(no subject)
Title: With the Pill or the Demon
Rating: PG
Words: 2026
Notes: For the hoodie_time Dean-focused h/c comment-fic meme (my favorite forever omg.) Title taken from Sufjan Stevens's I Want to Be Well.
Summary: From the prompt: A hurt/confused/concussed Dean shows up at Sam's apartment at Stanford and collapses there. Pre-Jess! Gen.
There were certain advantages to being a sophomore this year. Very small ones, but advantages nonetheless. Like being able to move his meager amount of belongings from the freshman dorms to the sophomore dorms. Whereas the freshman dorms had been roughly the size of a matchbox (and that was before his roommate had moved in), the sophomore dorm was at least big enough that Sam could turn around without knocking over furniture. There was also a barely-there partition to give the illusion of privacy for him and his roommate, and a small, rectangular area that only just fit the most miniature of mini-fridges. But it wasn’t a matchbox, and it was Sam’s, and that was all that mattered.
The weak knock he gets on his door a few days after moving in, for some reason, makes his stomach clench in dread and unease. Not just because it’s 11:30 at night and most everyone he knows is too exhausted to do anything after both moving week and suddenly having to get up early for classes again. He debates just ignoring it and going back to his text for Society and Individual Development, but whoever’s on the other side of the door raps again.
Sam opens it and his jaw drops a little.
“Dean? What the hell are you doing here?” He didn’t mean for it to come out like that, but seriously, what the fuck? Even in the dim light from the hallway, he can see Dean’s grin go a little strained.
“Was in the area. Just thought I’d pop in and see how you’re doing. Hey, nice digs! Looks like you’re finally moving up in the world, Sammy.” Dean inches his way inside and Sam knows his own face probably looks a little ridiculous with surprise, but he can’t help it. Dean lifts his eyebrows.
“You just gonna stand there or you gonna invite me in for a beer? You do have beer, don’t you? I mean, I know you’re still technically underage, but seriously, this is college.”
Sam stares at his brother. He looks… well, he looks horrible. A lot thinner than Sam remembers, pale, shadows of circles under his eyes. That uneasy clench in his stomach from earlier turns into a roll.
“Seriously. Dean. What are you doing here?”
“Seriously. Sam,” Dean mocks. “Just like I said. You’re a sophomore now, aren’t you, right?”
“Did something happen?” Sam tries. “Are you all right? Is, uh, is Dad all right?” Dean huffs and throws his hands up.
“Yes, Sam, everything is all right. Sorry that stopping by to see you without any horrible news attached is such an inconvenience.” Sam fumes silently for a moment, but forces himself not to raise his voice.
“I haven’t seen or talked to you in over a year, and you just randomly decide to show up around midnight when I’ve got class the next morning? Yeah, that’s a little inconvenient.” He clenches his jaw the second it’s out. Jesus, why can’t he just keep his mouth shut? Or, better yet, why does he still give in when he’s fully aware Dean knows just how to push his buttons?
Dean’s expression drops all pretense of friendliness. “Yeah, okay,” he mutters. “And whose fucking fault is that, Sam, huh? I’ve still got the same damn phone number.” He shuffles back to the door like the floor is a boat deck and he can’t quite maintain his footing.
“No, hey-” Sam reaches for him. “I’m sorry, okay? Just-caught me off guard, is all.” Not entirely, but it seems to pacify Dean for the moment. “So, what,” Sam says. “You got a hunt around here or something?” Dean licks his chapped lips.
“Uh, not really. Like I said, just kinda wanted to drop by and see how you’re doing, you know?” Sam just grunts, mind racing. Dean looks a bit shaky, like he had been running suicide drills for an hour straight and his legs can barely hold him up any longer. “Oh hey, you got a roommate,” Dean slurs. “Hope it’s a girl.” And then his eyes roll back into his head as he slumps boneless to the ground.
Sam stares down incredulously at Dean’s ragdoll form for a few long seconds before he drops to the ground with him, rolling him over and checking his breathing and pulse. He can’t find any blood or broken bones or major bruises, just Dean breathing calmly and quietly, like he suddenly fell into a deep sleep.
Sam feels more than a little wary, but he can’t find anything conspicuously wrong with his brother, so he tentatively chalks it up to pure exhaustion.
