Fic: Taking Some Time (SPN) Chapter Three
Genre: Sick!fic, Epic, Slightly AU
Category: Gen
Rating: T
Characters: Dean, Sam, Bobby
Warning: Very mild language. Can be considered slightly AU as Dean is not healed from his old wounds when Castiel raised him from perdition.
Disclaimer: They're pretty, but they're not mine.
Summary: Dean is a little worse off coming off a hunt than he let on. He's fresh from hell and caring a lot of scars, physically and mentally. A bad back, bad shoulder, PTSD, insomnia, alcohol abuse, and a nasty virus to top it all off. Maybe the boys need to take a break and try to get Dean back on track. It might be harder than they thought.
Taking Some Time
Chapter Three
Things always seemed a little easier in the light of day. Dean had more wits about him, could scope out the place. Well, scope it out from where he lay on the couch. He was flat on his back, the sling back in place. He had to admit it did feel better with it on, and as long as Sam kept up a steady supply of ice it was all good. His throat was sore and his chest was heavy. He felt tired and sluggish. The fumes he’d been running on had run out a while ago. His back chewed away occasionally, but he was feeling a bit numb from the half a bottle of whiskey he'd downed in the bathroom before his shower. He didn’t like to feel like he depended on the alcohol, and he didn’t really think he did in the first place. Although it was a little scary the way his hands were shaking when he finally got them on that bottle. It was a sweet relief the way it burned his raw throat, a burn he wanted to feel. It was familiar, tender, dampening the feelings that so desperately wanted to get out. He thought back to the time they lost their father, how he was spinning out of control, wound so tight he was liable to explode. That was bad… and that was nothing on now. He was jumpy and erratic, sure, but worse than that he was damaged, broken, could feel tears burn in his eyes at any hour of the day, for any reason. He had no control, and it was terrifying.
At the moment Sam wasn't there. He'd gone out to do some shopping. The house was furnished but it wasn't stocked up. There was no food, no alcohol, no tissues, which he seemed to be needing more and more urgently... Luckily the boys knew how to live out of a bag. But it was different this time, this wasn't a motel they were staying at before they headed out again to the next hunt, this was... Dean didn't want to say it. It wasn't home. He'd never had a home. And he didn't know how long they'd be staying there. What if something came after them? Dean shuffled, peering to the side. Had Sam even salted the windows?
…
Sam smiled looking down into the trunk of Baby, full up with grocery bags. It was safe to say he'd never seen that before. It looked good on her.
He'd just been to see the property manager to pick up the keys to the house, not mentioning the part about them already being inside.
The house looked better in daylight. It had a few steps leading up to the front porch, equipped with a few chairs and table. Nice garden out the front. The hedges would need maintaining.
He piled up all the bags on his arms, refusing to make more than one trip, and closed the garage, heading up the steps to the front door.
He unlocked it and pushed it forward with his shoulder. It made a crunching sound as the door ran over something. He looked down and rock salt was spread under the door in a great mound, and, what the hell?
"Dean!" Sam shouted, looking down at the red spray painted devil’s trap on the polished hard wood floors.
Dean didn't answer. Sam sighed and came inside, the salt crunching under his boots. He dumped the bags in the kitchen, looking around and seeing every windowsill lined with rock salt.
He supposed he couldn't blame Dean for that. They'd been taught to do salt lines since they were kids. He was just protecting them. But the damn devil’s trap? Yeah, that one would be fun to explain to the real estate.
"Dean?" He called again.
He wasn't where he'd left him, sprawled on the couch. He headed down to his bedroom. The door was ajar.
"Dean?" He tapped on it as he pushed it open.
Dean was lying on his back on the bed, on top of the covers, empty bottle of Jack Daniels on the pillow beside him. His head was jolting from side to side occasionally, breathing rapid, sweat on his face.
Sam sighed and approached him, "Hey, man, wake up," he put a hand on Dean's elbow, carefully avoiding his shoulder. The next thing he felt was pain.
Dean's eyes had snapped open and his right hand had bent Sam's arm right back, any further and it would be in two pieces.
"Shit, Dean! It's me!"
Dean looked confused, eyes wild. He let go.
"Sorry, Sammy."
"What the hell, Dean?" Sam shouted.
"Don't... sneak up on me," he panted, rolled to his right to cough.
