Calling from Far Away
Title: Calling From Far Away
Rating: PG -13
Wordcount: 1200
Disclaimer: Not my boys. I'm almost certain Kripke wouldn't make them do this.
Summary: Dean gets sick and John drops him off at Bobby's to recover. Dean goes downhill fast and doesn't see the point in getting better. Bobby can't reach John, so he calls Sam at Stanford and Sam rushes to Dean's side...
Fill for 'Waking up in Bed Alone' on my angst_bingo card and for the Written for the Dean-focused hurt/comfort comment-fic meme (#5) on hoodie_time.
The prompt called for Sam/Dean first time, but seeing as I can't write Wincest for shit I'm not really surprised this turned into a weird did they/didn't they fever dream thing.
It starts with nothing more than a really bad case of the sniffles. Or maybe an infected wound. Dean isn't really sure anymore.
Dad tries to nurse him back to health in the patented Winchester way of dealing with illness. Throws a couple of Tylenol in Dean's general direction, puts a three-quarters gone bottle of Jack Daniels next to his nightstand and gets the hell out of Dodge before Dean can sneeze on him one too many times.
Dean finds a torn takeout menu in one of the drawers and croakingly orders himself some Wonton Soup over the phone. Angels are watching over you, he tells himself and loses most of the soup ten minutes later.
:: :: ::
"You doin' any better, champ?" Dad asks when he comes back for Dean a day or three later. He smells of blood and sweat and booze and Dean can't tell if he went on a hunt or a day long drinking spree.
"Sure," he croaks and blushes furiously when his voice snuffs out on him like a dying match.
"I can see that," Dad snorts, feels Dean's forehead with a hard, calloused hand that scratches over the burning, over-sensitized skin. "C'mon, you're no good to me like this. Let's get you to Bobby's place."
Sometimes they can banter and call each other names and generally talk shit.
Sometimes Dad says you're no good to me and that's exactly what Dean hears.
:: :: ::
"He just needs to lay low for a while," Dad tells Bobby, all the while staring longingly at the back door, like he can't wait to get away from all the sickness and despair that seem to always remind him of how broken their family really is.
"You be good and work on getting better," he says with a determined nod, but he doesn't quite make it an order, which is good because Dean doesn't really feel up to falling in line and doing as he's told right now.
Dad leans in like he wants to kiss Dean's forehead (which is awkward) and goes for a rough clap on the shoulder instead (which hurts and feels very manly) and then he walks right out the door.
The fever hurts Dean's eyes. They feel dry and crumpled up like old raisins and when Bobby tries to get him to drink his tea it tastes like piss and sears the inside of his throat.
"He's not coming back," he tells Bobby matter-of-factly and Bobby gets that look on his face that means he wants to disagree on principle but doesn't really.
:: :: ::
The fever gets worse. So bad Dean lets Bobby put cold compresses on his legs and wrists, but when the old mechanic suggests a trip to the hospital, Dean makes sure Bobby knows there is a knife under his pillow and he's not afraid to use it.
"Your brain's gotta be fried six ways from Sunday, kid," Bobby says and Dean giggles before it hurts his head and he rolls over to throw up watery bile over the edge of his bed.
:: :: ::
Bobby thinks Dean doesn't notice how he calls John every night to beg him to come back and every time Dean hears him fumbling with his old phone out in the hallway, he feels his heart flutter with hope before he needs to bury it all under a new layer of Idon'tgiveadamnaboutanything. Nobody's coming back for him. Why would they? He's useless and pathetic and a burden and it probably wouldn't take too much to get better, but maybe Dean doesn't want to come back for a family that only keeps him around as long as he doesn't slow them down.
Sometimes Dean wakes up and for a minute it's like he is in some nondescript motel room with the air conditioning broken and then he rolls over to whack Sam across the face with a pillow or ask Dad if he needs a couple of Aspirin and the room around him is empty. A lone blanket on the chair Bobby said he'd sit in the entire night.
He's getting tired of putting up with Dean too.
:: :: ::
Dean wants his daddy. He says so over and over again, even after his voice gives out completely and Bobby's face disappears in a bright cloud of golden blinding light.
The lights are everywhere. They come from the window and the door and the spoons in the soup bowls Bobby keeps forcing him to choke down.
