Bruised
Title: Bruised
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1900
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke put the idea of hurting them in my head in the first place.
Summary: Post 5x12 - Swap Meat: You know what's bad? Getting the shit kicked out of you by a demonic high school girl. Know what's worse? Coming down with a major stomach bug while you're still dealing with the bruising.
Written for nwspaprtaxis 's birthday. She asked for a 'Unable to Move' fill with gastro!Dean and caring!Sam. Happy birthday, hun, I hope this is sort of somewhat close to what you were hoping for.
Most of the time, Dean's life sort of sucks. He hides it pretty well, even from himself, goes out and gets drunk or laid and it doesn't feel so bad for the night.
There're some things you can't really brush off with a fake smile and one or two hilariously witty comments, though. Like coming down with the mother of all stomach bugs while you're still recovering from getting the shit kicked out of you by a demonic high school girl. That's pretty high up on Dean's list of Things That Royally Suck.
Sam looked at him kinda funny this morning when he was walking around all careful and kinda crouched, constantly moving in and out of the bathroom.
"You look like warmed over shit, dude," he said and Dean shot back something vaguely snarky about Sam not exactly being a regular Claudia Schiffer and went back to focusing on breathing around the bruises on his queasy belly.
The bruises Dean is making damn sure Sam doesn't find out about. Blood? Nah, don't worry Sammy. Just bit my tongue's all.
He bit his tongue all right. After that Norah chick kicked his guts all the way to hell and back.
It's not like Dean doesn't know how to take care of some minor internal damage and some not-so-minor, bordering-on-modern-art bruising. Thing is, he's never really had to pretend to be just fine with his insides pulling and pushing against fresh bruising and fuck, it makes him want to curl up under his covers around a hot water bottle and just die. Or maybe even go and say yes to Michael, because he's pretty sure having an arch angel shoved down your throat comes with certain perks. Not feeling like a cramping, about-to-burst-volcano for example.
But yeah, Dean has an image to uphold, so he has to smile and grunt his way through the day and come up with snarky comebacks every time Sam comments on his pale face or the way he constantly has one hand hovering over his belly.
Dean seriously considered stuffing a heat pack into the waist band of his jeans, but just no. No way. Ever.
"You sure you're okay?" Sam asks for the two-hundred-and-fourth time, when they are stopping for dinner and Dean is working real hard on not gagging at the sight of his chili cheese fries (which he ordered because he wanted them. Not overcompensating at all, seriously, get over yourself.)
Dean grunts, shoves one fry into his mouth and tries to chew without registering too much of the taste. Chewing slowly helps. Thinking about cleaning his shotgun helps. Looking down at his plate and seeing how much he still needs to eat to throw Sam off the scent doesn't help. At all.
The sharp, greasy taste hits his tongue and hurts deep down in his stomach and all of a sudden the gagging starts and Dean is dry heaving and moaning and each heave sends a spasm of pain up and down into his guts. He turns away from their table, clamps one hand over his mouth, wraps the other one around his middle and hopes like hell this doesn't look as pathetic and ridiculous as he thinks it does.
"Dude, you're so not okay?"
Yeah, no kidding?
"'m peachy," Dean spits, clamps down on a pained yelp when the muscles of his stomach spasm and make his bruises erupt in a shower of white hot pain.
"Sir, is he alright?"
Somebody's shaking his shoulder. Somebody's shaking his shoulder and it sets off another set of cramps and this time Dean can't hold back the strangled "Hmpfghag". He shoves weakly at the hand and suddenly Sam's in his line of vision, crouched in front of him, looking like a lost, frowning puppy.
"I got it," he tells the tiny, worried waitress. Some teenage kid with green stipes in her hair. Dean hates high school kids who work at burger joints. At least she leaves without much of a fuss, even takes the stupid fries with her.
"You gonna throw up?" Sam asks. Quietly because showing that kind of weakness, especially in a public place isn't the Winchester way.
