Fic: Sam has a cold. Dean has asthma. (SPN)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, sick!fic
Category: GenRating: M
Characters: Dean, Sam, OMC - Kent
Warnings/Spoilers: A lot of swearing
Word Count: 2646
Disclaimer: I don't own Dean Winchester (unfortunately).
Summary: Pretty much what the title suggests. Slightly AU because Dean has asthma, which is usually well managed with medication, but when Sam is sick and they're low on funds, Dean will always choose his brother over himself... even if it could kill him.
Sam has a cold. Dean has asthma.
Dean's chest was in fucking knots. It didn't help that they were staying in the dustiest, mouldiest, cigarette smoke infested room in the whole town. Outside the town, actually. Because that night Dean just wanted to get Sam to a friggen bed, and this place was the closest, and the cheapest. For good reason, so it seemed.
Sam had been nursing a nasty head cold for about a week and it was just about kicking his ass. Dean would have stopped anywhere if it meant Sam could unfurl from the backseat and stop sneezing on Baby's upholstery.
They were working a case, low on funds and low on leads.
Dean spent too much money on Dayquil and Tylenol. So, he'd have to go a week or so without his asthma medication until he could rustle up some more cash. He still had his rescue inhaler so it should be fine. Except it wasn't, Dean realised.
He muffled a cough into his sleeve, trying to keep it quiet. Sam was sleeping and, God, it was a beautiful site. He'd been sneezing his head off all afternoon. Dean couldn't wake him, not now. He took an extra strength Tylenol and lay back down, hoping it would ease the tightness in his chest some. Friggen asthma.
…
Dean woke up coughing, just as first light was showing, and stumbled outside, trying to be quiet. There was a bite in the air and he coughed more. He'd forgotten this feeling of constriction, of panic. It wasn't too bad though. He hit his inhaler four times and tried to calm down. Sam was sick. He needed to look after him first.
...
Sam was sneezing when he came back in.
"Where've you been?" He mumbled congestedly, swiping at his nose.
"Went for a walk," Shit. He sounded breathless and hoarse.
But Sam was busy coughing into his arm.
"Fuck," he groaned.
Dean couldn't ask him how he felt, couldn't feel his forehead. Cause then he'd know how hard it was to talk, how his hand was shaking.
"I'm gonna shower," Sam announced, groaning as he stood. The poor kid looked wrecked.
Dean could suck it up.
...
"Everything alright, hon?"
"Oh, yeah, he's fine, sweetheart. I've been keeping a close eye on him," Dean winked at the waitress.
She barely acknowledged him and went back to puppy dog eyeing Sam.
"You should be in bed," she smirked.
"I'm fine. Really," Sam insisted, blushing at the attention.
Dean coughed into his shoulder.
"Are you sick too?" She frowned at Dean.
"Who, Dean? He never gets sick," Sam scoffed.
Dean smiled, "Older brothers can't get sick. Not when they have to watch out for their geeky little brothers."
The waitress laughed, flicking her eyes back to Sam. "Why don't I bring you some more soup, huh?"
"That'd be great," Sam sighed, catching a sneeze in a napkin.
"Bless you, sugar."
Dean watched her leave. It was a thing of beauty, but his chest was knotting up again, leaving him feeling like a boot was stamping on his heart.
"I gotta hit the head," he mumbled.
Sam didn't notice. His eyes were vacant and his face was flushed. He had other things to think about.
...
Dean clutched the sink, knuckles turning white. His chest heaved. He had to breathe faster, deeper, get more air in. Shit. There wasn't enough air...
...
A stranger in the bathroom had taken the inhaler from his pocket and helped him get it to his mouth. It was kind of weird, but the need for air was greater than the creeps he was getting from random-bathroom-diner-man. At least he could breathe again… Sort of.
...
"Move it, Sam. Witnesses aren't going to interview themselves," Dean said, sidling up to Sam. He could hear the strain in his own voice.
"You wandt be to cobe?" Sam sniffled.
"Yeah, fresh air, do ya good," he grumbled, throwing some bills down on the table.
He tried to square his shoulders as he walked but could feel them rounding in, all extra muscles in his torso contorting to help him breathe.
Sam followed him out, slumped into the passenger seat in a wave of pathetic…ness.
