Fic: Taking Some Time (SPN) Chapter Eight
Genre: Sick!fic, Epic, Slightly AU
Category: Gen
Rating: T
Characters: Dean, Sam, Bobby
Warning: Very mild language. Descriptions of Hell. 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 Eight
“Sam, what’s wrong?”
“My brother’s sick. His temperature’s 103.4. I don’t… I don’t know what to do. What do I do?” Sam tugged a hand through his hair.
“Okay, Sam, stay calm. I’m coming over.”
“We ran out of ice.”
“That’s okay. I’ll bring some things over.”
“Thank you,” Sam hung the phone up and went to open the door.
Freaking devil’s trap.
He grabbed the rug from the lounge room and dragged it to cover up the red paint. He was sweating now. Fear and adrenaline and he had to help Dean into his friggen pants.
Dean.
He left the front door wide open and went back down the hall to his brother. He put a hand on his cheek. Warm, clammy skin. Sticky like dough.
“It’s okay, Dean. You’re gonna be okay,” Sam whispered, more to himself than to Dean.
“Hello? Sam?”
Maxine’s voice drifted in.
“Come in. It’s down the hall.”
He looked up as she cautiously entered the room, canvas shopping bag in her hand.
“What’s wrong with him?” she rounded the bed to look at Dean.
“Uh, chest infection, sinus infection too I think… just sick.”
“Is he on antibiotics?” she asked, pulling some ice packs out of her bag.
“Yeah, um, I have a list somewhere. In the kitchen.”
“A list?”
“Of his medications.”
“Oh,” she said, trying not to appear surprised it sounded like. It didn’t work, “Here,” she handed him an ice pack, “Put this behind his neck.”
Sam did as she said. He was handed two more small ice packs wrapped in cloth that he tucked under Dean’s right arm, and behind his curled knee.
“Where are your wash cloths?” Maxine asked.
Sam cleared his throat, “Uh, we don’t… have any.”
Maxine’s eyes flitted around the room, “Oh, okay. I can go and get some from my house.”
“Sorry,” he began to explain, “We don’t have a lot of stuff, yet…”
“It’s fine, Sam. I’ll be right back,” she smiled.
Sam put his head in his hands.
…
Maxine helped Sam with cold wash cloths, rinsing them out and rewetting them when Dean’s fevered skin burned right through them. Eventually his temperature started to come down.
Sam sighed, “Thank you for helping me, for helping Dean. But you might want to leave. You won’t want to be around when he starts dreaming.”
Maxine shuffled from foot to foot.
“Is it every night?” she asked.
Sam didn’t know if he was going to laugh or cry, just out of sheer exhaustion, “Yeah, most nights… I think it’s every time he closes his eyes.”
“That must be awful. How do you handle seeing him like that?”
“I used to get nightmares… bad. Dean was always there. Now it’s my turn.”
“Something tells me this is different.”
“Yeah,” Sam sighed, “Yeah, this is different.”
Maxine looked uncomfortable before speaking again, “Do you know… what happened to him?”
This time Sam did well up. He shook his head, “He doesn’t talk about it, says I wouldn’t understand. But I know it was bad. He got tortured… all the time.”
“My god…”
“It’s just too much for anyone to handle.”
“Sam, I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
A crackling came from Maxine’s bag.
“What’s that?” he asked, as she discreetly started searching through her bag.
“It’s, uh, a baby monitor…”
“A baby monitor? You have a baby?”
“Yeah,” she smiled.
“Maxine,” Sam stood up from his brother’s side, “You didn’t have to come over…”
“No, Sam, it’s okay. He’s sleeping. I got great range on this thing,” she waggled the device in her hand.
“You should go,” Sam glanced back at Dean, “We’ll be fine.”
She smiled, “Okay… but if you need anything, call us. I mean it.”
…
Dean was surrounded by blackness. His lungs burned as he took his first shuddering breath in. He tried to scream but he had nothing left in him. No sound, no voice. Lost from disuse. The air was thick, hot. He found his lighter in his pocket and flicked it on. Wood. Surrounding him on every side. Closing in. Tighter and tighter.
“Help! Help me!”
His voice squeaked. No one helped. No one saved him.
He formed fists with his stiff hands and began bashing on the pine box, slowly cracking the lid of his coffin.
Dirt came pouring in on him. He choked on it.
