Wait and Pray - One-Shot
Title: Wait and Pray
Characters: Dean, Sam
Genre: Gen, H/C
Rating: PG-13
Word-count: ~1300
Spoilers: None
Warnings: Severe weight loss, vomiting, open ending
Summary: Sometimes being helpless is the most scary thing...
Notes: Written for the hoodie_time Writing Between the Lines challenge, for an anonymous prompt. Sadly, unbeta'd due to lack of time.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Sam passes the table. His eyes stray involuntarily to the open notebook, to the list of numbers and dates. Yesterday, Sam started adding the exact time, as well.
The first day, Dean had thought it was funny, had said, ‘who’s the ripped one, now, fat ass?’
Now, at 136 pounds, Dean isn’t much for laughing anymore. Or doing anything else for that matter.
‘I made you soup,’ Sam says. ‘From a can.’
Dean rolls over, blinks at him. Closes his eyes again.
Sam takes a step closer, not at all sure whether to threaten or coax. ‘Dean, you’ve got to eat something,’ he says.
‘What for?’
Sam watches Dean’s chapped lips move; has to strain his ears to hear the words. Dean’s voice is hoarse, his tongue slow. Sam sits down on the edge of the bed and sets the plate on the nightstand.
‘Bobby said he’s getting closer.’
‘Been saying that for days.’ Dean keeps his eyes closed. The lids are purple, almost translucent. His skin is ashen, veins forming cobweb patterns all over it. He’s got bruises, just from laying on one spot for too long.
Sam cards a hand through his hair, frustrated. Helpless. ‘So you just gonna lie here and give up?’
‘Fed up with puking,’ Dean mutters. Chuckles. ‘Fed up. Get it?’
‘Dean.’
There’s a pause, then Dean exhales wearily and blinks one eye open. ‘What kind of soup?’
‘Cream of chicken.’
Dean wrinkles his nose and for a brief moment Sam feels like they’re just in any diner, with Dean being pickier about his food than he likes to think he is.
‘I can get you one with broccoli flavor,’ Sam asks, with a grin.
‘You do that, I’ll puke before eating…’ Dean grunts, but he pushes himself up. Sam tries to help him, but predictably Dean shrugs his hands off.
Sam rolls his eyes and Dean glares at him, winded and sweating, as he rests back against the headboard.
It takes a couple of endless minutes until Dean’s caught his breath enough to eat. Sam picks up the plate and spoon, holds is out. ‘Open up.’
Dean is still glaring at him, but he complies. Not a good sign. Sam wonders how many pounds he lost just from the effort of sitting up. His shirt’s been hanging off of his shoulders for days, now. His cheeks are hollow, the bones stretching the skin taut. Sam fears Dean’s Adam’s apple is going to cut through on each swallow.
56 pounds in a little over a week. They don’t even know who Dean pissed off to get himself cursed. If he even pissed someone off.
A groan from Dean throws Sam out of his thoughts. Dean’s brought his hand up, stopped the spoon Sam tried to feed him. Yellow liquid drips onto the sheets.
Sam’s eyes snap up, furious at the wasted food. ‘The hell, Dean?’
‘I’m full.’
‘You ate like two bites!’
‘Five.’
‘One more,’ he grits and holds up another spoon.
Dean’s hand falls to his stomach. His emaciated fingers clench the fabric of the shirt. ‘Sam, please,’ he whispers. ‘I don’t wanna puke, anymore.’
‘So you can keep the food you ate down?’ Sam asks, hopeful.
‘I think,’ Dean says, more question than statement, but Sam has to believe.
He nods to himself, says, ‘Okay, good,’ and smiles as cheerful as he can while he sets the plate back onto the nightstand. ‘Maybe later.’
‘Yeah,’ Dean says, faintly. ‘Later.’ His eyes slip shut again.
Sam holds his breath. Brings a trembling hand up, holds it under Dean’s nose. Dean’s not deadly skinny yet, but the weight loss has been so rapid, Sam worries his heart is going to give out any second. But then soft puffs of air against his fingers send relieve through Sam.
He brushes a hand over Dean’s clammy forehead, smiles as reassuring as he can when Dean blinks at him, then gets up. He checks his phone, just in case he missed something. Of course he didn’t. He sends an urgent message to Bobby, the eighth this day. Hopes for him to finally call back. Prays that when Bobby does, it’s with good news.
Then he fetches a wet cloth, uses it to gently wipe the sweat off of Dean’s forehead, then the spilled soup around his mouth.
Dean watches him from half lidded eyes as Sam switches the stained covers with the clean ones from the other bed. Once Sam’s finished, he helps Dean slide down under the covers again. During this, Sam does his best not to look at the skeletal limbs sticking out of Dean’s shirt and boxers. He doesn’t succeed.
The sight scares him. It also brings out a whole new sense of protectiveness.
His hand lingers over Dean’s heart as he smoothes out the covers. It thumps against his palm, slow but steady. He’s reluctant to pull away.
Dean splays his hand on top of Sam’s. He looks up to find Dean attempting a cheeky smile. ‘Can’t get your hands off me, huh?’ he says. ‘Sam, you sly dog.’