“You alright? Need some more Tylenol?” Dean asked, breathing through his mouth.
“Nah, it’s okay. Just wish I didn’t feel like shit.”
Yeah, me too, brother, Dean thought, paused to look at the keys, then bent to start the car.
…
Sam didn’t understand why he was the one leading the interview. The woman looked like she just wanted to get away from them. He was sick, and clearly so. He’d been in bed for half a week, pale and red around his nose. He was congested and phlegmy and gross. And she could tell, and obviously didn’t like him in her house. But Dean wasn’t helping. He wasn’t saying anything.
Sam cleared his throat, “Just a routine question, ma’am.”
“I don’t understand how some rats in the basement and some old faulty wiring has anything to do with my husband killing himself,” she bit.
“So there have been flickering lights?”
“Well… yes, but that… What is this about?”
“We’re sorry,” Dean sounded tired, and a little hoarse, “We’ll get out of your hair.”
Sam thanked her for her help and told her to call them if she thought of anything else. Something told him she wouldn’t be helping out any further in their investigation.
Dean moved slowly and Sam worried maybe he’d finally come down with what he’d had for the last week, although he could barely remember a time when Dean had caught a cold.
…
Sam was beat. He’d fallen onto his bed and didn’t think he could get up if he tried. He could feel his boots being removed, the comforter draped across him. He nestled in further, knowing he was protected.
…
His eyes came open.
Something was wrong.
It was dark but the lights from the street outside cast enough light in the room to reveal that Dean wasn’t in his bed. The bathroom door was open and no light was on.
Shit, shit, shit.
He pulled his gun out from under his pillow and approached the front door. Was that… Dean?
He opened the door and his heart leaped into his throat.
Dean was on one knee, one hand on the ground holding him up, the other clutching his chest. He was coughing and wheezing, that high pitched whistling sound, on inhale and exhale.
“Dean! Dean, Dean, hey, where’s your inhaler?”
Dean sucked in a breath, “’S empty,” he gasped, set off coughing.
Oh, God. How did he not notice this?
“Dean, we have to go to a hospital. Now. I’m calling an ambulance.”
Dean sat down on the ground, leaned up against the wall. Sam could see the muscles in his neck working, just to breathe. Just to breathe.
“No, Sam… Can’t… No money.”
“What? What happened to the money?”
Dean tried for a guilty smirk, “You were sick…”
Sam nearly fucking collapsed right there. Dean was in a fucking heap on the ground, struggling to breathe, because he’d been looking after him. Spending all their money on cold and flu tablets instead of his chronic respiratory condition. He could have strangled him but it probably wouldn’t have made a difference.
Dean coughed again, taking a wheezing breath in.
“What about the credit cards? The insurance cards?”
Dean panted, closing his eyes.
“Don’t answer that. Just don’t talk. Focus on breathing…”
Sam pulled his phone out of his pocket and Dean slapped it away.
“I’m not letting you die, Dean. Fuck!”
The door of the next room opened and a dishevelled, half-asleep man appeared, starting to tell them to “quieten down, it’s 3 in the morning,” until he saw Dean.
“What’s going on here?”
Sam had tears in his eyes, a hand gripping his brother’s shoulder.
“He can’t breathe…”
“I can see that. Move,” he said, pushing past him to get to Dean.
Sam stood back, “What are you doing? Are you a doctor?”
Dean coughed again and Sam could see him reaching out for him.
“I’m gonna call an ambulance,” Sam said again.
“No,” Dean tensed up, “No…no…”
“They’ll take too long,” the stranger said, “Keep him sitting forward. I’ll get my stuff.”
Sam sniffled and cursed himself. It was this damn sniffle that had Dean so sick right now.
“Sam…”
“Right here.”
“Go ‘nside… ‘s cold…”
“Dammit, Dean, worry about yourself for once!”
The guy was back quickly, raising an eyebrow to say get out of my way.
“What is that? What is all that?”
The man barely glanced at him, “It’s a nebuliser. Hang on, Dean. This is going to help. I just need you to relax and breathe through the machine.”
“How’d you know his name?”
“You guys aren’t exactly quiet.”
Dean now had a mask on, squealing and misting up his face. His eyes were drooping.
