Fic: You're All I Need (SPN)
Part of The Coda Series.
You’re All I Need
Dean's vision is blurry. So blurry it's not safe to be driving. But Sam's sitting in the passenger seat, hissing every time they hit a pothole, a hand gently placed over his bullet wound, and Dean doesn't want to stop. He wants to get them home. Soon.
What did you do? When you thought I was dead?
Dean swallows, nausea and fatigue washing over him, crashing like a wave.
I knew you weren't dead.
He lied. He lied to keep the peace. Because if Sam knew what really happened they wouldn't be riding along in comfortable familial silence right now.
The truth of the matter is though, is that Dean's not okay. Not at all. He'd crashed in that clinic. He'd died. Only for a moment. Only for a second. But he'd done enough. He'd taken a fatal overdose and even though the doc brought him back, there were bound to be ramifications.
Dean sees a fill up joint and acknowledges that his fuel gauge is sitting just below half a tank. It's good because if this gas station was any further down the road he'd have to pull over and throw up on the asphalt and Sam would be bound to notice that.
He pulls in and Sam just looks out the window. Dean breathes carefully through the nausea before forcing his body to move.
"You want anything?" Dean asks.
Sam looks at him, worry flashing across his face for a moment. Guess Dean looks as good as he feels. But the look of worry is quickly gone.
"Candy," Sam surprisingly says.
Dean raises an eyebrow, "Candy?"
Sam laughs, which makes him grip his side tighter, "Hey, I got shot. I think I deserve a little candy."
Dean returns the smile, "Coming up."
Dean opens his door with a creak and swings his legs around. Standing up he realises that he can't fill the car up yet. He'll have to hit the bathroom first, because his chest is burning as the stomach acid claws its way up his oesophagus. He doesn't have much time. He grips the hood and closes the door, trying to shift his weight so the car is taking some of it. The motion of closing the door sends a stab of white hot pain into his side and he remembers belatedly that his ribs are broken.
Bathroom. Bathroom first.
He manages to make it there even though his vision has doubled and it takes him a while to find the door handle with his hand. He's just in time before the retching starts and he's hunched over the tiny, filthy sink on the wall. His puke is foamy, bubbling. It crackles and hisses as it comes into contact with the sink and Dean's almost sick again wondering what it's doing inside him. What it's doing to him. What it did to him.
The scariest part is he'd do it again. He wouldn't even think twice. And he tells himself it's not suicide. He wanted to talk to Billie, to save Sam's life. But, that kind of is suicide. Because if she saved Sam's life for his, he'd be dead. And if she didn't, he'd be dead. And he'd be okay with that. Because what's the point of living without Sammy?
He throws up again, more, and it burns on the way up. His ribs are in agony from the desperate heaves.
When he's finished there's sweat covering his face and he looks white as a ghost.
He washes his face and the water is cold. It feels good. He feels like he’s done heaving but that’s not even the worst part at the moment. He’s so dizzy he almost loses his legs out from under him, but he knows he can’t take much longer or Sam will be suspicious.
He white knuckles his way through pumping gas, grabs a few packets of gummi bears and m&ms and pays up at the counter. He’s grateful to be able to sit back down when he gets in the car and hands Sam the bag.
“You okay?” Sam asks in a small voice.
Dean pulls a hand down his face and blinks out through the windscreen. He’s beyond hiding his exhaustion. He clears his throat.
“As much as I wanna keep going, Sam, I don’t know if I can drive through.”
Sam seems to be taken aback by the truth, but then he nods, “It’s okay. We’ll stop somewhere and rest up. Hit the road tomorrow.”
Dean nods, swallowing back the nausea. His stomach is still rolling.
“Dean?”
“Yeah,” Dean starts the car and pulls back out onto the road.
He points towards Sam’s lap, “You wanna find us a motel close by?”
Sam winces as he pulls his phone out of his pocket, “Sure.”
Dean squints, trying with all he has to keep the car between the lines. He’s losing sound periodically, white noise fading in and out. Luckily they pull into a little town a few minutes later and Sam’s diligent at providing clear directions, as if he knows Dean needs maximum support right now.
Dean’s a little worried that what he did back in that clinic will follow him. And that somehow, someway he’ll never quite be the same again. But for now, Sam’s sitting beside him, alive and breathing, and right now, that’s all he needs.