Fortunately for the both of them, Rodney, Sam’s roommate, is spending the next few nights with his girlfriend, so Sam hefts Dean as best he can into Rodney’s bed (though really, it’s not so much of a feat considering how much weight Dean has lost), and pulls the covers over him. He sits for a moment, looking at Dean’s dark lashes almost blending in against the bruise-colored circles beneath his eyes.
Besides his keys, Dean doesn’t have a thing on him, not even his wallet or his phone; they must have been left in the car for whatever reason. Sam snags the keys, if only just to check out the car and see if anything in there can give him an idea of just what the hell is going on.
The Impala is parked as far away as possible from Sam’s dorm while still being in the lot, hidden (or as best a car like that can be hidden) behind a large tree. He tries to deny the nostalgia and longing that swells up inside him, but it’s useless. The doors still creak in their familiar way as he searches all the seats and cracks and the glove compartment, but there’s nothing other than the usual food wrappers, maps, and newspaper clippings. He heads for the trunk.
Sam doesn’t dare open the false bottom, not yet anyway, so he scrounges through Dean’s duffle, including jean pockets and shoes. It isn’t until he shoves it all aside, frustration mounting, that he sees the transparent orange bottle in the back.
Carbamazepine, it reads. Carbatrol.
Sam heads back inside to his laptop.
*
Three hours later, Dean grunts and blearily opens his eyes.
Sam knows he’s probably confused and has no idea where the hell he is. It’s confirmed when Dean looks over to him and breaths out, “Sammy?”
Sam gives him time. He’s pissed, furious with Dean and furious with his own guilt, but he stuffs it all away for now, because if Sam has learned one thing, it’s that regret quickly follows most arguments he’s had in the past.
He waits until Dean sits up, and then he tosses him the empty prescription bottle.
Sam didn’t think it was possible for Dean to get any paler.
“Your prescription ran out,” he says.
“So it did,” Dean says, but his voice shakes. “Uh, thanks for noticing. I’ll just go… take care of that.” He tries to raise himself from the bed, but Sam pushes him back down without any trouble.
“What the hell, Sam-”
“Okay, a: it’s three in the morning, so good luck trying to fill it, and b: what the fuck, Dean? When were you going to tell me about this? Were you even going to tell me about this?”
“No,” Dean says, and Sam swears he hears a bit of petulance, “because there’s nothing to tell.”
“Would you fucking stop already?” Sam nearly explodes. “Jesus Christ, Dean! You have seizures? That’s a big fucking something. Just-” Sam scrubs a hand down his face and sits on the bed next to Dean. “Please. Talk to me. Tell me what happened. You look like shit, man, and all of this is scaring me a little.”
Dean looks like he’d rather pull out his fingernails and eat them, which doesn’t surprise Sam in the least. But he stares him down until Dean’s head drops with resignation.
“About six months ago I hit my head, uh, pretty hard,” Dean picks at the comforter. Was in the hospital for a while. Turns out I was left with a parting gift.” Sam’s heart pounds in his throat. “Post Traumatic Epilepsy. Atonic seizures, if you wanna get technical.”
“Okay,” Sam takes the information as it comes, processes, breathes. “Atonic seizures. And that means….” Dean looks like he’s torn between wanting to hit him and wanting to pull the covers over his head to ignore him.
“Muscles. My-when they happen, my muscles just give out and I just-I drop, okay? Or my head will fall, or I’ll drop stuff, or other wonderful embarrassing shit.” Dean’s definitely through with sharing and caring, and Sam feels like an asshole for admitting it to himself, but he doesn’t want to hear any more anyway. The shock of seeing his brother for the first time in a year and change is bad enough, but hearing that he’s been seriously hurt and now carries a disorder because of it exhausts Sam so much that he feels sick.
He thinks of the so-called fainting spell Dean had earlier.
“And your prescription, is it supposed to help prevent the seizures?” He guesses affirmative when Dean doesn’t say anything. “Why didn’t you get it re-filled, man?”
Dean looks so fucking sad that Sam wants to just tell him to nevermind. “I dunno, I just…. They’re expensive as hell, and I hadn’t had any attacks in a while, so….”
“Since when has anything medically expensive been a problem?” Sam asks. Dean gives him a Look.
