FIC - What Bruise?
This is a fill for a prompt on hoodie_time for "idiopathic peripheral neuropathy". Written in approximately 30 minutes after I'd had four drinks, so...enjoy :)
I could tell Sam was not amused, he was actually kind of pissed.
"Move your fingers, dickhead. The fingers on your right hand. Do it."
God, fine, whatever. I looked down at my right hand and oh fuck. They're swollen and purple. Weird. Anyway, Sam was being pissy, so I wiggled them around.
Oh, wait. What the hell? I'm wiggling them around. But they're not moving. That's fucked up. For real.
"I'm so tired of this bullshit, Dean! I'm not hurt, everything's fine, I'm done! You can't move your fingers! They're probably broken! What the hell happened?"
Honestly, I wasn't exactly sure. I knew I'd closed my hand in the car door earlier but thought it was no big deal because it didn't hurt, so I figured I must not have closed the door all the way or something.
"Sam, honest to God, it doesn't hurt. I'm not handing you a line, look at me, does it look like I'm in any pain?"
And I guess he got it, because it wasn't like he couldn't tell when I was in pain.
"This is fucked. Something's wrong. Did you piss off another witch? Goddamnit, Dean, you're always pissing off a witch and getting cursed with some fucking stupid thing. What did you do?"
"Dude, I didn't DO anything, I don't know what this is. I can see it, and you're right, my hand is swollen and I can't move my fingers but it doesn't hurt. I'm telling you the truth."
"Whatever the fuck, Dean, we just have to wait for the curse to wear off, like always." He did his Sam thing, sitting me down on the bed, pushing the bones back in place, wrapping up my hand, but still, none of it hurt. I didn't even ask for booze.
A week later, ambling back into the motel room after a taking care of a vengeful spirit (old school, seriously, it made me happy) I saw Sam giving me one of his bitchfaces. It was Bitchface #1, which was You're Being A Dick. That one had been cultivated when Sam was only 8, which was why it got the #1 status.
"That fucker knocked your head against a gravestone, asshole. You've got a knot the size of Alaska on your temple. Seriously, you're telling me that doesn't hurt?"
"Sam, I swear to whatever, nothing hurts. I know there's a bump on my head, but it doesn't hurt. I'm seeing a litte fuzzy, though, it's weird."
"Christ. That's it. We're going to Bobby's. We have to figure this out."
"Fine. Just let me get some sleep."
"Fuck you, Dean, you probably have a concussion. You're not sleeping."
I'd never thought of it before, but I mentally cursed the day that my mother and father had conceived Sam. But I couldn't stop him from waking me up every hour and holding fingers in front of my eyes, and being pissed off at me giving him the wrong answer when he asked how many fingers he was holding up. Inisde my brain, I figured he was showing me only one finger, and the same one every time. You know. The middle one.
Bobby had someone there waiting when we arrived. Someone who "owed him a favor". What a fucking shocker. This person, though, was a doctor, a real live MD, though he looked nothing at all like Dr. Sexy. Which was fine. I had no crush on Dr. Sexy. FUCK YOU, I DO NOT HAVE A CRUSH ON DR. SEXY!
This dude had some crazy machine, and the testing was funky as hell. He called it a nerve conduction study, and EMG, whatever the hell that was, and kept asking me to tell him what I felt as he did his thing. But I didn't feel anything, really. I mean, I felt the needles, I felt the pressure, but I didn't feel pain. Like the time on the way there, when Sam had pinched my arm, I knew he was pinching me, but it didn't hurt. Fucked up. Weird.
So, here was the diagnosis. Idiopathic peripheral neuropathy. Idiopathic was a doctor-word for "I have no fucking clue why". Peripheral neuropathy meant that my nerves weren't working. They weren't telling my brain what hurt or what felt good, or whatever. The connection was severed.
For a hunter, this was not a good thing. I looked at Sam, and his face gave me this defeated, discouraged expression in reply.
He told me we needed to talk. Talk about things that we could do that weren't hunting. Things I didn't understand. I just wanted to sleep. Since he's pretty awesome sometimes (even though he's a pain in my ass other times), he told me to go on and sleep, we'd talk about it later.