"Sleep well?" Sam asked, sarcastically.
"Yeah, like a friggen baby," Dean huffed, "What took you so long?"
"I went shopping and picked up the keys. I've only been gone an hour."
"Oh," Dean struggled to sit up on the edge of his bed. Sam didn't help. Too scared he'd get attacked again. Dean had that jumpy look about him that he wore so often these days.
"Nice devil’s trap on the wood floors, Dean."
"Thanks,” Dean grunted, rubbing his chest, “I had some spray paint left over in my bag."
"No, Dean. That was sarcasm."
"Huh?"
"You can't do that in here. We're renting."
"What? You want to stay in a house that isn't safe?"
"That's not what I'm saying..."
"It seems to me like you've forgotten everything we taught you,” Dean leant heavily on his knee to stand up, “Do you know how exposed we are right now? How vulnerable? Anything could walk through that door and how are you gonna stop it!"
"Dean..."
"No. See, I don't want you to think that this is the solution, okay? This is temporary. I'm only doing this to get my life back,” Dean bent forward, coughing into his fist, face red after the outburst.
"Okay, easy, man."
Dean sat back down on the bed, reached for the bottle and realised it was empty. He cursed under his breath.
"I found a clinic in town. You've got an appointment at three. You might want to sober up," Sam said, before he turned and left.
He heard Dean coughing again as he walked down the hall. He knew he would react like this. He knew it. Dean was a ticking time bomb on a good day… and this was one of his absolute worst days.
Sam hated to be hard on his brother. He’d seen the upbringing he’d had with John as a father. How Dean was absolutely starved of love and affection, treated like a military grunt. He was never like that, couldn’t stand the idea of anyone treating him like that ever again. He would only use the tough love approach as a last resort. His brother had been through enough.
“Hey, Sam?” Dean was trudging out of his room towards the lounge.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t suppose you got any coffee in those bags of goodies?” He croaked, with a sideways smile.
A peace offering. This was Dean’s way of saying sorry without actually saying it.
Sam smiled back, “Of course I got coffee.”
You’re forgiven, dude.
“Hook me up, brother,” He said, lowering himself onto the lounge.
“Sure. Need some ice for that shoulder?”
“Yeah, thanks, Sammy,” he sniffed, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.
“Don’t mention it.”
…
Dean’s fever came and went and he seemed to slip in and out of consciousness, waking with a start on the couch every time he did. They were watching some renovation show on TV, anything else seemed to put Dean on edge. He even looked at cooking shows with eyes full of terror.
Sam kept up the ice on his shoulder, the heat on his back, and the box of tissues within reach. Dean’s cold was getting progressively worse as the day went on and now he was pretty much a sneezing shivering mess. Luckily they were already going to the doctor anyway.
Dean blew his nose with one hand, then thumped his chest with a fist as he coughed like he was trying to shift something loose.
“Sam,” he croaked, his voice shot.
“Yeah, Dean?” Sam was sitting on the floor in front to the couch.
“’S it time for more painkillers?”
“You just had the cold and flu ones, I’m not sure if you can have anymore just yet,” he furrowed his brow.
Dean gave a tight smile, “Alright.”
“Is it your back?”
He noticed how Dean was shifting in his seat, like he couldn’t find a comfortable position.
He nodded weakly, expression pinched.
“Is the heat not helping?”
Dean bit his lip, “It’s not enough.”
“What do you need?” Sam was getting up.
Dean closed his eyes for a second, “I need you to help me move. I gotta lie down.”
Sam was up, hands behind Dean’s shoulders, gently on the left side, very gently. He helped him forward and moved the heat pad down, then twisted him to lie on his back. Dean wasn’t completely useless like he had been the other night, he was at least trying to assist.
He hissed, sucking air in through clenched teeth as his shoulder came down on Sam’s hand.
“Sorry,” Sam muttered, moving to help Dean get his legs up on the couch.
Dean breathed slowly out his mouth.
“Is that better?”
“Yeah… just give me a few minutes,” he clenched his eyes shut.
“Doctor’s appointment is in an hour. You gonna be okay?”
Dean snapped forward with a sneeze, moaning in pain afterwards. He sniffed, “I’ll be fine. Sooner we go, sooner we can get this crap straightened out.”