“Are you a doctor?”
“Excuse my forcefulness,” he smiled, “Dr. Kent Rose. But call me Kent, please.”
“Is he okay?”
Kent looked at Sam, “No… Dean, we’re going to get you inside, okay? Sam and I are going to carry you. You just focus on breathing, okay?”
Kent and Sam made a sling with their arms and carried Dean into the room. Kent had the oxygen tank hooked on his arm as well and the mask managed to stay in place while they moved him.
Once Dean was sitting on the edge of the bed he coughed again, taking a whistling breath in.
"What medication does he usually take?" Kent asked Sam as he took Dean's pulse.
"Uh, budesonide everyday and salbutamol when he needs it," Sam turned to sneeze into his arm and cursed this freaking timing.
"Dean, have you been taking your medication? Just nod yes or no."
Dean cast worried eyes at Sam, then back to the doctor. Slight shake of the head.
Son of a bitch.
"Oh my god," Sam groaned.
Dean coughed again.
"Okay, Dean. You're going to be okay. Just relax. Deep breaths in and out."
“Is he, uh, you know…” Sam muttered, pacing around Kent as he squatted before his brother’s hunched form.
“He’ll be better after this, but I need to get some more things from my room.”
Dean began to slump over and Kent put a hand on his shoulder.
“Dean? Stay with me, son.”
Dean’s breathing was getting shallower.
“What’s happening?” Sam asked, sitting beside his brother, arm wrapped around his shoulders.
“He’s exhausted. Stay awake, Dean. You’re okay but you have to keep breathing, alright? In and out. Tell him, Sam.”
“Where are you going?” Sam said, panicked eyes looking up at Kent as he stood.
“My room. I need more than this. Keep him awake.”
Sam looked back at his brother, whose eyes were becoming heavy, fighting unconsciousness.
“Dean, stay awake, man. I need you. I need you to keep breathing.”
“Hurts,” Dean struggled out.
“I know. I know it does. Please, just, keep breathing. Please, Dean…”
Dean’s hands gripped his knees as he forced himself further upright, trying to stay in it.
“That’s it, Dean. You can do it. Just in and out…”
“’M not… a baby…”
Sam laughed, basically because it was either that or cry.
“You’re doing good, man,” he said, rubbing his arm, “You’re doing good. It’s gonna be okay… I promise. It’s gonna be okay.”
Sam watched the thick black coffee trickle into the paper cup at the hospital vending machine. He was groggy, in a Dayquil induced daze. Probably not helped by the lack of sleep either.
“Sam!”
Sam lifted his head to see Kent striding towards him.
“Thought I’d find you down here.”
“What’s wrong? Is he okay?”
“Geez, Sam, relax. Kid’s doing fine… just about climbing the walls though.”
“Tell me about it,” Sam huffed a laugh and gathered his coffee cup.
“Listen, I gotta make tracks…”
Sam smiled, and looked down, a little saddened by the announcement. Kent had been a real godsend the last couple of days.
“Where you going?” Sam asked, swiping a hand under his nose.
“Where ever they need me.”
Sam nodded, “I know what that’s like.”
“Huh?” Kent cocked his head.
Sam waved a hand, “Never mind.”
…
Dean apparently had what was known as ‘brittle’ asthma. Dean didn’t like that term. He didn’t like it one bit. Because brittle was another word for ‘weak’ or ‘easily broken’, two things that Dean certainly was not.
And where were the nurses in the short skirts with the giant tits and the… oh, he was confusing porn and reality again. Sure the nurses were okay, but they were wearing way to many clothes and making him do shit like blow into tubes and wear the mask all the time.
He was tired, and cranky, and sore. His chest still hurt, but mainly just in the aftermath of his near fatal asthma attack. He didn’t want to stay in this bed any longer, but he knew the oxygen was helping him breath a lot more than he wanted to admit, and the four hourly nebulizer treatments, while annoying and humiliating, he actually found himself looking forward to as they eased the strain too.
He’d sent Sam off to get coffee about 10 minutes ago because the continuous puppy dog eyes were driving him insane. He’d felt bad for letting himself get to the point where he was in hospital, especially when Sam was sick himself. It was careless. He should have tried harder.
