Fic: Taking Some Time (SPN) Chapter Six
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 Six
Dean was right. The apple crumble was delicious. They were lucky to have a neighbour that didn’t call the police, with all the noise Dean was making. They were even luckier to have one that would cook for them. He knew Dean would catch on to what he’d said to Dave, what he’d led the neighbours to believe. The meals were condolence meals, like when someone had died and you’d bring around a casserole. It was a pity gift. It was a thoughtful and generous gift, but a pity gift nonetheless. And Dean wasn’t an idiot. Dean was actually incredibly intelligent. He’d know this was for him, and it would only lead to more resentment. And right now, Dean couldn’t take any more.
Dean coughed his way through the morning and Sam sat with him while they watched TV. It was funny. They were both staring at the screen, smiling when they were supposed to smile, laughing when they were supposed to laugh, but they weren’t really there. Both of them so absorbed in their own thoughts. Sam’s mind was racing on all the things he needed to do to get Dean better, what could possibly be wrong, what the doctor would find, how Dean would deal with the MRI, and if he could actually get through it all. When he glanced at Dean he looked shaken. His eyes fixed on the TV, but looking somewhere past it… He didn’t want to know what Dean was thinking about, where he was right now.
Eventually Sam got up, pulling his mobile phone from his back pocket.
“Where you going?” Dean asked, voice husky from lack of use.
“I have to, uh, make an appointment at the scan clinic for your MRI.”
Dean stared at him, “Oh.”
Sam sighed, “You still okay to do this?”
Dean looked back at the TV, switching through the channels, “I don’t have much of a choice now, do I?”
Sam frowned, and went to his room to make the call.
…
They were lucky. The clinic had an opening in two days time. The receptionist had gone through a series of questions.
“Does he have any metal in his body?”
“No.”
“Does he have claustrophobia?”
“…”
“Sir?”
Sam told them the truth, even though Dean would have punched him in the face if he’d heard him refer to it as a “phobia”. It had never really been an issue yet, but he had assumed some day Dean would be forced into small quarters and then the truth of his fear would come out. That was now. That was this.
…
Day turned to night. They went to bed.
…
There was a clatter out in the kitchen and Sam was quickly on his feet. Despite how tired he was he still had a hunter’s reflexes. He padded out with bare feet and his Beretta.
He lowered the gun when he saw the light on and Dean rifling through the cupboards.
“Jesus, Dean. You scared the crap out of me,” Sam slumped into the kitchen barstool.
“Where’s the booze?” Dean immediately asked, eyeing Sam angrily.
“Huh?” Sam’s tired brain wasn’t able to comprehend the question.
“You went on a freaking supply run. Where’s the freaking booze?” He asked again, slamming a cupboard shut.
“I went grocery shopping, dude.”
“And you didn’t get booze?”
“Stop - what?”
Dean coughed, leaning on the bench, “Don’t mess with me, man.”
“Dean, I didn’t buy any whiskey. You had a full bottle a few days ago.”
“Yeah, well, it’s tapped,” he groaned, running a hand through his hair, tugging a little.
“We’ll get some later, just go back to bed. You can have some more medicine.”
“I think there’s some beers in the cooler in the car,” he said, like he wasn’t even listening, before wandering unsteadily out the door.
Sam followed to watch him from the doorway, making sure he didn’t collapse on the way. Sam had known he was running low, and that Dean couldn’t drive with all the things he was dealing with right now. He had hoped this wouldn’t happen. Had hoped Dean wasn’t that dependant on it… Obviously he was wrong.
Sam stood, leaning on the doorframe for a long time, till the point where he was worried, because Dean should have been on his way back by now. He shut the door and headed down the stairs to the garage.
He found Dean in the dark, leaning on the hood of the car, beer in his hand, like he’d seen him before so many other times in his life. Except usually the car was outside, and it was daylight, and he was standing with someone, not on his own in a dark garage.
“Dean?” Sam asked.
Dean nodded, taking another sip.
There was enough light coming from the open garage door. The moon was almost full and the streetlights were bright, making it fairly easy to see Dean’s expressions.
Sam went into the cooler on the back seat and grabbed another beer, popping the top off as he went to lean next to his brother.
“Dean…”
“Stop.”