Hm. Somehow Sam didn’t think it would ever be that simple.
…
Category: Gen
Rating: T
Characters: Dean, Sam, Bobby
Warning: Very mild language. Can be considered slightly AU as Dean is not healed from his old wounds when Castiel raised him from perdition.
Disclaimer: They're pretty, but they're not mine.
Summary: Dean is a little worse off coming off a hunt than he let on. He's fresh from hell and caring a lot of scars, physically and mentally. A bad back, bad shoulder, PTSD, insomnia, alcohol abuse, and a nasty virus to top it all off. Maybe the boys need to take a break and try to get Dean back on track. It might be harder than they thought.
Taking Some Time
Chapter Three
Things always seemed a little easier in the light of day. Dean had more wits about him, could scope out the place. Well, scope it out from where he lay on the couch. He was flat on his back, the sling back in place. He had to admit it did feel better with it on, and as long as Sam kept up a steady supply of ice it was all good. His throat was sore and his chest was heavy. He felt tired and sluggish. The fumes he’d been running on had run out a while ago. His back chewed away occasionally, but he was feeling a bit numb from the half a bottle of whiskey he'd downed in the bathroom before his shower. He didn’t like to feel like he depended on the alcohol, and he didn’t really think he did in the first place. Although it was a little scary the way his hands were shaking when he finally got them on that bottle. It was a sweet relief the way it burned his raw throat, a burn he wanted to feel. It was familiar, tender, dampening the feelings that so desperately wanted to get out. He thought back to the time they lost their father, how he was spinning out of control, wound so tight he was liable to explode. That was bad… and that was nothing on now. He was jumpy and erratic, sure, but worse than that he was damaged, broken, could feel tears burn in his eyes at any hour of the day, for any reason. He had no control, and it was terrifying.
At the moment Sam wasn't there. He'd gone out to do some shopping. The house was furnished but it wasn't stocked up. There was no food, no alcohol, no tissues, which he seemed to be needing more and more urgently... Luckily the boys knew how to live out of a bag. But it was different this time, this wasn't a motel they were staying at before they headed out again to the next hunt, this was... Dean didn't want to say it. It wasn't home. He'd never had a home. And he didn't know how long they'd be staying there. What if something came after them? Dean shuffled, peering to the side. Had Sam even salted the windows?
…
Sam smiled looking down into the trunk of Baby, full up with grocery bags. It was safe to say he'd never seen that before. It looked good on her.
He'd just been to see the property manager to pick up the keys to the house, not mentioning the part about them already being inside.
The house looked better in daylight. It had a few steps leading up to the front porch, equipped with a few chairs and table. Nice garden out the front. The hedges would need maintaining.
He piled up all the bags on his arms, refusing to make more than one trip, and closed the garage, heading up the steps to the front door.
He unlocked it and pushed it forward with his shoulder. It made a crunching sound as the door ran over something. He looked down and rock salt was spread under the door in a great mound, and, what the hell?
"Dean!" Sam shouted, looking down at the red spray painted devil’s trap on the polished hard wood floors.
Dean didn't answer. Sam sighed and came inside, the salt crunching under his boots. He dumped the bags in the kitchen, looking around and seeing every windowsill lined with rock salt.
He supposed he couldn't blame Dean for that. They'd been taught to do salt lines since they were kids. He was just protecting them. But the damn devil’s trap? Yeah, that one would be fun to explain to the real estate.
"Dean?" He called again.
He wasn't where he'd left him, sprawled on the couch. He headed down to his bedroom. The door was ajar.
"Dean?" He tapped on it as he pushed it open.
Dean was lying on his back on the bed, on top of the covers, empty bottle of Jack Daniels on the pillow beside him. His head was jolting from side to side occasionally, breathing rapid, sweat on his face.
Sam sighed and approached him, "Hey, man, wake up," he put a hand on Dean's elbow, carefully avoiding his shoulder. The next thing he felt was pain.
Dean's eyes had snapped open and his right hand had bent Sam's arm right back, any further and it would be in two pieces.
"Shit, Dean! It's me!"
Dean looked confused, eyes wild. He let go.
"Sorry, Sammy."
"What the hell, Dean?" Sam shouted.
"Don't... sneak up on me," he panted, rolled to his right to cough.
"Sleep well?" Sam asked, sarcastically.