“Dean! Wake up!”
Dean’s eyes flew open and he coughed, rolling off the bed onto his knees. The jolt sent pain up through his back, crippling him again, as he gasped on the floor.
“Breath, Dean. It’s okay…”
Dean slumped against his brother, who had appeared at his side.
“You’re okay... You’re okay.”
“Crap,” Dean cursed, “That sucked.”
Sam helped him up to sit on the edge of his bed.
“What were you dreaming?”
Dean’s eyes met Sam’s.
“Sorry,” Sam muttered, looking down.
Dean cleared his throat, “I’m starving. Lunch time?”
“Dean…”
“Leave it alone, Sam,” Dean said, firmly.
Sam nodded, “You spiked a fever this morning. Do you remember?”
Dean let sit with his memories for a moment, before the real and the super-real and the supernatural all slipped into place.
“Uh, bits and pieces.”
I know you had to help me out of the shower and into my friggen pants.
“I was really worried. We ran out of ice, so I had to call Maxine.”
“Max?” Dean asked, rubbing his head, “From next door?”
“Yeah. She brought some stuff over. Helped me get your fever down.”
“Oh.”
Dean felt a burn travel down his arm from his shoulder. His back clenched simultaneously.
“You okay?”
Dean smiled, “Yeah, I’m okay, Sammy,” he reached out and touched Sam’s knee with a pat.
…
Dean took the fistful of medication his brother shoved on him. Two for the pain, one for the infections, two for the fever, one to relax his muscles. They grated on the way down but half an hour later he felt almost human.
“Pharmacology, man,” he said, looking up at his hand as he lay on the couch.
“What’s that?”
“Nothin’,” Dean chuckled.
“You tripping out over there?” Sam laughed.
“I feel awesome.”
Sam laughed again, “Good to hear it. You still hungry?”
“Mm,” Dean moaned, rubbing his hand on his belly.
“I made you a sandwich. Wanna eat it at the table?”
Dean frowned, “I feel good, but not good enough to move.”
Sam delivered the sandwich to his semi-comatose brother.
“Dude, is this PB and J?” Dean asked, grabbing a half off the plate, trying not to move from lying flat.
“Yeah, is that okay?”
“Are you 12?” Dean smirked.
“Shut up. What’s wrong with PB and J?”
“Nothing, man,” Dean smiled, “Absolutely nothing.”
Sam hovered at Dean’s side.
“What are you? My butler?” Dean asked gruffly, “You gonna stand there all day? Sit down. You’re making me nervous.”
Sam sighed, small smile on his lips, and sat down in the armchair at the end of the couch near Dean’s feet.
“I was in my coffin.”
“What?” Sam startled, jaw tensing.
“That’s what I was dreaming about when you woke me up this morning.”
“Oh…”
Silence filled the room.
“You wanted to know,” Dean spoke into the void.
Sam paused, letting the admission hang in the air.
“What was…” Sam stopped, as if afraid, but too curious not to continue, “What was it like?”
Dean stiffened, felt the walls of the room close in around him. But he’d started this. The drugs had let these thoughts slip free, tumbling from his mouth and he couldn’t stop it, even if he tried. Even if he wanted to.
“Um… it was dark… Just,” he shook his head, “nothing… I tried to scream but my throat was too dry. I had to scratch and claw through the wood. It tore me up good. And I just remember the air. Hot and musty… and the smell… death.”
“God,” Sam breathed.
“But it… it was kind of a relief, you know? After…”
“Yeah,” Sam supplied, when Dean didn’t continue.
“This MRI… I’m scared, Sam.”
“I know, but it’s going to be okay.”
“I’m just worried I’ll freak out. It’s embarrassing, man. Our neighbours already think I’m a freak.
“You can’t help it.”
“Yeah, that makes it even worse.”
…
Sam and Dean sat in silence while Dean munched on his PB and J. Pulling it apart into little pieces before he stuffed it in his mouth.
“How’s the sandwich?”
“It’s good, Sammy,” Dean said, but he didn’t smile.
Sam wondered if Dean was broken now, from the conversation, the things he’d shared. Retreating back into himself. Not letting anything out until it came rushing, pushed out by relaxants and painkillers and emotions he just couldn’t hide anymore.
“This… inside me.