…
Sam and Kent walked back in the room to see Dean’s wide eyes fixed on the muted TV on the wall, face mostly obscured by the oxygen mask.
“What took you so long?” he muffled.
Sam stood by the end of the bed, looking from Dean to Kent.
“You hitting the road?” Dean asked.
Kent nodded, “Yeah.”
“Listen, thank you for everything,” Sam said.
“Hey, it’s my job,” he smiled, “And there’s just a few things I want to talk to you about before I head off.”
“Shoot,” Dean said.
“Dean, I spoke to your doctor. He wants you to stay a few more days, as do I, but I’m pretty sure you’re going to leave no matter what anyone says, am I right?”
Dean looked sheepish.
“I was able to pull some strings, get you out of here this afternoon, with a couple of oxygen tanks and a portable nebulizer.”
“Whoa, are you serious, doc?”
Sam was speechless, a look of awe on his face.
“Yeah,” Kent nodded, “Not only that but…” he pulled a keycard out of his pocket and threw it down on the table in front of Dean. “That’s a room at the Prince of Wales Hotel,” he emphasized, “Paid up for the next week.”
“No,” Dean shook his head, “That’s too much.”
He lifted a hand and pushed the card away.
“Here,” Kent picked it up and gave it to Sam, “The motel you were in allowed smoking in the rooms, they’d hardly been cleaned. You can’t stay in a place like that, Dean. Not until you get this back under control.”
“We can’t accept it,” Dean frowned, his mind virtually made up.
“I’m leaving town anyway, and besides Sam needs fluids and a clean place to rest up.”
Dean glanced at his brother, nodded, “Alright, fine.”
Kent winked at Sam.
“Here’s my card. If you boys ever need anything, call me. You never know, I might be in the area.”
Kent shook Sam’s hand, bent down to shake Dean’s, then turned to leave the room.
“Hey, doc,” Dean called.
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for… you know, saving my life.”
“Don’t mention it… just remember to take your medication, alright?”
Dean smiled, “Sure thing.”
And like that he was gone. Sam looked down at the card in his hand.
~ Dr. Kent Rose - Travelling Physician ~
End.
Category: GenRating: M
Characters: Dean, Sam, OMC - Kent
Warnings/Spoilers: A lot of swearing
Word Count: 2646
Disclaimer: I don't own Dean Winchester (unfortunately).
Summary: Pretty much what the title suggests. Slightly AU because Dean has asthma, which is usually well managed with medication, but when Sam is sick and they're low on funds, Dean will always choose his brother over himself... even if it could kill him.
Sam has a cold. Dean has asthma.
Dean's chest was in fucking knots. It didn't help that they were staying in the dustiest, mouldiest, cigarette smoke infested room in the whole town. Outside the town, actually. Because that night Dean just wanted to get Sam to a friggen bed, and this place was the closest, and the cheapest. For good reason, so it seemed.
Sam had been nursing a nasty head cold for about a week and it was just about kicking his ass. Dean would have stopped anywhere if it meant Sam could unfurl from the backseat and stop sneezing on Baby's upholstery.
They were working a case, low on funds and low on leads.
Dean spent too much money on Dayquil and Tylenol. So, he'd have to go a week or so without his asthma medication until he could rustle up some more cash. He still had his rescue inhaler so it should be fine. Except it wasn't, Dean realised.
He muffled a cough into his sleeve, trying to keep it quiet. Sam was sleeping and, God, it was a beautiful site. He'd been sneezing his head off all afternoon. Dean couldn't wake him, not now. He took an extra strength Tylenol and lay back down, hoping it would ease the tightness in his chest some. Friggen asthma.
…
Dean woke up coughing, just as first light was showing, and stumbled outside, trying to be quiet. There was a bite in the air and he coughed more. He'd forgotten this feeling of constriction, of panic. It wasn't too bad though. He hit his inhaler four times and tried to calm down. Sam was sick. He needed to look after him first.
...
Sam was sneezing when he came back in.
"Where've you been?" He mumbled congestedly, swiping at his nose.
"Went for a walk," Shit. He sounded breathless and hoarse.
But Sam was busy coughing into his arm.
"Fuck," he groaned.