Dean shakes his head, then shrugs, then shakes his head again. How the hell is he supposed to know? All he knows is his stomach is trying to kill him and he's never felt this misserable in his life.
"Dean? Do you need to go to the bathroom?"
Sam sounds worried. Real worried and he starts pulling at Dean's shoulders, which only aggravates the bruises further, fuck, God, yes, he's gonna hurl.
A wave of nausea travels through his entire body, makes him gag and curl in on himself and lose a sickly yellow load of puke over his knees and the front of Sam's shirt.
Sam makes a pained, vaguely disgusted sound in the back of his throat but at least he doesn't jump up and push his brother off of him like any sane person would.
Dean's whole body is trembling. Muscles spasming and sending jittery cramps into his back, down his legs and Dean is fairly sure he's about to die.
Somebody puts a doggy bag in front of him. A doggy bag. A fucking doggy bag? "Wha'ehell?"
"Don't worry, sir." It's that annoyingly high, teenage voice again. She's talking to Sam, like he's Dean's caretaker or...or boyfriend or something. Like Dean can't be expected to keep up a conversation and chuck up blood and fries at the same time. "We can clean up in here. You just get your...you just get him home, okay?"
"Yeah, okay," Sam tells the girl. It's clearly a dismissal, but of course Annoying Teenage Waitress doesn't get that. Her brains are probably all fried to shit from playing with her Furby or listening to Britney Spears or whatever else it is kids do these days.
"I'm just saying, you should really get him out of here," she says, totally ignores Sam's grinded out "O-kay!". "If this is like swine flu or something, he could give it to the other customers and I really can't afford to lose this job, so people better not start thinking we have germs or our food makes people sick or something, so - "
"He said okay," Dean growls through clenched teeth, tries to stare her down, but really, that's kinda hard to do, when you have puke clinging to your lips and tears running down your face.
She leaves after a moment, moves on to the next table to lead an elderly couple to a new table away from the puking cry baby. Dean tries to focus on Sam's blurry, out-of-focus face and finds it's harder than it's probably supposed to be. The image keeps bobbing up and down. Maybe Sam's nodding aimlessly to assure himself Dean isn't dying, maybe Dean's balance is all fucked up.
"Alright," Sam whispers, grabs Dean's shoulders and gives him a short squeeze. "Let's get you home."
Dean gives a short nod and lets Sam pull him upright. The muscles and bruises shift against each other and Dean gasps. "Stop, Sam...Sam!" Dean's knees buckle and his ass crashes back into the torn cushion of his booth. His arms tighten around his midsection and fuck, fuck, fuck, he's about to geyser toxic sludge from at least one end and...and...he's not going to shit his pants in the middle of a crowded diner. He's just not.
"Dean? You need this?" Sam asks quietly. Calm over the high pitched panic. Offers his flask of holy water.
Dean shakes his head, screws his eyes shut against the pain and nausea. He's not possessed, damnit. His lips are silently moving fuck, fuck, fuck.
"Okay, then what the hell is this?"
Dean tries shrugging, realizes it's barely distinguishable from the shivers that are wrecking his body, so he forces one of his hands to unclench from where it's tightly wrapped around his abdomen. Exhaling slowly, carefully, so as not to set of the twitching, churning intestines, he pulls up the hem of his shirt, shows off what by now is an angry mess of grayish blue and black with green around the edges on top of tight, clammy muscles.
Sam gasps in shock. "What the..?"
Dean makes a token effort to drag up a smile for his little brother, but halfway through, his lips curl back in pain as another violent spasm stabs through his guts, up into his lungs, down across his back and then he's just helplessly gagging over the stupid doggy bag. Sam's hands are hovering just above Dean's arms, like now that he's seen the bruising he's scared Dean will break at any sort of contact. Idiot.
When the dry heaving stops this time, the cramps only die down to a barely manageable twitchy shuddering pain, silent curses splutter from Dean lips and hopes like hell that the wetness on his face is sweat and not a fresh wave of tears.