I wish I couldn’t feel anything, Sammy…”
“You wanna go somewhere for dinner tonight?”
Dean craned his head to look at Sam.
“You gonna let me, nurse?”
“Very funny, dude. You can decide whether you’re up to it or not.”
Dean stared at the ceiling.
“It was just a suggestion. We don’t have to.”
“Sam, are you kidding? I’ve been going crazy here. Of course I wanna go out.”
“I mean, are you -“
“I know what you mean,” Dean cut him off, “I’ll be okay, Sammy.”
…
"Hey, Sam?" Dean called from his bedroom.
"Yeah?" Sam appeared at the door.
"A little help," he waved his shirt in the air.
He'd spent ten minutes trying to get it on and now he was just sore and tired. Thank, God he'd been able to get his jeans on by himself.
"Sure, man. Sit down."
Sam helped Dean into his t-shirt, button down and coat, fitting the sling over his clothes.
"Do you want me to fix your hair?"
Dean's hair was soft and fluffy. He hadn't put gel in it for days.
"Yeah... My arm's getting tired."
Sam did his hair quickly.
“There you go, man.”
“Thanks,” Dean grunted, as he sniffed.
He really felt like crap. But a restaurant or a bar or wherever the hell they were going, would have alcohol. And there wasn’t anything he needed more, right now.
“You know you can’t drink anything tonight, right?” Sam said, casually, as if reading his mind.
“What?” Dean replied, suddenly and far too desperately.
“You’re on antibiotics.”
Dean put his head in his hand, tried to stop from shaking, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“You know you can’t drink on antibiotics, dude.”
“Yeah, I… I forgot… I just… I wasn’t thinking.”
“It’s alright,” Sam said, face firm, not babying Dean like he probably wanted to, not lowering his voice and dipping his head and giving puppy eyes full of pity.
Dean didn’t want to go now. All of a sudden he realized that alcohol was the only reason he’d wanted to leave the house in the first place, and dammit, if that didn’t scare him.
“You ready to go?” he steeled himself. He wouldn’t let Sammy see his weakness. Not this time.
“Yeah, come on.”
Sam turned and left the room. Dean put his head back in his hand, felt the tears burn in his eyes.
I wish I couldn’t feel a damn thing.
…
Category: Gen
Rating: T
Characters: Dean, Sam, Bobby
Warning: Very mild language. Descriptions of Hell. 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 Eight
“Sam, what’s wrong?”
“My brother’s sick. His temperature’s 103.4. I don’t… I don’t know what to do. What do I do?” Sam tugged a hand through his hair.
“Okay, Sam, stay calm. I’m coming over.”
“We ran out of ice.”
“That’s okay. I’ll bring some things over.”
“Thank you,” Sam hung the phone up and went to open the door.
Freaking devil’s trap.
He grabbed the rug from the lounge room and dragged it to cover up the red paint. He was sweating now. Fear and adrenaline and he had to help Dean into his friggen pants.
Dean.
He left the front door wide open and went back down the hall to his brother. He put a hand on his cheek. Warm, clammy skin. Sticky like dough.
“It’s okay, Dean. You’re gonna be okay,” Sam whispered, more to himself than to Dean.
“Hello? Sam?”
Maxine’s voice drifted in.
“Come in. It’s down the hall.”
He looked up as she cautiously entered the room, canvas shopping bag in her hand.
“What’s wrong with him?” she rounded the bed to look at Dean.
“Uh, chest infection, sinus infection too I think… just sick.”
“Is he on antibiotics?” she asked, pulling some ice packs out of her bag.
“Yeah, um, I have a list somewhere. In the kitchen.”
“A list?”
“Of his medications.”
“Oh,” she said, trying not to appear surprised it sounded like. It didn’t work, “Here,” she handed him an ice pack, “Put this behind his neck.”
Sam did as she said. He was handed two more small ice packs wrapped in cloth that he tucked under Dean’s right arm, and behind his curled knee.
“Where are your wash cloths?” Maxine asked.
Sam cleared his throat, “Uh, we don’t… have any.”
Maxine’s eyes flitted around the room, “Oh, okay. I can go and get some from my house.”
“Sorry,” he began to explain, “We don’t have a lot of stuff, yet…”
“It’s fine, Sam. I’ll be right back,” she smiled.
Sam put his head in his hands.