"Yeah, like a friggen baby," Dean huffed, "What took you so long?"
"I went shopping and picked up the keys. I've only been gone an hour."
"Oh," Dean struggled to sit up on the edge of his bed. Sam didn't help. Too scared he'd get attacked again. Dean had that jumpy look about him that he wore so often these days.
"Nice devil’s trap on the wood floors, Dean."
"Thanks,” Dean grunted, rubbing his chest, “I had some spray paint left over in my bag."
"No, Dean. That was sarcasm."
"Huh?"
"You can't do that in here. We're renting."
"What? You want to stay in a house that isn't safe?"
"That's not what I'm saying..."
"It seems to me like you've forgotten everything we taught you,” Dean leant heavily on his knee to stand up, “Do you know how exposed we are right now? How vulnerable? Anything could walk through that door and how are you gonna stop it!"
"Dean..."
"No. See, I don't want you to think that this is the solution, okay? This is temporary. I'm only doing this to get my life back,” Dean bent forward, coughing into his fist, face red after the outburst.
"Okay, easy, man."
Dean sat back down on the bed, reached for the bottle and realised it was empty. He cursed under his breath.
"I found a clinic in town. You've got an appointment at three. You might want to sober up," Sam said, before he turned and left.
He heard Dean coughing again as he walked down the hall. He knew he would react like this. He knew it. Dean was a ticking time bomb on a good day… and this was one of his absolute worst days.
Sam hated to be hard on his brother. He’d seen the upbringing he’d had with John as a father. How Dean was absolutely starved of love and affection, treated like a military grunt. He was never like that, couldn’t stand the idea of anyone treating him like that ever again. He would only use the tough love approach as a last resort. His brother had been through enough.
“Hey, Sam?” Dean was trudging out of his room towards the lounge.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t suppose you got any coffee in those bags of goodies?” He croaked, with a sideways smile.
A peace offering. This was Dean’s way of saying sorry without actually saying it.
Sam smiled back, “Of course I got coffee.”
You’re forgiven, dude.
“Hook me up, brother,” He said, lowering himself onto the lounge.
“Sure. Need some ice for that shoulder?”
“Yeah, thanks, Sammy,” he sniffed, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.
“Don’t mention it.”
…
Dean’s fever came and went and he seemed to slip in and out of consciousness, waking with a start on the couch every time he did. They were watching some renovation show on TV, anything else seemed to put Dean on edge. He even looked at cooking shows with eyes full of terror.
Sam kept up the ice on his shoulder, the heat on his back, and the box of tissues within reach. Dean’s cold was getting progressively worse as the day went on and now he was pretty much a sneezing shivering mess. Luckily they were already going to the doctor anyway.
Dean blew his nose with one hand, then thumped his chest with a fist as he coughed like he was trying to shift something loose.
“Sam,” he croaked, his voice shot.
“Yeah, Dean?” Sam was sitting on the floor in front to the couch.
“’S it time for more painkillers?”
“You just had the cold and flu ones, I’m not sure if you can have anymore just yet,” he furrowed his brow.
Dean gave a tight smile, “Alright.”
“Is it your back?”
He noticed how Dean was shifting in his seat, like he couldn’t find a comfortable position.
He nodded weakly, expression pinched.
“Is the heat not helping?”
Dean bit his lip, “It’s not enough.”
“What do you need?” Sam was getting up.
Dean closed his eyes for a second, “I need you to help me move. I gotta lie down.”
Sam was up, hands behind Dean’s shoulders, gently on the left side, very gently. He helped him forward and moved the heat pad down, then twisted him to lie on his back. Dean wasn’t completely useless like he had been the other night, he was at least trying to assist.
He hissed, sucking air in through clenched teeth as his shoulder came down on Sam’s hand.
“Sorry,” Sam muttered, moving to help Dean get his legs up on the couch.
Dean breathed slowly out his mouth.
“Is that better?”
“Yeah… just give me a few minutes,” he clenched his eyes shut.
“Doctor’s appointment is in an hour. You gonna be okay?”
Dean snapped forward with a sneeze, moaning in pain afterwards. He sniffed, “I’ll be fine. Sooner we go, sooner we can get this crap straightened out.”
Hm. Somehow Sam didn’t think it would ever be that simple.
…