a week ago with a headache. Not the normal, everyday, drank too much again last night, got hit in the head a little too hard, fucking stressful friggen life, headache, but a migraine, as Sam called it. Now, he had a little sympathy for the kid. All those years yellow eyes tortured him with death visions, that caused him excruciating pain. He understood now, and he kind of wished he still didn’t.
They’d pulled off the road so he could sleep it off, even though it was 2 in the afternoon. But the sunlight on the road was blinding him, sending searing pain right through his brain, and he thought his head was going to split in half.
Sammy was in the front seat, clicking on his laptop, probably researching the hunt they were heading to. It couldn’t really wait. People were dying. But, fuck, Dean was dying too. He was curled in the back seat waiting for the painkillers to kick in before he threw them up all over the asphalt. He was dizzy and nauseous and almost blind in his left eye and “It’s all symptoms of a migraine, Dean. You’re not dying.” And fuck you, Sammy was all he could think, even though he couldn’t speak. Because speaking was noise and he couldn’t take hearing it.
After a few hours the pain had died down, but it never left. They’d started driving again, Sam behind the wheel because Dean was seeing spots all over the road. And for the next few days he was shoving Percocet down his throat, trying to keep on top of that “migraine” that still lingered behind his eye.
Even then Sam had started bitching again. Dean tried to hide it but he’d kept asking Sammy to drive and he’d caught him popping pills more than once. And then it was, “Do we need to see a doctor?” and “You should be better by now,” even things like, “You can’t be taking so much of that, Dean,” pursed lips and everything. Like Dean hadn’t been taking it already. For the pain in his back, the twinges in his shoulder, the ache in his knees, even just to get to sleep at night when alcohol wasn’t enough. He was no stranger to painkillers, even the heavy duty ones. This, though, this was different. And more than just the pain in his head, the constant dizziness and stomach turning, it was making him fucking depressed.
Sam had put his foot down when Dean almost climbed out of the still moving car to throw up his cheeseburger, extra bacon, from the diner 20 miles back. And by that point Dean didn’t care. Sam drove them to the nearest motel, a fucking fish under the sea themed room, 1000 fucking miles from the ocean.
Sam was all hands, and hushed voice, and “God, you’re burning up, Dean.”
Dean didn’t need to be told. He knew. He fucking knew. It was like fire, wrapping around him, bubbling his flesh, skin and meat falling off his bones.
“Shhh, Dean. You’re not there. You got out, remember? You’re not in hell.”
But he was. He fucking was. Because this was just the way it hurt.
Dean had woken up that morning to Sammy’s head pressing into his hip, wet towels in his armpits and, God forbid, his groin. He was covered in sweat, like he’d been run dry. His voice was a scrape and it made him cough, lungs seizing up. Sammy’s hands were on him again, and he wanted to tell him to go away, that he wasn’t a friggen pansy, but maybe he was, because it felt nice and he didn’t want him to stop. Please, don’t stop, Sammy.
“I’m right here, Dean. I’m right here.”
That was how it had started. So, 5 days was a little generous, it was 7 if you included the head crushing, brain melting out your ears, beams of light stabbing into your eye, headache. Which Dean, of course, did.
He wished that was where it had begun and ended, but sadly, for him and his baby brother, it was still going on. And if he wasn’t depressed before, he was fucking depressed now.
The hunt was over. Sam had called Rudy to go and take care of it, because “You can’t hunt like this, Dean,”, “You’re going to get yourself killed,”, “You’re going to mess up and get me killed,”. And that was the one that had worked, because Dean didn’t give a shit about himself. Especially when he did feel this bad, better him dead then he wouldn’t have to feel this shit. But Sammy had pleaded, and the puppy eyes had worked, like they always did. Plus, he didn’t even feel like he could make it to the door.
So, that was, fuck, 4 days ago? He didn’t even know anymore. It was all just one long friggen day. 3 days after the migraine… 3 or 4 days later was when he actually got sick. The flu, or the plague, or some other deathly disease, because it did, it felt like he was dying. “Man flu” Sam had joked once and almost got gutted with Dean’s hunting knife so he didn’t say it again. He definitely didn’t say it after he walked into the bathroom and found Dean crying on the floor. Honestly, though Dean didn’t like to admit it, he liked to have a good old cry sometimes. The job was too much, his life was too much, he couldn’t get through it without a little tears now and again. And often he was able to choke it back to just one glistening tear on his cheek, but this time he couldn’t do it. He felt so sick. His head still pounded and the Percocet did nothing to offer him relief. So he’d stumbled into the bathroom, to cry and say “Why me, God? Why did you do this to me, as if I haven’t been through enough?”, also he needed to blow his nose and he’d run out of tissues. So, in his state he’d obviously forgotten to lock the bathroom door, or maybe it didn’t have a lock. He couldn’t remember. Anyway, that was how Sam found him, on the floor, toilet paper clutched in his hand, face red and streaming with tears and probably snot too.
“Dean, God, breathe, man. It’s alright.”
Shut the fuck up, Sammy. He couldn’t breathe, he was too busy crying, sucking in tiny breathes between sobs. He couldn’t fucking breathe.