…
Maxine helped Sam with cold wash cloths, rinsing them out and rewetting them when Dean’s fevered skin burned right through them. Eventually his temperature started to come down.
Sam sighed, “Thank you for helping me, for helping Dean. But you might want to leave. You won’t want to be around when he starts dreaming.”
Maxine shuffled from foot to foot.
“Is it every night?” she asked.
Sam didn’t know if he was going to laugh or cry, just out of sheer exhaustion, “Yeah, most nights… I think it’s every time he closes his eyes.”
“That must be awful. How do you handle seeing him like that?”
“I used to get nightmares… bad. Dean was always there. Now it’s my turn.”
“Something tells me this is different.”
“Yeah,” Sam sighed, “Yeah, this is different.”
Maxine looked uncomfortable before speaking again, “Do you know… what happened to him?”
This time Sam did well up. He shook his head, “He doesn’t talk about it, says I wouldn’t understand. But I know it was bad. He got tortured… all the time.”
“My god…”
“It’s just too much for anyone to handle.”
“Sam, I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
A crackling came from Maxine’s bag.
“What’s that?” he asked, as she discreetly started searching through her bag.
“It’s, uh, a baby monitor…”
“A baby monitor? You have a baby?”
“Yeah,” she smiled.
“Maxine,” Sam stood up from his brother’s side, “You didn’t have to come over…”
“No, Sam, it’s okay. He’s sleeping. I got great range on this thing,” she waggled the device in her hand.
“You should go,” Sam glanced back at Dean, “We’ll be fine.”
She smiled, “Okay… but if you need anything, call us. I mean it.”
…
Dean was surrounded by blackness. His lungs burned as he took his first shuddering breath in. He tried to scream but he had nothing left in him. No sound, no voice. Lost from disuse. The air was thick, hot. He found his lighter in his pocket and flicked it on. Wood. Surrounding him on every side. Closing in. Tighter and tighter.
“Help! Help me!”
His voice squeaked. No one helped. No one saved him.
He formed fists with his stiff hands and began bashing on the pine box, slowly cracking the lid of his coffin.
Dirt came pouring in on him. He choked on it.
“Dean! Wake up!”
Dean’s eyes flew open and he coughed, rolling off the bed onto his knees. The jolt sent pain up through his back, crippling him again, as he gasped on the floor.
“Breath, Dean. It’s okay…”
Dean slumped against his brother, who had appeared at his side.
“You’re okay... You’re okay.”
“Crap,” Dean cursed, “That sucked.”
Sam helped him up to sit on the edge of his bed.
“What were you dreaming?”
Dean’s eyes met Sam’s.
“Sorry,” Sam muttered, looking down.
Dean cleared his throat, “I’m starving. Lunch time?”
“Dean…”
“Leave it alone, Sam,” Dean said, firmly.
Sam nodded, “You spiked a fever this morning. Do you remember?”
Dean let sit with his memories for a moment, before the real and the super-real and the supernatural all slipped into place.
“Uh, bits and pieces.”
I know you had to help me out of the shower and into my friggen pants.
“I was really worried. We ran out of ice, so I had to call Maxine.”
“Max?” Dean asked, rubbing his head, “From next door?”
“Yeah. She brought some stuff over. Helped me get your fever down.”
“Oh.”
Dean felt a burn travel down his arm from his shoulder. His back clenched simultaneously.
“You okay?”
Dean smiled, “Yeah, I’m okay, Sammy,” he reached out and touched Sam’s knee with a pat.
…
Dean took the fistful of medication his brother shoved on him. Two for the pain, one for the infections, two for the fever, one to relax his muscles. They grated on the way down but half an hour later he felt almost human.
“Pharmacology, man,” he said, looking up at his hand as he lay on the couch.
“What’s that?”
“Nothin’,” Dean chuckled.
“You tripping out over there?” Sam laughed.
“I feel awesome.”
Sam laughed again, “Good to hear it. You still hungry?”
“Mm,” Dean moaned, rubbing his hand on his belly.
“I made you a sandwich. Wanna eat it at the table?”
Dean frowned, “I feel good, but not good enough to move.”
Sam delivered the sandwich to his semi-comatose brother.
“Dude, is this PB and J?” Dean asked, grabbing a half off the plate, trying not to move from lying flat.
“Yeah, is that okay?”