Dean feels his eyes water and burn when it's tomato rice soup one day and that night when the fever gets worse and burns away all the layers he's built up to keep the world out he's back in their house and the flames grow high around him, far up over his head and he and the baby in his arms get painted red and then black and then they're nothing but gray dust in the wind anymore.
:: :: ::
He's confused at first. He is numb and hurting all over, can't see shit except for whatever blurry mess is right in front of him and somebody's saying something - Dean - It's a new voice he remembers from way back when and his brain hurts with the effort - Dean - to figure out what it is saying.
Something trickles into his eye, but it doesn't burn like cold sweat and - damnit, sorry, Dean, I'm sorry, did that hurt? - somebody reaches up and gently wipes the moisture out of his eye with a soft thumb that doesn't belong to a man who wields wrenches and shotguns for a living.
Mostly what he sees is one big blur. Somebody keeps whispering soft words - don't leave me, Dean. You can't walk out on me now - into his ear and they don't make sense because he's never walked out on anybody in his entire life, but he thinks he might have said something along the lines of "what's it matter of I live or die' instead.
I care, Dean. I care. Don't you fucking dare close your eyes now.
He does. Close his eyes that is. But only because it hurts to look and not really see and have his burned up mind shout his brother's name at him like there's any chance in hell Sammy's ever coming back for him.
:: :: ::
Hands. Big, slender hands moving over his body, leaving behind searing trails of fire on his clammy skin. It's good and scary and he grabs blindly because he wants to touch, but his hands are heavy and my sight grew dim, I had to stop for the night.
He's rolling over onto his side. Big giggles spluttering from his lips, Hotel California in his head on constant repeat.
Also? He's got his own voice calling from far away, saying what the hell and Bobby and when he can't stop bobbing his head somebody gently grabs his face and pulls him up, off his pillows just a bit and he leans into the kiss long before he notices any lips on his.
:: :: ::
Dean wakes up, still shaky and bathed in his own sweat, but he knows his own name and he knows where the thing that's pushing little dents into his palm came from and he knows without opening his eyes who's lying next to him, ever longer arms wrapped protectively around Dean's middle.
Sammy.
Rating: PG -13
Wordcount: 1200
Disclaimer: Not my boys. I'm almost certain Kripke wouldn't make them do this.
Summary: Dean gets sick and John drops him off at Bobby's to recover. Dean goes downhill fast and doesn't see the point in getting better. Bobby can't reach John, so he calls Sam at Stanford and Sam rushes to Dean's side...
Fill for 'Waking up in Bed Alone' on my angst_bingo card and for the Written for the Dean-focused hurt/comfort comment-fic meme (#5) on hoodie_time.
The prompt called for Sam/Dean first time, but seeing as I can't write Wincest for shit I'm not really surprised this turned into a weird did they/didn't they fever dream thing.
It starts with nothing more than a really bad case of the sniffles. Or maybe an infected wound. Dean isn't really sure anymore.
Dad tries to nurse him back to health in the patented Winchester way of dealing with illness. Throws a couple of Tylenol in Dean's general direction, puts a three-quarters gone bottle of Jack Daniels next to his nightstand and gets the hell out of Dodge before Dean can sneeze on him one too many times.
Dean finds a torn takeout menu in one of the drawers and croakingly orders himself some Wonton Soup over the phone. Angels are watching over you, he tells himself and loses most of the soup ten minutes later.
:: :: ::
"You doin' any better, champ?" Dad asks when he comes back for Dean a day or three later. He smells of blood and sweat and booze and Dean can't tell if he went on a hunt or a day long drinking spree.
"Sure," he croaks and blushes furiously when his voice snuffs out on him like a dying match.
"I can see that," Dad snorts, feels Dean's forehead with a hard, calloused hand that scratches over the burning, over-sensitized skin. "C'mon, you're no good to me like this. Let's get you to Bobby's place."
Sometimes they can banter and call each other names and generally talk shit.
Sometimes Dad says you're no good to me and that's exactly what Dean hears.
:: :: ::
"He just needs to lay low for a while," Dad tells Bobby, all the while staring longingly at the back door, like he can't wait to get away from all the sickness and despair that seem to always remind him of how broken their family really is.