Dean couldn't ask him how he felt, couldn't feel his forehead. Cause then he'd know how hard it was to talk, how his hand was shaking.
"I'm gonna shower," Sam announced, groaning as he stood. The poor kid looked wrecked.
Dean could suck it up.
...
"Everything alright, hon?"
"Oh, yeah, he's fine, sweetheart. I've been keeping a close eye on him," Dean winked at the waitress.
She barely acknowledged him and went back to puppy dog eyeing Sam.
"You should be in bed," she smirked.
"I'm fine. Really," Sam insisted, blushing at the attention.
Dean coughed into his shoulder.
"Are you sick too?" She frowned at Dean.
"Who, Dean? He never gets sick," Sam scoffed.
Dean smiled, "Older brothers can't get sick. Not when they have to watch out for their geeky little brothers."
The waitress laughed, flicking her eyes back to Sam. "Why don't I bring you some more soup, huh?"
"That'd be great," Sam sighed, catching a sneeze in a napkin.
"Bless you, sugar."
Dean watched her leave. It was a thing of beauty, but his chest was knotting up again, leaving him feeling like a boot was stamping on his heart.
"I gotta hit the head," he mumbled.
Sam didn't notice. His eyes were vacant and his face was flushed. He had other things to think about.
...
Dean clutched the sink, knuckles turning white. His chest heaved. He had to breathe faster, deeper, get more air in. Shit. There wasn't enough air...
...
A stranger in the bathroom had taken the inhaler from his pocket and helped him get it to his mouth. It was kind of weird, but the need for air was greater than the creeps he was getting from random-bathroom-diner-man. At least he could breathe again… Sort of.
...
"Move it, Sam. Witnesses aren't going to interview themselves," Dean said, sidling up to Sam. He could hear the strain in his own voice.
"You wandt be to cobe?" Sam sniffled.
"Yeah, fresh air, do ya good," he grumbled, throwing some bills down on the table.
He tried to square his shoulders as he walked but could feel them rounding in, all extra muscles in his torso contorting to help him breathe.
Sam followed him out, slumped into the passenger seat in a wave of pathetic…ness.
“You alright? Need some more Tylenol?” Dean asked, breathing through his mouth.
“Nah, it’s okay. Just wish I didn’t feel like shit.”
Yeah, me too, brother, Dean thought, paused to look at the keys, then bent to start the car.
…
Sam didn’t understand why he was the one leading the interview. The woman looked like she just wanted to get away from them. He was sick, and clearly so. He’d been in bed for half a week, pale and red around his nose. He was congested and phlegmy and gross. And she could tell, and obviously didn’t like him in her house. But Dean wasn’t helping. He wasn’t saying anything.
Sam cleared his throat, “Just a routine question, ma’am.”
“I don’t understand how some rats in the basement and some old faulty wiring has anything to do with my husband killing himself,” she bit.
“So there have been flickering lights?”
“Well… yes, but that… What is this about?”
“We’re sorry,” Dean sounded tired, and a little hoarse, “We’ll get out of your hair.”
Sam thanked her for her help and told her to call them if she thought of anything else. Something told him she wouldn’t be helping out any further in their investigation.
Dean moved slowly and Sam worried maybe he’d finally come down with what he’d had for the last week, although he could barely remember a time when Dean had caught a cold.
…
Sam was beat. He’d fallen onto his bed and didn’t think he could get up if he tried. He could feel his boots being removed, the comforter draped across him. He nestled in further, knowing he was protected.
…
His eyes came open.
Something was wrong.
It was dark but the lights from the street outside cast enough light in the room to reveal that Dean wasn’t in his bed. The bathroom door was open and no light was on.
Shit, shit, shit.
He pulled his gun out from under his pillow and approached the front door. Was that… Dean?
He opened the door and his heart leaped into his throat.
Dean was on one knee, one hand on the ground holding him up, the other clutching his chest. He was coughing and wheezing, that high pitched whistling sound, on inhale and exhale.
“Dean! Dean, Dean, hey, where’s your inhaler?”
Dean sucked in a breath, “’S empty,” he gasped, set off coughing.
Oh, God. How did he not notice this?
“Dean, we have to go to a hospital. Now. I’m calling an ambulance.”