“Are you 12?” Dean smirked.
“Shut up. What’s wrong with PB and J?”
“Nothing, man,” Dean smiled, “Absolutely nothing.”
Sam hovered at Dean’s side.
“What are you? My butler?” Dean asked gruffly, “You gonna stand there all day? Sit down. You’re making me nervous.”
Sam sighed, small smile on his lips, and sat down in the armchair at the end of the couch near Dean’s feet.
“I was in my coffin.”
“What?” Sam startled, jaw tensing.
“That’s what I was dreaming about when you woke me up this morning.”
“Oh…”
Silence filled the room.
“You wanted to know,” Dean spoke into the void.
Sam paused, letting the admission hang in the air.
“What was…” Sam stopped, as if afraid, but too curious not to continue, “What was it like?”
Dean stiffened, felt the walls of the room close in around him. But he’d started this. The drugs had let these thoughts slip free, tumbling from his mouth and he couldn’t stop it, even if he tried. Even if he wanted to.
“Um… it was dark… Just,” he shook his head, “nothing… I tried to scream but my throat was too dry. I had to scratch and claw through the wood. It tore me up good. And I just remember the air. Hot and musty… and the smell… death.”
“God,” Sam breathed.
“But it… it was kind of a relief, you know? After…”
“Yeah,” Sam supplied, when Dean didn’t continue.
“This MRI… I’m scared, Sam.”
“I know, but it’s going to be okay.”
“I’m just worried I’ll freak out. It’s embarrassing, man. Our neighbours already think I’m a freak.
“You can’t help it.”
“Yeah, that makes it even worse.”
…
Sam and Dean sat in silence while Dean munched on his PB and J. Pulling it apart into little pieces before he stuffed it in his mouth.
“How’s the sandwich?”
“It’s good, Sammy,” Dean said, but he didn’t smile.
Sam wondered if Dean was broken now, from the conversation, the things he’d shared. Retreating back into himself. Not letting anything out until it came rushing, pushed out by relaxants and painkillers and emotions he just couldn’t hide anymore.
“This… inside me.
I wish I couldn’t feel anything, Sammy…”
“You wanna go somewhere for dinner tonight?”
Dean craned his head to look at Sam.
“You gonna let me, nurse?”
“Very funny, dude. You can decide whether you’re up to it or not.”
Dean stared at the ceiling.
“It was just a suggestion. We don’t have to.”
“Sam, are you kidding? I’ve been going crazy here. Of course I wanna go out.”
“I mean, are you -“
“I know what you mean,” Dean cut him off, “I’ll be okay, Sammy.”
…
"Hey, Sam?" Dean called from his bedroom.
"Yeah?" Sam appeared at the door.
"A little help," he waved his shirt in the air.
He'd spent ten minutes trying to get it on and now he was just sore and tired. Thank, God he'd been able to get his jeans on by himself.
"Sure, man. Sit down."
Sam helped Dean into his t-shirt, button down and coat, fitting the sling over his clothes.
"Do you want me to fix your hair?"
Dean's hair was soft and fluffy. He hadn't put gel in it for days.
"Yeah... My arm's getting tired."
Sam did his hair quickly.
“There you go, man.”
“Thanks,” Dean grunted, as he sniffed.
He really felt like crap. But a restaurant or a bar or wherever the hell they were going, would have alcohol. And there wasn’t anything he needed more, right now.
“You know you can’t drink anything tonight, right?” Sam said, casually, as if reading his mind.
“What?” Dean replied, suddenly and far too desperately.
“You’re on antibiotics.”
Dean put his head in his hand, tried to stop from shaking, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“You know you can’t drink on antibiotics, dude.”
“Yeah, I… I forgot… I just… I wasn’t thinking.”
“It’s alright,” Sam said, face firm, not babying Dean like he probably wanted to, not lowering his voice and dipping his head and giving puppy eyes full of pity.
Dean didn’t want to go now. All of a sudden he realized that alcohol was the only reason he’d wanted to leave the house in the first place, and dammit, if that didn’t scare him.
“You ready to go?” he steeled himself. He wouldn’t let Sammy see his weakness. Not this time.
“Yeah, come on.”
Sam turned and left the room. Dean put his head back in his hand, felt the tears burn in his eyes.
I wish I couldn’t feel a damn thing.
…