‘Right,’ Sam scoffs. ‘You look like Christian Bale in that creepy movie.’
Dean’s smile falls. ‘That bad, huh?’
‘No, Dean, I…’ Sam sits down, wiping a hand over his face. ‘I’m sorry. It’s not that bad, I swear.’
‘Not yet,’ Dean says out loud what Sam has been thinking.
‘It won’t come to that, Dean,’ he says and lifts the covers. ‘I won’t let it.’
‘Sam?’
He doesn’t say anything, he knows they don’t do this. They haven’t shared a bed in almost twenty years. There’s no comfort exchanged beyond words, both of them following the gruff ‘suck it up, boys’ in their heads. But this is different.
So he slides in, ignores the exasperated eye roll Dean sends his way and pulls his brother close. It’s a struggle, of course, so Sam says, ‘damn, you’re freezing,’ and it’s as good an excuse as any to make Dean stop fighting him.
‘Hate the damn suckers who read one too many King novels,’ Dean grumbles, his thin fingers wrapping around Sam’s arm, guiding it down slowly until Sam’s hand rests on Dean’s stomach.
‘Surprised you know that book,’ Sam says, as he gently starts to rub some warmth into it.
‘Not exactly,’ Dean says. ‘Saw the movie.’
‘Figured,’ Sam laughs. Dean begins to hum contentedly as Sam keeps up the gentle massage on his belly. It’s peaceful, lying like this and for a moment Sam allows himself to hope that Dean is actually going to keep the soup down. It doesn’t take long before the hope is crushed when Dean suddenly tenses in his hold.
‘Sammy,’ he gasps. Sam watches his eyes widen desperate, pained, then he’s up, but he can’t get himself onto his feet before he’s gagging already. A hand on Dean’s shoulder, Sam reaches out, drags the trashcan between Dean’s legs, just in time.
He sits next to his brother on the edge of the bed, gritting his teeth as Dean empties his stomach. There’s not much that comes out, but Dean stays hunched forward dry heaving for a long time after it’s all out. The flutter of Dean’s shirt tells Sam his brother’s stomach is still contracting violently.
‘It’s going to be okay,’ he says and winds his arm around a skinny back. ‘It’s going to be okay.’ He buries his face against bony shoulders and scoots closer and pulls Dean against him, does his best to support Dean as his body trembles with after shocks.
‘Sam?’
‘Yeah?’
‘I’m scared.’
Dean’s spine digs painfully into his chest and his body odor is acrid, but Sam doesn’t care. He just holds on and prays.
On the nightstand, the phone rings.
Characters: Dean, Sam
Genre: Gen, H/C
Rating: PG-13
Word-count: ~1300
Spoilers: None
Warnings: Severe weight loss, vomiting, open ending
Summary: Sometimes being helpless is the most scary thing...
Notes: Written for the hoodie_time Writing Between the Lines challenge, for an anonymous prompt. Sadly, unbeta'd due to lack of time.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Sam passes the table. His eyes stray involuntarily to the open notebook, to the list of numbers and dates. Yesterday, Sam started adding the exact time, as well.
The first day, Dean had thought it was funny, had said, ‘who’s the ripped one, now, fat ass?’
Now, at 136 pounds, Dean isn’t much for laughing anymore. Or doing anything else for that matter.
‘I made you soup,’ Sam says. ‘From a can.’
Dean rolls over, blinks at him. Closes his eyes again.
Sam takes a step closer, not at all sure whether to threaten or coax. ‘Dean, you’ve got to eat something,’ he says.
‘What for?’
Sam watches Dean’s chapped lips move; has to strain his ears to hear the words. Dean’s voice is hoarse, his tongue slow. Sam sits down on the edge of the bed and sets the plate on the nightstand.
‘Bobby said he’s getting closer.’
‘Been saying that for days.’ Dean keeps his eyes closed. The lids are purple, almost translucent. His skin is ashen, veins forming cobweb patterns all over it. He’s got bruises, just from laying on one spot for too long.
Sam cards a hand through his hair, frustrated. Helpless. ‘So you just gonna lie here and give up?’
‘Fed up with puking,’ Dean mutters. Chuckles. ‘Fed up. Get it?’
‘Dean.’
There’s a pause, then Dean exhales wearily and blinks one eye open. ‘What kind of soup?’
‘Cream of chicken.’
Dean wrinkles his nose and for a brief moment Sam feels like they’re just in any diner, with Dean being pickier about his food than he likes to think he is.
‘I can get you one with broccoli flavor,’ Sam asks, with a grin.
‘You do that, I’ll puke before eating…’ Dean grunts, but he pushes himself up. Sam tries to help him, but predictably Dean shrugs his hands off.
Sam rolls his eyes and Dean glares at him, winded and sweating, as he rests back against the headboard.
It takes a couple of endless minutes until Dean’s caught his breath enough to eat. Sam picks up the plate and spoon, holds is out. ‘Open up.’