“I wasn’t just in the hospital for a long weekend, Sam; and with the way that it was, we had to actually set up real insurance under my real name and everything. It’s-Bobby Singer helped, he has connections, so it’s not like I’m drowning in medical debt, or anything, but….”
“Yeah,” Sam sighs. Dean looks tired enough to fall asleep sitting up, and Sam doesn’t feel much better himself, so he gives it a rest. “We’ll worry about it tomorrow, okay?” Dean just grunts and slips under the covers, turning away from him. Sam climbs into his own bed, begging his mind for silence.
*
Dean’s still sleeping when Sam gets up a few hours later, and doesn’t even twitch as Sam goes through his half-hearted morning routine. He grabs the empty bottle now sitting on Rodney’s night stand and closes the door softly behind him, heading for the ATM.
*
The waiting is horrible. When Dean’s not sleeping like a rock, he’s half out of it with grogginess, and almost makes Sam wet himself when he has another seizure. One second Dean’s telling him when he last saw their father, the next it’s like someone had cut the strings; his forehead barely misses the sharp corner of Sam’s desk.
Since Sam has spent every available moment he can online looking up everything he could possibly want or need to know about the seizures, he knows there’s really nothing that can be done while Dean’s unconscious, but he checks him over for bumps or bruises anyway. Worse is how still and pliant he is when Sam moves him from the floor to his bed.
“Sammy?” Dean says again when he comes out of it roughly five minutes later, and Sam can barely handle Dean’s openly confused and hopeful stare.
Finally Sam gets the call. Dean’s not going to be happy, but that’s just too fucking bad.
“Hey, wanna take a ride with me real quick?” Sam asks as nonchalantly as possible. “The pharmacy just called.” Dean’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, and then his looks turn murderous.
“Sam-” he starts angrily.
“No,” Sam says. “That whole time, I wasn’t there. But now I am, okay? So let me do this for now. We’ll figure the rest out later.” He can see how much it pains Dean to even consider it, but Sam doesn’t back down.
“Okay,” Dean finally whispers, eyes closed. “Thank you.” Sam just smiles softly, and helps his brother to his feet.
Rating: PG
Words: 2026
Notes: For the hoodie_time Dean-focused h/c comment-fic meme (my favorite forever omg.) Title taken from Sufjan Stevens's I Want to Be Well.
Summary: From the prompt: A hurt/confused/concussed Dean shows up at Sam's apartment at Stanford and collapses there. Pre-Jess! Gen.
There were certain advantages to being a sophomore this year. Very small ones, but advantages nonetheless. Like being able to move his meager amount of belongings from the freshman dorms to the sophomore dorms. Whereas the freshman dorms had been roughly the size of a matchbox (and that was before his roommate had moved in), the sophomore dorm was at least big enough that Sam could turn around without knocking over furniture. There was also a barely-there partition to give the illusion of privacy for him and his roommate, and a small, rectangular area that only just fit the most miniature of mini-fridges. But it wasn’t a matchbox, and it was Sam’s, and that was all that mattered.
The weak knock he gets on his door a few days after moving in, for some reason, makes his stomach clench in dread and unease. Not just because it’s 11:30 at night and most everyone he knows is too exhausted to do anything after both moving week and suddenly having to get up early for classes again. He debates just ignoring it and going back to his text for Society and Individual Development, but whoever’s on the other side of the door raps again.
Sam opens it and his jaw drops a little.
“Dean? What the hell are you doing here?” He didn’t mean for it to come out like that, but seriously, what the fuck? Even in the dim light from the hallway, he can see Dean’s grin go a little strained.
“Was in the area. Just thought I’d pop in and see how you’re doing. Hey, nice digs! Looks like you’re finally moving up in the world, Sammy.” Dean inches his way inside and Sam knows his own face probably looks a little ridiculous with surprise, but he can’t help it. Dean lifts his eyebrows.
“You just gonna stand there or you gonna invite me in for a beer? You do have beer, don’t you? I mean, I know you’re still technically underage, but seriously, this is college.”
Sam stares at his brother. He looks… well, he looks horrible. A lot thinner than Sam remembers, pale, shadows of circles under his eyes. That uneasy clench in his stomach from earlier turns into a roll.