Sam just keeps staring at him with that pained, exasperated expression that makes Dean feel like the biggest idiot on the planet. "How long...what the...why...Dean, you fucking moron."
Dean tries to blink away the salty burn in his eyes and manages to make the world spin faster. Moron pretty much nails it. If Dean hadn't let that punk kid pull the wool over his eyes - because really, how pathetically stupid do you have to be to figure out that stumbling, carbs-loving drinking buddy was no Sammy? - then his stupid punk friend wouldn't have gotten herself possessed and wouldn't have turned Dean into her personal soccer ball.
"Fucking moron," Sam says again and Dean nods weakly. Not like it's really news worthy.
"Hey," he rasps, hates how his voice quivers just in time with every painful cramp. "Listen, Sam, you can lecture me all you w-want later, bu..but can we please focus on getting me outa here first?"
Sam nods hastily. "Think you can walk to the car?"
Dean shoots Sam a look. Does it look like he can walk? Crawl maybe. Curl up into a tiny Dean-ball and roll, sure. Walk? Not gonna happen.
"Okay uh...I suppose I could carry you."
At least Sam has the decency to look just as uncomfortable with the idea as Dean feels. Still, "f-fucker."
"Well, what do you want me to do?" Sam hisses.
Dean shrugs miserably. "Just help me up."
"You remember what happened five seconds ago when you tried to move?" Sam asks, disapproving frown perfectly in place.
"Jus' wasn't prep-prepared's all," Dean grunts and grabs tight hold of Sam's forearms. "C'mon, big guy, ge'me up."
Dean doesn't know how he does it, but somehow he manages to bury the gasps and howls that so desperately want to escape with every step under a constant stream of grunted cursing. Sam ends up more or less carrying him anyway, which is ridiculous and embarrassing and Dean will deny it starting tomorrow. Right now he's kinda preoccupied clinging on to his big little brother's arms that are the only thing stopping him from toppling over and curling up under a table in the corner like a sick dog.
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1900
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke put the idea of hurting them in my head in the first place.
Summary: Post 5x12 - Swap Meat: You know what's bad? Getting the shit kicked out of you by a demonic high school girl. Know what's worse? Coming down with a major stomach bug while you're still dealing with the bruising.
Written for nwspaprtaxis 's birthday. She asked for a 'Unable to Move' fill with gastro!Dean and caring!Sam. Happy birthday, hun, I hope this is sort of somewhat close to what you were hoping for.
Most of the time, Dean's life sort of sucks. He hides it pretty well, even from himself, goes out and gets drunk or laid and it doesn't feel so bad for the night.
There're some things you can't really brush off with a fake smile and one or two hilariously witty comments, though. Like coming down with the mother of all stomach bugs while you're still recovering from getting the shit kicked out of you by a demonic high school girl. That's pretty high up on Dean's list of Things That Royally Suck.
Sam looked at him kinda funny this morning when he was walking around all careful and kinda crouched, constantly moving in and out of the bathroom.
"You look like warmed over shit, dude," he said and Dean shot back something vaguely snarky about Sam not exactly being a regular Claudia Schiffer and went back to focusing on breathing around the bruises on his queasy belly.
The bruises Dean is making damn sure Sam doesn't find out about. Blood? Nah, don't worry Sammy. Just bit my tongue's all.
He bit his tongue all right. After that Norah chick kicked his guts all the way to hell and back.
It's not like Dean doesn't know how to take care of some minor internal damage and some not-so-minor, bordering-on-modern-art bruising. Thing is, he's never really had to pretend to be just fine with his insides pulling and pushing against fresh bruising and fuck, it makes him want to curl up under his covers around a hot water bottle and just die. Or maybe even go and say yes to Michael, because he's pretty sure having an arch angel shoved down your throat comes with certain perks. Not feeling like a cramping, about-to-burst-volcano for example.