Dean is still glaring at him, but he complies. Not a good sign. Sam wonders how many pounds he lost just from the effort of sitting up. His shirt’s been hanging off of his shoulders for days, now. His cheeks are hollow, the bones stretching the skin taut. Sam fears Dean’s Adam’s apple is going to cut through on each swallow.
56 pounds in a little over a week. They don’t even know who Dean pissed off to get himself cursed. If he even pissed someone off.
A groan from Dean throws Sam out of his thoughts. Dean’s brought his hand up, stopped the spoon Sam tried to feed him. Yellow liquid drips onto the sheets.
Sam’s eyes snap up, furious at the wasted food. ‘The hell, Dean?’
‘I’m full.’
‘You ate like two bites!’
‘Five.’
‘One more,’ he grits and holds up another spoon.
Dean’s hand falls to his stomach. His emaciated fingers clench the fabric of the shirt. ‘Sam, please,’ he whispers. ‘I don’t wanna puke, anymore.’
‘So you can keep the food you ate down?’ Sam asks, hopeful.
‘I think,’ Dean says, more question than statement, but Sam has to believe.
He nods to himself, says, ‘Okay, good,’ and smiles as cheerful as he can while he sets the plate back onto the nightstand. ‘Maybe later.’
‘Yeah,’ Dean says, faintly. ‘Later.’ His eyes slip shut again.
Sam holds his breath. Brings a trembling hand up, holds it under Dean’s nose. Dean’s not deadly skinny yet, but the weight loss has been so rapid, Sam worries his heart is going to give out any second. But then soft puffs of air against his fingers send relieve through Sam.
He brushes a hand over Dean’s clammy forehead, smiles as reassuring as he can when Dean blinks at him, then gets up. He checks his phone, just in case he missed something. Of course he didn’t. He sends an urgent message to Bobby, the eighth this day. Hopes for him to finally call back. Prays that when Bobby does, it’s with good news.
Then he fetches a wet cloth, uses it to gently wipe the sweat off of Dean’s forehead, then the spilled soup around his mouth.
Dean watches him from half lidded eyes as Sam switches the stained covers with the clean ones from the other bed. Once Sam’s finished, he helps Dean slide down under the covers again. During this, Sam does his best not to look at the skeletal limbs sticking out of Dean’s shirt and boxers. He doesn’t succeed.
The sight scares him. It also brings out a whole new sense of protectiveness.
His hand lingers over Dean’s heart as he smoothes out the covers. It thumps against his palm, slow but steady. He’s reluctant to pull away.
Dean splays his hand on top of Sam’s. He looks up to find Dean attempting a cheeky smile. ‘Can’t get your hands off me, huh?’ he says. ‘Sam, you sly dog.’
‘Right,’ Sam scoffs. ‘You look like Christian Bale in that creepy movie.’
Dean’s smile falls. ‘That bad, huh?’
‘No, Dean, I…’ Sam sits down, wiping a hand over his face. ‘I’m sorry. It’s not that bad, I swear.’
‘Not yet,’ Dean says out loud what Sam has been thinking.
‘It won’t come to that, Dean,’ he says and lifts the covers. ‘I won’t let it.’
‘Sam?’
He doesn’t say anything, he knows they don’t do this. They haven’t shared a bed in almost twenty years. There’s no comfort exchanged beyond words, both of them following the gruff ‘suck it up, boys’ in their heads. But this is different.
So he slides in, ignores the exasperated eye roll Dean sends his way and pulls his brother close. It’s a struggle, of course, so Sam says, ‘damn, you’re freezing,’ and it’s as good an excuse as any to make Dean stop fighting him.
‘Hate the damn suckers who read one too many King novels,’ Dean grumbles, his thin fingers wrapping around Sam’s arm, guiding it down slowly until Sam’s hand rests on Dean’s stomach.
‘Surprised you know that book,’ Sam says, as he gently starts to rub some warmth into it.
‘Not exactly,’ Dean says. ‘Saw the movie.’
‘Figured,’ Sam laughs. Dean begins to hum contentedly as Sam keeps up the gentle massage on his belly. It’s peaceful, lying like this and for a moment Sam allows himself to hope that Dean is actually going to keep the soup down. It doesn’t take long before the hope is crushed when Dean suddenly tenses in his hold.
‘Sammy,’ he gasps. Sam watches his eyes widen desperate, pained, then he’s up, but he can’t get himself onto his feet before he’s gagging already. A hand on Dean’s shoulder, Sam reaches out, drags the trashcan between Dean’s legs, just in time.
He sits next to his brother on the edge of the bed, gritting his teeth as Dean empties his stomach. There’s not much that comes out, but Dean stays hunched forward dry heaving for a long time after it’s all out. The flutter of Dean’s shirt tells Sam his brother’s stomach is still contracting violently.
‘It’s going to be okay,’ he says and winds his arm around a skinny back. ‘It’s going to be okay.’ He buries his face against bony shoulders and scoots closer and pulls Dean against him, does his best to support Dean as his body trembles with after shocks.
‘Sam?’
‘Yeah?’
‘I’m scared.’
Dean’s spine digs painfully into his chest and his body odor is acrid, but Sam doesn’t care. He just holds on and prays.
On the nightstand, the phone rings.