Sam gulped, looking down at his feet.
“We need to talk -“
“No, we don’t,” Dean cleared his throat, shuddered as he coughed uncovered.
“I’m just worried…”
“I know,” Dean sighed, rubbing his wrist against his forehead, “God, I know.”
“Then talk to me, man.”
Dean huffed, then chugged the rest of his beer.
"I dunno, Sam. I used to be able to handle this. If I busted my shoulder, yeah, it'd suck, but I could deal with it... The thought of..." he trailed off, laughed a little, "going under the knife... after everything..." He bit his lip, turned his head away as the damn finally broke and a tear gushed down his cheek.
"I know," Sam said, and he felt stupid because he honestly didn't know what else to say.
"I feel like I'm barely holding on, Sam."
Sam looked up and Dean was staring at him, eyes glistening, tears running down his cheeks.
“And I don’t know what to do.”
Sam nodded, biting his own lip to hold back the tears. He placed his half drunk beer down on the workbench.
“Why don’t we start with coming inside, and getting you back to bed.”
Dean coughed again, shaking his head.
“You go ahead.”
“I’m not leaving you out here, man.”
Dean sniffed, wiping under his nose with the back of his wrist, empty bottle still in his hand.
“The drinking… It helps you cope, doesn’t it? Numbs the pain? Helps you forget?” Sam asked, just wanting to understand.
Dean cleared his throat, looked at his empty bottle, “It used to,” he said, as he pushed off the car and left his bottle next to Sam’s, walking slowly towards the door.
Sam watched him, brow furrowed. His movements were stiff, and just as he got level with the door his back must’ve spasmed. He hissed as a knee gave out, instinctively moving his left arm to brace himself on the wall. The sling stopped him but the muscle movement was reaction. He listed to the side, shoulder connecting with the wall.
Sam rushed to Dean’s side, grabbing Dean’s right arm and wrapping it around his shoulders.
“Are you okay, Dean?” he asked, noting the sweat on his brother’s face and the pinched expression.
“Gonna be sick,” he muttered, before expelling his guts all over the driveway, and his own shoes.
Sam tried to direct him into the garden, but most of the damage was already done.
“It’s okay, just breathe…”
“Sam, it hurts… it really hurts…”
“Okay, we’re gonna go inside, alright? Can you walk?”
Dean nodded, coughing into the garden.
“Alright, come on. Take it easy,” Sam said, as he began guiding him.
“I’m sorry, Sam…”
Sam did a double take, “What are you talking about?”
“You should keep hunting… just leave me here…”
“Dean!” Sam looked at him, as they continued to struggle towards the house, “I’m not leaving you.”
“There’s no reason both of us - “
“Shut up. I’m not leaving you, okay? Not ever. So keep moving your feet, and get in that house so I can take care of you.”
“Lilith’s…”
“I don’t care about Lilith, Dean! I don’t care about Cas, or the angels, or any of that! I care about you. I just got you back, Dean… I’m not letting you…” Sam felt his throat tighten, tears fill his eyes, the heat in his face, as he tried to get his brother up the few stairs to the porch.
Dean coughed, bending forward.
“I’m not letting you out of my sight. I’m not leaving you alone, ever again. You understand me?”
Dean kept his head down.
“Dean. You understand me?” he said, firmly, gripping his brother’s waist.
“Yeah, I hear ya, Sammy.”
“Good. Now get your ass in that house and don’t even suggest it ever again.”
“Okay.”
…
Dean slept after he got him back in bed. Sam didn’t. Sam sat and watched his brother. His eyes flitted about beneath closed lids and his breaths were quick. He’d flinch occasionally, but he didn’t toss and turn like he usually did. This time it was mainly all internalized, and Sam didn’t know if that was better or worse.
…
Dean woke to pain. He knew the pain. He knew it well. It was an old friend, and he knew it better than he knew himself, but somehow it was still surprising. Surprising how weak he was and how easily he would fold. Bringing him straight back into those same old destructive thought patterns, again and again. As if he wasn’t used to the hurt, used to the sting. It burned deep and unrelenting, and was eating him up from the inside out. Or the outside in. He didn’t know anymore.
“Hey, you awake?”
Sam.
“Sam…” was all he could say, reaching out a hand into the void.