“Seriously. Dean. What are you doing here?”
“Seriously. Sam,” Dean mocks. “Just like I said. You’re a sophomore now, aren’t you, right?”
“Did something happen?” Sam tries. “Are you all right? Is, uh, is Dad all right?” Dean huffs and throws his hands up.
“Yes, Sam, everything is all right. Sorry that stopping by to see you without any horrible news attached is such an inconvenience.” Sam fumes silently for a moment, but forces himself not to raise his voice.
“I haven’t seen or talked to you in over a year, and you just randomly decide to show up around midnight when I’ve got class the next morning? Yeah, that’s a little inconvenient.” He clenches his jaw the second it’s out. Jesus, why can’t he just keep his mouth shut? Or, better yet, why does he still give in when he’s fully aware Dean knows just how to push his buttons?
Dean’s expression drops all pretense of friendliness. “Yeah, okay,” he mutters. “And whose fucking fault is that, Sam, huh? I’ve still got the same damn phone number.” He shuffles back to the door like the floor is a boat deck and he can’t quite maintain his footing.
“No, hey-” Sam reaches for him. “I’m sorry, okay? Just-caught me off guard, is all.” Not entirely, but it seems to pacify Dean for the moment. “So, what,” Sam says. “You got a hunt around here or something?” Dean licks his chapped lips.
“Uh, not really. Like I said, just kinda wanted to drop by and see how you’re doing, you know?” Sam just grunts, mind racing. Dean looks a bit shaky, like he had been running suicide drills for an hour straight and his legs can barely hold him up any longer. “Oh hey, you got a roommate,” Dean slurs. “Hope it’s a girl.” And then his eyes roll back into his head as he slumps boneless to the ground.
Sam stares down incredulously at Dean’s ragdoll form for a few long seconds before he drops to the ground with him, rolling him over and checking his breathing and pulse. He can’t find any blood or broken bones or major bruises, just Dean breathing calmly and quietly, like he suddenly fell into a deep sleep.
Sam feels more than a little wary, but he can’t find anything conspicuously wrong with his brother, so he tentatively chalks it up to pure exhaustion.
Fortunately for the both of them, Rodney, Sam’s roommate, is spending the next few nights with his girlfriend, so Sam hefts Dean as best he can into Rodney’s bed (though really, it’s not so much of a feat considering how much weight Dean has lost), and pulls the covers over him. He sits for a moment, looking at Dean’s dark lashes almost blending in against the bruise-colored circles beneath his eyes.
Besides his keys, Dean doesn’t have a thing on him, not even his wallet or his phone; they must have been left in the car for whatever reason. Sam snags the keys, if only just to check out the car and see if anything in there can give him an idea of just what the hell is going on.
The Impala is parked as far away as possible from Sam’s dorm while still being in the lot, hidden (or as best a car like that can be hidden) behind a large tree. He tries to deny the nostalgia and longing that swells up inside him, but it’s useless. The doors still creak in their familiar way as he searches all the seats and cracks and the glove compartment, but there’s nothing other than the usual food wrappers, maps, and newspaper clippings. He heads for the trunk.
Sam doesn’t dare open the false bottom, not yet anyway, so he scrounges through Dean’s duffle, including jean pockets and shoes. It isn’t until he shoves it all aside, frustration mounting, that he sees the transparent orange bottle in the back.
Carbamazepine, it reads. Carbatrol.
Sam heads back inside to his laptop.
*
Three hours later, Dean grunts and blearily opens his eyes.
Sam knows he’s probably confused and has no idea where the hell he is. It’s confirmed when Dean looks over to him and breaths out, “Sammy?”
Sam gives him time. He’s pissed, furious with Dean and furious with his own guilt, but he stuffs it all away for now, because if Sam has learned one thing, it’s that regret quickly follows most arguments he’s had in the past.
He waits until Dean sits up, and then he tosses him the empty prescription bottle.
Sam didn’t think it was possible for Dean to get any paler.
“Your prescription ran out,” he says.
“So it did,” Dean says, but his voice shakes. “Uh, thanks for noticing. I’ll just go… take care of that.” He tries to raise himself from the bed, but Sam pushes him back down without any trouble.