"You be good and work on getting better," he says with a determined nod, but he doesn't quite make it an order, which is good because Dean doesn't really feel up to falling in line and doing as he's told right now.
Dad leans in like he wants to kiss Dean's forehead (which is awkward) and goes for a rough clap on the shoulder instead (which hurts and feels very manly) and then he walks right out the door.
The fever hurts Dean's eyes. They feel dry and crumpled up like old raisins and when Bobby tries to get him to drink his tea it tastes like piss and sears the inside of his throat.
"He's not coming back," he tells Bobby matter-of-factly and Bobby gets that look on his face that means he wants to disagree on principle but doesn't really.
:: :: ::
The fever gets worse. So bad Dean lets Bobby put cold compresses on his legs and wrists, but when the old mechanic suggests a trip to the hospital, Dean makes sure Bobby knows there is a knife under his pillow and he's not afraid to use it.
"Your brain's gotta be fried six ways from Sunday, kid," Bobby says and Dean giggles before it hurts his head and he rolls over to throw up watery bile over the edge of his bed.
:: :: ::
Bobby thinks Dean doesn't notice how he calls John every night to beg him to come back and every time Dean hears him fumbling with his old phone out in the hallway, he feels his heart flutter with hope before he needs to bury it all under a new layer of Idon'tgiveadamnaboutanything. Nobody's coming back for him. Why would they? He's useless and pathetic and a burden and it probably wouldn't take too much to get better, but maybe Dean doesn't want to come back for a family that only keeps him around as long as he doesn't slow them down.
Sometimes Dean wakes up and for a minute it's like he is in some nondescript motel room with the air conditioning broken and then he rolls over to whack Sam across the face with a pillow or ask Dad if he needs a couple of Aspirin and the room around him is empty. A lone blanket on the chair Bobby said he'd sit in the entire night.
He's getting tired of putting up with Dean too.
:: :: ::
Dean wants his daddy. He says so over and over again, even after his voice gives out completely and Bobby's face disappears in a bright cloud of golden blinding light.
The lights are everywhere. They come from the window and the door and the spoons in the soup bowls Bobby keeps forcing him to choke down.
Dean feels his eyes water and burn when it's tomato rice soup one day and that night when the fever gets worse and burns away all the layers he's built up to keep the world out he's back in their house and the flames grow high around him, far up over his head and he and the baby in his arms get painted red and then black and then they're nothing but gray dust in the wind anymore.
:: :: ::
He's confused at first. He is numb and hurting all over, can't see shit except for whatever blurry mess is right in front of him and somebody's saying something - Dean - It's a new voice he remembers from way back when and his brain hurts with the effort - Dean - to figure out what it is saying.
Something trickles into his eye, but it doesn't burn like cold sweat and - damnit, sorry, Dean, I'm sorry, did that hurt? - somebody reaches up and gently wipes the moisture out of his eye with a soft thumb that doesn't belong to a man who wields wrenches and shotguns for a living.
Mostly what he sees is one big blur. Somebody keeps whispering soft words - don't leave me, Dean. You can't walk out on me now - into his ear and they don't make sense because he's never walked out on anybody in his entire life, but he thinks he might have said something along the lines of "what's it matter of I live or die' instead.
I care, Dean. I care. Don't you fucking dare close your eyes now.
He does. Close his eyes that is. But only because it hurts to look and not really see and have his burned up mind shout his brother's name at him like there's any chance in hell Sammy's ever coming back for him.
:: :: ::
Hands. Big, slender hands moving over his body, leaving behind searing trails of fire on his clammy skin. It's good and scary and he grabs blindly because he wants to touch, but his hands are heavy and my sight grew dim, I had to stop for the night.
He's rolling over onto his side. Big giggles spluttering from his lips, Hotel California in his head on constant repeat.
Also? He's got his own voice calling from far away, saying what the hell and Bobby and when he can't stop bobbing his head somebody gently grabs his face and pulls him up, off his pillows just a bit and he leans into the kiss long before he notices any lips on his.
:: :: ::
Dean wakes up, still shaky and bathed in his own sweat, but he knows his own name and he knows where the thing that's pushing little dents into his palm came from and he knows without opening his eyes who's lying next to him, ever longer arms wrapped protectively around Dean's middle.
Sammy.