“I’m here, Dean. What do you need?”
“Just stay.”
Please. Please… Just stay.
His hand was gripped tight.
…
The sound of birds woke him, followed by a garbage truck coming down the street. There was light shining in his window. Suburbia.
He rolled over to look at his watch on the nightstand. It was 7:40am. The kettle was boiling in the kitchen and he tried not to think about boiling water being poured over his flesh.
“Sam?” he called, but his voice was wrecked. He coughing openly, struggling to get a breath once he started.
“Dean?”
Dean sat up, pain travelling down his legs but nothing too traumatic. Nothing he hadn’t dealt with before.
Sam came into his room, holding a mug of coffee out to him.
“Here,” he said.
Dean took it and gripped it with both hands, pulling it close to his chest to warm him.
“Thanks,” he croaked.
“That was a rough night.”
Dean nodded, taking a sip.
“I don’t remember everything.”
“That’s okay,” Sam said, sitting beside him, “Bobby called.”
Dean looked at him. Bobby had a job. If Bobby had a job that meant they’d have to leave, and Dean couldn’t hunt like this. So, Sam would leave, and he’d be alone… again.
“He’s on his way here,” Sam said, stopping Dean’s thoughts in their tracks.
“What?”
“He just finished a job in Nebraska. Should be here late tomorrow night.”
Dean furrowed his brow, looking at the floor, “Why?”
Sam put a hand on his shoulder. Dean flinched.
It’s just Sam, it’s just Sam, it’s just Sam.
“Bobby’s gonna give us a hand around here. I’m having a hard time keeping things together,” Sam chuckled.
“Yeah,” Dean sighed, “Your cooking sucks.”
They both smiled and Sam nudged Dean with his shoulder.
“Yeah, and you’re Gordon Ramsay.”
Dean grinned, “Hey, I cooked for my bratty little brother practically all my life.”
“I don’t think ramen noodles and mac and cheese count,” Sam teased.
Dean winced as he straightened, “We got eggs?”
“Yeah,” Sam said.
Dean put his arm out and Sam helped him to his feet, “Well, come on, twerp. I’m gonna teach you how to make breakfast.”
…
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 Six
Dean was right. The apple crumble was delicious. They were lucky to have a neighbour that didn’t call the police, with all the noise Dean was making. They were even luckier to have one that would cook for them. He knew Dean would catch on to what he’d said to Dave, what he’d led the neighbours to believe. The meals were condolence meals, like when someone had died and you’d bring around a casserole. It was a pity gift. It was a thoughtful and generous gift, but a pity gift nonetheless. And Dean wasn’t an idiot. Dean was actually incredibly intelligent. He’d know this was for him, and it would only lead to more resentment. And right now, Dean couldn’t take any more.
Dean coughed his way through the morning and Sam sat with him while they watched TV. It was funny. They were both staring at the screen, smiling when they were supposed to smile, laughing when they were supposed to laugh, but they weren’t really there. Both of them so absorbed in their own thoughts. Sam’s mind was racing on all the things he needed to do to get Dean better, what could possibly be wrong, what the doctor would find, how Dean would deal with the MRI, and if he could actually get through it all. When he glanced at Dean he looked shaken. His eyes fixed on the TV, but looking somewhere past it… He didn’t want to know what Dean was thinking about, where he was right now.
Eventually Sam got up, pulling his mobile phone from his back pocket.
“Where you going?” Dean asked, voice husky from lack of use.
“I have to, uh, make an appointment at the scan clinic for your MRI.”
Dean stared at him, “Oh.”
Sam sighed, “You still okay to do this?”
Dean looked back at the TV, switching through the channels, “I don’t have much of a choice now, do I?”
Sam frowned, and went to his room to make the call.
…
They were lucky. The clinic had an opening in two days time. The receptionist had gone through a series of questions.
“Does he have any metal in his body?”
“No.”
“Does he have claustrophobia?”
“…”
“Sir?”
Sam told them the truth, even though Dean would have punched him in the face if he’d heard him refer to it as a “phobia”. It had never really been an issue yet, but he had assumed some day Dean would be forced into small quarters and then the truth of his fear would come out. That was now. That was this.
…
Day turned to night. They went to bed.