He’d ended up back in bed after that, something about a fever spike, and maybe, yeah, maybe that had something to do with the crying. Or maybe not, fever or no, he’d needed to cry anyway.
He’d watched as Sam scurried around cleaning up after him, cooking him soup, plying him with pills, washing him down when he got too hot, and apparently wiping his tears when he cried. He almost felt bad for the kid, almost. He was still healthy. Fit as a fiddle. Sure, he had shadows under his eyes from being up all night because of Dean’s coughing, he probably hadn’t brushed his hair or shaved in a few days. Well, okay, he looked like crap. But he was well, and even that was enough to anger Dean.
He’d cried again that night when he realised what a horrible brother he was. He should have been happy that Sam was healthy. Fuck, he was ecstatic. And he was lucky that Sam wasn’t home, because he could hear himself whimpering.
That must have been 2 nights ago, because that was when Sam went out to find a bar to hustle pool, or poker, whatever was going. They were seriously low on funds, and Sam had spent the last of their money on more medicine. He’d wanted to tell him not to waste it, that he’d be better soon and wouldn’t even need it, but it would be a lie, and he really needed to stop lying to his brother.
Sam eventually stumbled in that night at 1 o’clock in the morning, up 500 bucks and 3 girls phone numbers. Dean was awake, because he was coughing, and he generally couldn’t get to sleep when he had a pound of bubbling lava in his lungs to get out. At least he wasn’t fucking crying.
So, 7 days. 7 days, and it was too much.
“Dean, you need a doctor, man. This is ridiculous,” Sam was cleaning the guns for the 100th time since they’d arrived. Kid was probably going crazy.
Dean just sneezed wetly into another tissue, a pile slowly building at his side. He had to clear his throat 3 times to get his voice to work.
“Can’t afford a doctor, Sam. Leave it alone.”
Sam huffed, snapping and clicking the gun back together with aggressive force.
“It’s been a week.”
Dean rolled his eyes. He knew how fucking long it’d been.
“I know how fucking long it’s been,” his tone was undercut when he choked and coughed, struggling to sit up. The shit didn’t come out if he was lying flat.
Sam helped him sit up and held him there against his chest until he finished coughing. His body was shaking, he couldn’t even sit up without help. He coughed a hunk of yellow mucus into a tissue and relaxed back, letting Sam know he could put him back down.
“If you won’t go to a doctor…”
“Stop,” Dean rasped, “I’m fine,” he swallowed, “I’ll be fine.”
Sam’s angry gaze softened and he sighed again, “Dean, I can’t watch you like this. You’re really sick, man.”
“I’m getting better,” he paused to sneeze, “It’s not as bad as it was.”
Sam nodded, brow furrowed, then went back to cleaning the guns.
It didn’t help that every sneeze felt like it was cracking his skull, and the migraine that he’d tried to will out of existence was back again more forcefully with each one. But he didn’t need a hospital, and he didn’t need a fucking doctor. He just needed one of those guns Sam was cleaning and he’d finish the job himself.
“Can you at least turn the TV on? I can hear you thinking from over here,” he groaned, spreading a hand across his forehead.
Sam laughed, a sad laugh, not the laugh he used to laugh, and, fuck, if that didn’t make Dean more depressed.
He flicked the TV on and it was that Mexican soap opera that always seemed to be on at 4 o’clock in the afternoon. Which would have been fine, except that was what he used to watch with Bobby, and Bobby was fucking dead.
Sam fumbled to change the channel.
“Turn it off, Sam.”
“I’m sorry, Dean…”
“Fucking turn it off!”
Sammy leapt up and pulled the cord out of the wall, “Jesus, Dean,” he sighed.
Dean was coughing again, and good, because that gave him something else to think about. Sam did the same thing again, pulled him up and slid in behind him, sitting Dean up against his chest, a hand wrapped around him so he didn’t fall forward.
“I got you, man,” he soothed.
It was another 4 days before they left that motel. Sam loaded up the car, stole 2 blankets, a towel, and pretty much everything from the bathroom. Dean wasn’t better. But he was well enough to get back on the road, and that was all that mattered. He paused in the doorway, squinting in the early morning sun. The impala was shining, not thick with red dust like she should have been in this environment. No, Sam had cleaned her yesterday. He was bent over the trunk, shoving the bags in, and Dean managed a smile, the first one in over a week. The light finally got to him and he tucked into his elbow to sneeze. He ended up coughing for a while in the same position and felt Sam’s hand on his shoulder.
“We can stay,” was all he said, more of a question really, and so much more in it. Are you really up for this? You really scared me, Dean. Are you sure you’re all right?
Dean squinted up at him, and wanted to say everything.
I’m sorry I scared you, Sammy. I’m sorry I cried. I’m sorry you’ve had no sleep looking after me. Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you. Thanks, Sammy.
“Fuck no,” he grinned.
And then Sammy laughed, that laugh he used to laugh, and clapped Dean on the shoulder. And maybe he didn’t say it, maybe he didn’t say everything he wanted to, but Sammy’s smile lit up and his eyes glinted in the sun and he thought, well, maybe he did. Or maybe he didn’t even need to.
End.