But yeah, Dean has an image to uphold, so he has to smile and grunt his way through the day and come up with snarky comebacks every time Sam comments on his pale face or the way he constantly has one hand hovering over his belly.
Dean seriously considered stuffing a heat pack into the waist band of his jeans, but just no. No way. Ever.
"You sure you're okay?" Sam asks for the two-hundred-and-fourth time, when they are stopping for dinner and Dean is working real hard on not gagging at the sight of his chili cheese fries (which he ordered because he wanted them. Not overcompensating at all, seriously, get over yourself.)
Dean grunts, shoves one fry into his mouth and tries to chew without registering too much of the taste. Chewing slowly helps. Thinking about cleaning his shotgun helps. Looking down at his plate and seeing how much he still needs to eat to throw Sam off the scent doesn't help. At all.
The sharp, greasy taste hits his tongue and hurts deep down in his stomach and all of a sudden the gagging starts and Dean is dry heaving and moaning and each heave sends a spasm of pain up and down into his guts. He turns away from their table, clamps one hand over his mouth, wraps the other one around his middle and hopes like hell this doesn't look as pathetic and ridiculous as he thinks it does.
"Dude, you're so not okay?"
Yeah, no kidding?
"'m peachy," Dean spits, clamps down on a pained yelp when the muscles of his stomach spasm and make his bruises erupt in a shower of white hot pain.
"Sir, is he alright?"
Somebody's shaking his shoulder. Somebody's shaking his shoulder and it sets off another set of cramps and this time Dean can't hold back the strangled "Hmpfghag". He shoves weakly at the hand and suddenly Sam's in his line of vision, crouched in front of him, looking like a lost, frowning puppy.
"I got it," he tells the tiny, worried waitress. Some teenage kid with green stipes in her hair. Dean hates high school kids who work at burger joints. At least she leaves without much of a fuss, even takes the stupid fries with her.
"You gonna throw up?" Sam asks. Quietly because showing that kind of weakness, especially in a public place isn't the Winchester way.
Dean shakes his head, then shrugs, then shakes his head again. How the hell is he supposed to know? All he knows is his stomach is trying to kill him and he's never felt this misserable in his life.
"Dean? Do you need to go to the bathroom?"
Sam sounds worried. Real worried and he starts pulling at Dean's shoulders, which only aggravates the bruises further, fuck, God, yes, he's gonna hurl.
A wave of nausea travels through his entire body, makes him gag and curl in on himself and lose a sickly yellow load of puke over his knees and the front of Sam's shirt.
Sam makes a pained, vaguely disgusted sound in the back of his throat but at least he doesn't jump up and push his brother off of him like any sane person would.
Dean's whole body is trembling. Muscles spasming and sending jittery cramps into his back, down his legs and Dean is fairly sure he's about to die.
Somebody puts a doggy bag in front of him. A doggy bag. A fucking doggy bag? "Wha'ehell?"
"Don't worry, sir." It's that annoyingly high, teenage voice again. She's talking to Sam, like he's Dean's caretaker or...or boyfriend or something. Like Dean can't be expected to keep up a conversation and chuck up blood and fries at the same time. "We can clean up in here. You just get your...you just get him home, okay?"
"Yeah, okay," Sam tells the girl. It's clearly a dismissal, but of course Annoying Teenage Waitress doesn't get that. Her brains are probably all fried to shit from playing with her Furby or listening to Britney Spears or whatever else it is kids do these days.
"I'm just saying, you should really get him out of here," she says, totally ignores Sam's grinded out "O-kay!". "If this is like swine flu or something, he could give it to the other customers and I really can't afford to lose this job, so people better not start thinking we have germs or our food makes people sick or something, so - "
"He said okay," Dean growls through clenched teeth, tries to stare her down, but really, that's kinda hard to do, when you have puke clinging to your lips and tears running down your face.