…
There was a clatter out in the kitchen and Sam was quickly on his feet. Despite how tired he was he still had a hunter’s reflexes. He padded out with bare feet and his Beretta.
He lowered the gun when he saw the light on and Dean rifling through the cupboards.
“Jesus, Dean. You scared the crap out of me,” Sam slumped into the kitchen barstool.
“Where’s the booze?” Dean immediately asked, eyeing Sam angrily.
“Huh?” Sam’s tired brain wasn’t able to comprehend the question.
“You went on a freaking supply run. Where’s the freaking booze?” He asked again, slamming a cupboard shut.
“I went grocery shopping, dude.”
“And you didn’t get booze?”
“Stop - what?”
Dean coughed, leaning on the bench, “Don’t mess with me, man.”
“Dean, I didn’t buy any whiskey. You had a full bottle a few days ago.”
“Yeah, well, it’s tapped,” he groaned, running a hand through his hair, tugging a little.
“We’ll get some later, just go back to bed. You can have some more medicine.”
“I think there’s some beers in the cooler in the car,” he said, like he wasn’t even listening, before wandering unsteadily out the door.
Sam followed to watch him from the doorway, making sure he didn’t collapse on the way. Sam had known he was running low, and that Dean couldn’t drive with all the things he was dealing with right now. He had hoped this wouldn’t happen. Had hoped Dean wasn’t that dependant on it… Obviously he was wrong.
Sam stood, leaning on the doorframe for a long time, till the point where he was worried, because Dean should have been on his way back by now. He shut the door and headed down the stairs to the garage.
He found Dean in the dark, leaning on the hood of the car, beer in his hand, like he’d seen him before so many other times in his life. Except usually the car was outside, and it was daylight, and he was standing with someone, not on his own in a dark garage.
“Dean?” Sam asked.
Dean nodded, taking another sip.
There was enough light coming from the open garage door. The moon was almost full and the streetlights were bright, making it fairly easy to see Dean’s expressions.
Sam went into the cooler on the back seat and grabbed another beer, popping the top off as he went to lean next to his brother.
“Dean…”
“Stop.”
Sam gulped, looking down at his feet.
“We need to talk -“
“No, we don’t,” Dean cleared his throat, shuddered as he coughed uncovered.
“I’m just worried…”
“I know,” Dean sighed, rubbing his wrist against his forehead, “God, I know.”
“Then talk to me, man.”
Dean huffed, then chugged the rest of his beer.
"I dunno, Sam. I used to be able to handle this. If I busted my shoulder, yeah, it'd suck, but I could deal with it... The thought of..." he trailed off, laughed a little, "going under the knife... after everything..." He bit his lip, turned his head away as the damn finally broke and a tear gushed down his cheek.
"I know," Sam said, and he felt stupid because he honestly didn't know what else to say.
"I feel like I'm barely holding on, Sam."
Sam looked up and Dean was staring at him, eyes glistening, tears running down his cheeks.
“And I don’t know what to do.”
Sam nodded, biting his own lip to hold back the tears. He placed his half drunk beer down on the workbench.
“Why don’t we start with coming inside, and getting you back to bed.”
Dean coughed again, shaking his head.
“You go ahead.”
“I’m not leaving you out here, man.”
Dean sniffed, wiping under his nose with the back of his wrist, empty bottle still in his hand.
“The drinking… It helps you cope, doesn’t it? Numbs the pain? Helps you forget?” Sam asked, just wanting to understand.
Dean cleared his throat, looked at his empty bottle, “It used to,” he said, as he pushed off the car and left his bottle next to Sam’s, walking slowly towards the door.
Sam watched him, brow furrowed. His movements were stiff, and just as he got level with the door his back must’ve spasmed. He hissed as a knee gave out, instinctively moving his left arm to brace himself on the wall. The sling stopped him but the muscle movement was reaction. He listed to the side, shoulder connecting with the wall.
Sam rushed to Dean’s side, grabbing Dean’s right arm and wrapping it around his shoulders.
“Are you okay, Dean?” he asked, noting the sweat on his brother’s face and the pinched expression.
“Gonna be sick,” he muttered, before expelling his guts all over the driveway, and his own shoes.
Sam tried to direct him into the garden, but most of the damage was already done.