“What the hell, Sam-”
“Okay, a: it’s three in the morning, so good luck trying to fill it, and b: what the fuck, Dean? When were you going to tell me about this? Were you even going to tell me about this?”
“No,” Dean says, and Sam swears he hears a bit of petulance, “because there’s nothing to tell.”
“Would you fucking stop already?” Sam nearly explodes. “Jesus Christ, Dean! You have seizures? That’s a big fucking something. Just-” Sam scrubs a hand down his face and sits on the bed next to Dean. “Please. Talk to me. Tell me what happened. You look like shit, man, and all of this is scaring me a little.”
Dean looks like he’d rather pull out his fingernails and eat them, which doesn’t surprise Sam in the least. But he stares him down until Dean’s head drops with resignation.
“About six months ago I hit my head, uh, pretty hard,” Dean picks at the comforter. Was in the hospital for a while. Turns out I was left with a parting gift.” Sam’s heart pounds in his throat. “Post Traumatic Epilepsy. Atonic seizures, if you wanna get technical.”
“Okay,” Sam takes the information as it comes, processes, breathes. “Atonic seizures. And that means….” Dean looks like he’s torn between wanting to hit him and wanting to pull the covers over his head to ignore him.
“Muscles. My-when they happen, my muscles just give out and I just-I drop, okay? Or my head will fall, or I’ll drop stuff, or other wonderful embarrassing shit.” Dean’s definitely through with sharing and caring, and Sam feels like an asshole for admitting it to himself, but he doesn’t want to hear any more anyway. The shock of seeing his brother for the first time in a year and change is bad enough, but hearing that he’s been seriously hurt and now carries a disorder because of it exhausts Sam so much that he feels sick.
He thinks of the so-called fainting spell Dean had earlier.
“And your prescription, is it supposed to help prevent the seizures?” He guesses affirmative when Dean doesn’t say anything. “Why didn’t you get it re-filled, man?”
Dean looks so fucking sad that Sam wants to just tell him to nevermind. “I dunno, I just…. They’re expensive as hell, and I hadn’t had any attacks in a while, so….”
“Since when has anything medically expensive been a problem?” Sam asks. Dean gives him a Look.
“I wasn’t just in the hospital for a long weekend, Sam; and with the way that it was, we had to actually set up real insurance under my real name and everything. It’s-Bobby Singer helped, he has connections, so it’s not like I’m drowning in medical debt, or anything, but….”
“Yeah,” Sam sighs. Dean looks tired enough to fall asleep sitting up, and Sam doesn’t feel much better himself, so he gives it a rest. “We’ll worry about it tomorrow, okay?” Dean just grunts and slips under the covers, turning away from him. Sam climbs into his own bed, begging his mind for silence.
*
Dean’s still sleeping when Sam gets up a few hours later, and doesn’t even twitch as Sam goes through his half-hearted morning routine. He grabs the empty bottle now sitting on Rodney’s night stand and closes the door softly behind him, heading for the ATM.
*
The waiting is horrible. When Dean’s not sleeping like a rock, he’s half out of it with grogginess, and almost makes Sam wet himself when he has another seizure. One second Dean’s telling him when he last saw their father, the next it’s like someone had cut the strings; his forehead barely misses the sharp corner of Sam’s desk.
Since Sam has spent every available moment he can online looking up everything he could possibly want or need to know about the seizures, he knows there’s really nothing that can be done while Dean’s unconscious, but he checks him over for bumps or bruises anyway. Worse is how still and pliant he is when Sam moves him from the floor to his bed.
“Sammy?” Dean says again when he comes out of it roughly five minutes later, and Sam can barely handle Dean’s openly confused and hopeful stare.
Finally Sam gets the call. Dean’s not going to be happy, but that’s just too fucking bad.
“Hey, wanna take a ride with me real quick?” Sam asks as nonchalantly as possible. “The pharmacy just called.” Dean’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, and then his looks turn murderous.
“Sam-” he starts angrily.
“No,” Sam says. “That whole time, I wasn’t there. But now I am, okay? So let me do this for now. We’ll figure the rest out later.” He can see how much it pains Dean to even consider it, but Sam doesn’t back down.
“Okay,” Dean finally whispers, eyes closed. “Thank you.” Sam just smiles softly, and helps his brother to his feet.