It wasn't going to be something I wanted to talk about, though. I already knew that.
I could tell Sam was not amused, he was actually kind of pissed.
"Move your fingers, dickhead. The fingers on your right hand. Do it."
God, fine, whatever. I looked down at my right hand and oh fuck. They're swollen and purple. Weird. Anyway, Sam was being pissy, so I wiggled them around.
Oh, wait. What the hell? I'm wiggling them around. But they're not moving. That's fucked up. For real.
"I'm so tired of this bullshit, Dean! I'm not hurt, everything's fine, I'm done! You can't move your fingers! They're probably broken! What the hell happened?"
Honestly, I wasn't exactly sure. I knew I'd closed my hand in the car door earlier but thought it was no big deal because it didn't hurt, so I figured I must not have closed the door all the way or something.
"Sam, honest to God, it doesn't hurt. I'm not handing you a line, look at me, does it look like I'm in any pain?"
And I guess he got it, because it wasn't like he couldn't tell when I was in pain.
"This is fucked. Something's wrong. Did you piss off another witch? Goddamnit, Dean, you're always pissing off a witch and getting cursed with some fucking stupid thing. What did you do?"
"Dude, I didn't DO anything, I don't know what this is. I can see it, and you're right, my hand is swollen and I can't move my fingers but it doesn't hurt. I'm telling you the truth."
"Whatever the fuck, Dean, we just have to wait for the curse to wear off, like always." He did his Sam thing, sitting me down on the bed, pushing the bones back in place, wrapping up my hand, but still, none of it hurt. I didn't even ask for booze.
A week later, ambling back into the motel room after a taking care of a vengeful spirit (old school, seriously, it made me happy) I saw Sam giving me one of his bitchfaces. It was Bitchface #1, which was You're Being A Dick. That one had been cultivated when Sam was only 8, which was why it got the #1 status.
"That fucker knocked your head against a gravestone, asshole. You've got a knot the size of Alaska on your temple. Seriously, you're telling me that doesn't hurt?"
"Sam, I swear to whatever, nothing hurts. I know there's a bump on my head, but it doesn't hurt. I'm seeing a litte fuzzy, though, it's weird."
"Christ. That's it. We're going to Bobby's. We have to figure this out."
"Fine. Just let me get some sleep."
"Fuck you, Dean, you probably have a concussion. You're not sleeping."
I'd never thought of it before, but I mentally cursed the day that my mother and father had conceived Sam. But I couldn't stop him from waking me up every hour and holding fingers in front of my eyes, and being pissed off at me giving him the wrong answer when he asked how many fingers he was holding up. Inisde my brain, I figured he was showing me only one finger, and the same one every time. You know. The middle one.
Bobby had someone there waiting when we arrived. Someone who "owed him a favor". What a fucking shocker. This person, though, was a doctor, a real live MD, though he looked nothing at all like Dr. Sexy. Which was fine. I had no crush on Dr. Sexy. FUCK YOU, I DO NOT HAVE A CRUSH ON DR. SEXY!
This dude had some crazy machine, and the testing was funky as hell. He called it a nerve conduction study, and EMG, whatever the hell that was, and kept asking me to tell him what I felt as he did his thing. But I didn't feel anything, really. I mean, I felt the needles, I felt the pressure, but I didn't feel pain. Like the time on the way there, when Sam had pinched my arm, I knew he was pinching me, but it didn't hurt. Fucked up. Weird.
So, here was the diagnosis. Idiopathic peripheral neuropathy. Idiopathic was a doctor-word for "I have no fucking clue why". Peripheral neuropathy meant that my nerves weren't working. They weren't telling my brain what hurt or what felt good, or whatever. The connection was severed.
For a hunter, this was not a good thing. I looked at Sam, and his face gave me this defeated, discouraged expression in reply.
He told me we needed to talk. Talk about things that we could do that weren't hunting. Things I didn't understand. I just wanted to sleep. Since he's pretty awesome sometimes (even though he's a pain in my ass other times), he told me to go on and sleep, we'd talk about it later.
It wasn't going to be something I wanted to talk about, though. I already knew that.