Dean sat down on the ground, leaned up against the wall. Sam could see the muscles in his neck working, just to breathe. Just to breathe.
“No, Sam… Can’t… No money.”
“What? What happened to the money?”
Dean tried for a guilty smirk, “You were sick…”
Sam nearly fucking collapsed right there. Dean was in a fucking heap on the ground, struggling to breathe, because he’d been looking after him. Spending all their money on cold and flu tablets instead of his chronic respiratory condition. He could have strangled him but it probably wouldn’t have made a difference.
Dean coughed again, taking a wheezing breath in.
“What about the credit cards? The insurance cards?”
Dean panted, closing his eyes.
“Don’t answer that. Just don’t talk. Focus on breathing…”
Sam pulled his phone out of his pocket and Dean slapped it away.
“I’m not letting you die, Dean. Fuck!”
The door of the next room opened and a dishevelled, half-asleep man appeared, starting to tell them to “quieten down, it’s 3 in the morning,” until he saw Dean.
“What’s going on here?”
Sam had tears in his eyes, a hand gripping his brother’s shoulder.
“He can’t breathe…”
“I can see that. Move,” he said, pushing past him to get to Dean.
Sam stood back, “What are you doing? Are you a doctor?”
Dean coughed again and Sam could see him reaching out for him.
“I’m gonna call an ambulance,” Sam said again.
“No,” Dean tensed up, “No…no…”
“They’ll take too long,” the stranger said, “Keep him sitting forward. I’ll get my stuff.”
Sam sniffled and cursed himself. It was this damn sniffle that had Dean so sick right now.
“Sam…”
“Right here.”
“Go ‘nside… ‘s cold…”
“Dammit, Dean, worry about yourself for once!”
The guy was back quickly, raising an eyebrow to say get out of my way.
“What is that? What is all that?”
The man barely glanced at him, “It’s a nebuliser. Hang on, Dean. This is going to help. I just need you to relax and breathe through the machine.”
“How’d you know his name?”
“You guys aren’t exactly quiet.”
Dean now had a mask on, squealing and misting up his face. His eyes were drooping.
“Are you a doctor?”
“Excuse my forcefulness,” he smiled, “Dr. Kent Rose. But call me Kent, please.”
“Is he okay?”
Kent looked at Sam, “No… Dean, we’re going to get you inside, okay? Sam and I are going to carry you. You just focus on breathing, okay?”
Kent and Sam made a sling with their arms and carried Dean into the room. Kent had the oxygen tank hooked on his arm as well and the mask managed to stay in place while they moved him.
Once Dean was sitting on the edge of the bed he coughed again, taking a whistling breath in.
"What medication does he usually take?" Kent asked Sam as he took Dean's pulse.
"Uh, budesonide everyday and salbutamol when he needs it," Sam turned to sneeze into his arm and cursed this freaking timing.
"Dean, have you been taking your medication? Just nod yes or no."
Dean cast worried eyes at Sam, then back to the doctor. Slight shake of the head.
Son of a bitch.
"Oh my god," Sam groaned.
Dean coughed again.
"Okay, Dean. You're going to be okay. Just relax. Deep breaths in and out."
“Is he, uh, you know…” Sam muttered, pacing around Kent as he squatted before his brother’s hunched form.
“He’ll be better after this, but I need to get some more things from my room.”
Dean began to slump over and Kent put a hand on his shoulder.
“Dean? Stay with me, son.”
Dean’s breathing was getting shallower.
“What’s happening?” Sam asked, sitting beside his brother, arm wrapped around his shoulders.
“He’s exhausted. Stay awake, Dean. You’re okay but you have to keep breathing, alright? In and out. Tell him, Sam.”
“Where are you going?” Sam said, panicked eyes looking up at Kent as he stood.
“My room. I need more than this. Keep him awake.”
Sam looked back at his brother, whose eyes were becoming heavy, fighting unconsciousness.
“Dean, stay awake, man. I need you. I need you to keep breathing.”
“Hurts,” Dean struggled out.
“I know. I know it does. Please, just, keep breathing. Please, Dean…”
Dean’s hands gripped his knees as he forced himself further upright, trying to stay in it.