She leaves after a moment, moves on to the next table to lead an elderly couple to a new table away from the puking cry baby. Dean tries to focus on Sam's blurry, out-of-focus face and finds it's harder than it's probably supposed to be. The image keeps bobbing up and down. Maybe Sam's nodding aimlessly to assure himself Dean isn't dying, maybe Dean's balance is all fucked up.
"Alright," Sam whispers, grabs Dean's shoulders and gives him a short squeeze. "Let's get you home."
Dean gives a short nod and lets Sam pull him upright. The muscles and bruises shift against each other and Dean gasps. "Stop, Sam...Sam!" Dean's knees buckle and his ass crashes back into the torn cushion of his booth. His arms tighten around his midsection and fuck, fuck, fuck, he's about to geyser toxic sludge from at least one end and...and...he's not going to shit his pants in the middle of a crowded diner. He's just not.
"Dean? You need this?" Sam asks quietly. Calm over the high pitched panic. Offers his flask of holy water.
Dean shakes his head, screws his eyes shut against the pain and nausea. He's not possessed, damnit. His lips are silently moving fuck, fuck, fuck.
"Okay, then what the hell is this?"
Dean tries shrugging, realizes it's barely distinguishable from the shivers that are wrecking his body, so he forces one of his hands to unclench from where it's tightly wrapped around his abdomen. Exhaling slowly, carefully, so as not to set of the twitching, churning intestines, he pulls up the hem of his shirt, shows off what by now is an angry mess of grayish blue and black with green around the edges on top of tight, clammy muscles.
Sam gasps in shock. "What the..?"
Dean makes a token effort to drag up a smile for his little brother, but halfway through, his lips curl back in pain as another violent spasm stabs through his guts, up into his lungs, down across his back and then he's just helplessly gagging over the stupid doggy bag. Sam's hands are hovering just above Dean's arms, like now that he's seen the bruising he's scared Dean will break at any sort of contact. Idiot.
When the dry heaving stops this time, the cramps only die down to a barely manageable twitchy shuddering pain, silent curses splutter from Dean lips and hopes like hell that the wetness on his face is sweat and not a fresh wave of tears.
Sam just keeps staring at him with that pained, exasperated expression that makes Dean feel like the biggest idiot on the planet. "How long...what the...why...Dean, you fucking moron."
Dean tries to blink away the salty burn in his eyes and manages to make the world spin faster. Moron pretty much nails it. If Dean hadn't let that punk kid pull the wool over his eyes - because really, how pathetically stupid do you have to be to figure out that stumbling, carbs-loving drinking buddy was no Sammy? - then his stupid punk friend wouldn't have gotten herself possessed and wouldn't have turned Dean into her personal soccer ball.
"Fucking moron," Sam says again and Dean nods weakly. Not like it's really news worthy.
"Hey," he rasps, hates how his voice quivers just in time with every painful cramp. "Listen, Sam, you can lecture me all you w-want later, bu..but can we please focus on getting me outa here first?"
Sam nods hastily. "Think you can walk to the car?"
Dean shoots Sam a look. Does it look like he can walk? Crawl maybe. Curl up into a tiny Dean-ball and roll, sure. Walk? Not gonna happen.
"Okay uh...I suppose I could carry you."
At least Sam has the decency to look just as uncomfortable with the idea as Dean feels. Still, "f-fucker."
"Well, what do you want me to do?" Sam hisses.
Dean shrugs miserably. "Just help me up."
"You remember what happened five seconds ago when you tried to move?" Sam asks, disapproving frown perfectly in place.
"Jus' wasn't prep-prepared's all," Dean grunts and grabs tight hold of Sam's forearms. "C'mon, big guy, ge'me up."
Dean doesn't know how he does it, but somehow he manages to bury the gasps and howls that so desperately want to escape with every step under a constant stream of grunted cursing. Sam ends up more or less carrying him anyway, which is ridiculous and embarrassing and Dean will deny it starting tomorrow. Right now he's kinda preoccupied clinging on to his big little brother's arms that are the only thing stopping him from toppling over and curling up under a table in the corner like a sick dog.