“It’s okay, just breathe…”
“Sam, it hurts… it really hurts…”
“Okay, we’re gonna go inside, alright? Can you walk?”
Dean nodded, coughing into the garden.
“Alright, come on. Take it easy,” Sam said, as he began guiding him.
“I’m sorry, Sam…”
Sam did a double take, “What are you talking about?”
“You should keep hunting… just leave me here…”
“Dean!” Sam looked at him, as they continued to struggle towards the house, “I’m not leaving you.”
“There’s no reason both of us - “
“Shut up. I’m not leaving you, okay? Not ever. So keep moving your feet, and get in that house so I can take care of you.”
“Lilith’s…”
“I don’t care about Lilith, Dean! I don’t care about Cas, or the angels, or any of that! I care about you. I just got you back, Dean… I’m not letting you…” Sam felt his throat tighten, tears fill his eyes, the heat in his face, as he tried to get his brother up the few stairs to the porch.
Dean coughed, bending forward.
“I’m not letting you out of my sight. I’m not leaving you alone, ever again. You understand me?”
Dean kept his head down.
“Dean. You understand me?” he said, firmly, gripping his brother’s waist.
“Yeah, I hear ya, Sammy.”
“Good. Now get your ass in that house and don’t even suggest it ever again.”
“Okay.”
…
Dean slept after he got him back in bed. Sam didn’t. Sam sat and watched his brother. His eyes flitted about beneath closed lids and his breaths were quick. He’d flinch occasionally, but he didn’t toss and turn like he usually did. This time it was mainly all internalized, and Sam didn’t know if that was better or worse.
…
Dean woke to pain. He knew the pain. He knew it well. It was an old friend, and he knew it better than he knew himself, but somehow it was still surprising. Surprising how weak he was and how easily he would fold. Bringing him straight back into those same old destructive thought patterns, again and again. As if he wasn’t used to the hurt, used to the sting. It burned deep and unrelenting, and was eating him up from the inside out. Or the outside in. He didn’t know anymore.
“Hey, you awake?”
Sam.
“Sam…” was all he could say, reaching out a hand into the void.
“I’m here, Dean. What do you need?”
“Just stay.”
Please. Please… Just stay.
His hand was gripped tight.
…
The sound of birds woke him, followed by a garbage truck coming down the street. There was light shining in his window. Suburbia.
He rolled over to look at his watch on the nightstand. It was 7:40am. The kettle was boiling in the kitchen and he tried not to think about boiling water being poured over his flesh.
“Sam?” he called, but his voice was wrecked. He coughing openly, struggling to get a breath once he started.
“Dean?”
Dean sat up, pain travelling down his legs but nothing too traumatic. Nothing he hadn’t dealt with before.
Sam came into his room, holding a mug of coffee out to him.
“Here,” he said.
Dean took it and gripped it with both hands, pulling it close to his chest to warm him.
“Thanks,” he croaked.
“That was a rough night.”
Dean nodded, taking a sip.
“I don’t remember everything.”
“That’s okay,” Sam said, sitting beside him, “Bobby called.”
Dean looked at him. Bobby had a job. If Bobby had a job that meant they’d have to leave, and Dean couldn’t hunt like this. So, Sam would leave, and he’d be alone… again.
“He’s on his way here,” Sam said, stopping Dean’s thoughts in their tracks.
“What?”
“He just finished a job in Nebraska. Should be here late tomorrow night.”
Dean furrowed his brow, looking at the floor, “Why?”
Sam put a hand on his shoulder. Dean flinched.
It’s just Sam, it’s just Sam, it’s just Sam.
“Bobby’s gonna give us a hand around here. I’m having a hard time keeping things together,” Sam chuckled.
“Yeah,” Dean sighed, “Your cooking sucks.”
They both smiled and Sam nudged Dean with his shoulder.
“Yeah, and you’re Gordon Ramsay.”
Dean grinned, “Hey, I cooked for my bratty little brother practically all my life.”
“I don’t think ramen noodles and mac and cheese count,” Sam teased.
Dean winced as he straightened, “We got eggs?”
“Yeah,” Sam said.
Dean put his arm out and Sam helped him to his feet, “Well, come on, twerp. I’m gonna teach you how to make breakfast.”
…