“That’s it, Dean. You can do it. Just in and out…”
“’M not… a baby…”
Sam laughed, basically because it was either that or cry.
“You’re doing good, man,” he said, rubbing his arm, “You’re doing good. It’s gonna be okay… I promise. It’s gonna be okay.”
Sam watched the thick black coffee trickle into the paper cup at the hospital vending machine. He was groggy, in a Dayquil induced daze. Probably not helped by the lack of sleep either.
“Sam!”
Sam lifted his head to see Kent striding towards him.
“Thought I’d find you down here.”
“What’s wrong? Is he okay?”
“Geez, Sam, relax. Kid’s doing fine… just about climbing the walls though.”
“Tell me about it,” Sam huffed a laugh and gathered his coffee cup.
“Listen, I gotta make tracks…”
Sam smiled, and looked down, a little saddened by the announcement. Kent had been a real godsend the last couple of days.
“Where you going?” Sam asked, swiping a hand under his nose.
“Where ever they need me.”
Sam nodded, “I know what that’s like.”
“Huh?” Kent cocked his head.
Sam waved a hand, “Never mind.”
…
Dean apparently had what was known as ‘brittle’ asthma. Dean didn’t like that term. He didn’t like it one bit. Because brittle was another word for ‘weak’ or ‘easily broken’, two things that Dean certainly was not.
And where were the nurses in the short skirts with the giant tits and the… oh, he was confusing porn and reality again. Sure the nurses were okay, but they were wearing way to many clothes and making him do shit like blow into tubes and wear the mask all the time.
He was tired, and cranky, and sore. His chest still hurt, but mainly just in the aftermath of his near fatal asthma attack. He didn’t want to stay in this bed any longer, but he knew the oxygen was helping him breath a lot more than he wanted to admit, and the four hourly nebulizer treatments, while annoying and humiliating, he actually found himself looking forward to as they eased the strain too.
He’d sent Sam off to get coffee about 10 minutes ago because the continuous puppy dog eyes were driving him insane. He’d felt bad for letting himself get to the point where he was in hospital, especially when Sam was sick himself. It was careless. He should have tried harder.
…
Sam and Kent walked back in the room to see Dean’s wide eyes fixed on the muted TV on the wall, face mostly obscured by the oxygen mask.
“What took you so long?” he muffled.
Sam stood by the end of the bed, looking from Dean to Kent.
“You hitting the road?” Dean asked.
Kent nodded, “Yeah.”
“Listen, thank you for everything,” Sam said.
“Hey, it’s my job,” he smiled, “And there’s just a few things I want to talk to you about before I head off.”
“Shoot,” Dean said.
“Dean, I spoke to your doctor. He wants you to stay a few more days, as do I, but I’m pretty sure you’re going to leave no matter what anyone says, am I right?”
Dean looked sheepish.
“I was able to pull some strings, get you out of here this afternoon, with a couple of oxygen tanks and a portable nebulizer.”
“Whoa, are you serious, doc?”
Sam was speechless, a look of awe on his face.
“Yeah,” Kent nodded, “Not only that but…” he pulled a keycard out of his pocket and threw it down on the table in front of Dean. “That’s a room at the Prince of Wales Hotel,” he emphasized, “Paid up for the next week.”
“No,” Dean shook his head, “That’s too much.”
He lifted a hand and pushed the card away.
“Here,” Kent picked it up and gave it to Sam, “The motel you were in allowed smoking in the rooms, they’d hardly been cleaned. You can’t stay in a place like that, Dean. Not until you get this back under control.”
“We can’t accept it,” Dean frowned, his mind virtually made up.
“I’m leaving town anyway, and besides Sam needs fluids and a clean place to rest up.”
Dean glanced at his brother, nodded, “Alright, fine.”
Kent winked at Sam.
“Here’s my card. If you boys ever need anything, call me. You never know, I might be in the area.”
Kent shook Sam’s hand, bent down to shake Dean’s, then turned to leave the room.
“Hey, doc,” Dean called.
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for… you know, saving my life.”
“Don’t mention it… just remember to take your medication, alright?”
Dean smiled, “Sure thing.”
And like that he was gone. Sam looked down at the card in his hand.
~ Dr. Kent Rose - Travelling Physician ~
End.