End.
You’re All I Need
Dean's vision is blurry. So blurry it's not safe to be driving. But Sam's sitting in the passenger seat, hissing every time they hit a pothole, a hand gently placed over his bullet wound, and Dean doesn't want to stop. He wants to get them home. Soon.
What did you do? When you thought I was dead?
Dean swallows, nausea and fatigue washing over him, crashing like a wave.
I knew you weren't dead.
He lied. He lied to keep the peace. Because if Sam knew what really happened they wouldn't be riding along in comfortable familial silence right now.
The truth of the matter is though, is that Dean's not okay. Not at all. He'd crashed in that clinic. He'd died. Only for a moment. Only for a second. But he'd done enough. He'd taken a fatal overdose and even though the doc brought him back, there were bound to be ramifications.
Dean sees a fill up joint and acknowledges that his fuel gauge is sitting just below half a tank. It's good because if this gas station was any further down the road he'd have to pull over and throw up on the asphalt and Sam would be bound to notice that.
He pulls in and Sam just looks out the window. Dean breathes carefully through the nausea before forcing his body to move.
"You want anything?" Dean asks.
Sam looks at him, worry flashing across his face for a moment. Guess Dean looks as good as he feels. But the look of worry is quickly gone.
"Candy," Sam surprisingly says.
Dean raises an eyebrow, "Candy?"
Sam laughs, which makes him grip his side tighter, "Hey, I got shot. I think I deserve a little candy."
Dean returns the smile, "Coming up."
Dean opens his door with a creak and swings his legs around. Standing up he realises that he can't fill the car up yet. He'll have to hit the bathroom first, because his chest is burning as the stomach acid claws its way up his oesophagus. He doesn't have much time. He grips the hood and closes the door, trying to shift his weight so the car is taking some of it. The motion of closing the door sends a stab of white hot pain into his side and he remembers belatedly that his ribs are broken.
Bathroom. Bathroom first.
He manages to make it there even though his vision has doubled and it takes him a while to find the door handle with his hand. He's just in time before the retching starts and he's hunched over the tiny, filthy sink on the wall. His puke is foamy, bubbling. It crackles and hisses as it comes into contact with the sink and Dean's almost sick again wondering what it's doing inside him. What it's doing to him. What it did to him.
The scariest part is he'd do it again. He wouldn't even think twice. And he tells himself it's not suicide. He wanted to talk to Billie, to save Sam's life. But, that kind of is suicide. Because if she saved Sam's life for his, he'd be dead. And if she didn't, he'd be dead. And he'd be okay with that. Because what's the point of living without Sammy?
He throws up again, more, and it burns on the way up. His ribs are in agony from the desperate heaves.
When he's finished there's sweat covering his face and he looks white as a ghost.
He washes his face and the water is cold. It feels good. He feels like he’s done heaving but that’s not even the worst part at the moment. He’s so dizzy he almost loses his legs out from under him, but he knows he can’t take much longer or Sam will be suspicious.
He white knuckles his way through pumping gas, grabs a few packets of gummi bears and m&ms and pays up at the counter. He’s grateful to be able to sit back down when he gets in the car and hands Sam the bag.
“You okay?” Sam asks in a small voice.
Dean pulls a hand down his face and blinks out through the windscreen. He’s beyond hiding his exhaustion. He clears his throat.
“As much as I wanna keep going, Sam, I don’t know if I can drive through.”
Sam seems to be taken aback by the truth, but then he nods, “It’s okay. We’ll stop somewhere and rest up. Hit the road tomorrow.”
Dean nods, swallowing back the nausea. His stomach is still rolling.
“Dean?”
“Yeah,” Dean starts the car and pulls back out onto the road.
He points towards Sam’s lap, “You wanna find us a motel close by?”
Sam winces as he pulls his phone out of his pocket, “Sure.”
Dean squints, trying with all he has to keep the car between the lines. He’s losing sound periodically, white noise fading in and out. Luckily they pull into a little town a few minutes later and Sam’s diligent at providing clear directions, as if he knows Dean needs maximum support right now.
Dean’s a little worried that what he did back in that clinic will follow him. And that somehow, someway he’ll never quite be the same again. But for now, Sam’s sitting beside him, alive and breathing, and right now, that’s all he needs.
End.