Warning: Contraindicated (2/5)
Summary: It was just a concussion... wasn't it? Hurt!/Sick!Sam Angst!Dean
Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters aren't mine, I'm not earning any money from this, etc
Rating: T
“Well, that was anti-climactic.”
“Thank you, Webster.”
“A freakin’ bear!”
“Whoa. Whoa. I’m not the one who found the hunt. You said it looked suspicious.”
“Well.” Sam paused. He hated to give Dean ammunition, but there was no escaping the truth of that. He had led them on a wild-goose chase. Or a black-dog-which-turned-out-to-be-angry-but-very-much-non-supernatural-bear chase. He kicked himself mentally. He was a seasoned hunter. A seasoned researcher. He should know the difference between wild animals and monsters by now.
Absently he rubbed his stomach. The pain was still there, not agonising, but nagging enough to distract him, to prevent him from functioning at full capacity. A faint but grumbling nausea had kept his appetite at bay for the last three days, beyond what he would have expected from the concussion. At breakfast, Dean had looked pointedly at the almost uneaten pancakes on his plate, and Sam had been hard-pressed to find an excuse for not eating them. Dean had muttered something about the concussion. Sam had tacitly run with that. Of course it was the concussion. What else could it be? Although he’d never had a concussion that gave him stomach-ache.
Dean threw himself down onto his bed, ignoring the outraged creaks of ancient springs, and looked at his brother. His expression was less than complimentary.
“Next time I’m finding a hunt.”
“Whatever, Dean.” Sam didn’t have the energy to handle Dean in a snippy mood.
“Whatever? That was completely the most useless day I’ve had in a long time. Not to mention that we wasted an entire tank of gas getting here. And a bunch of bullets taking that not-black-dog down before it wasted us.”
Sam wanted to argue, defend himself, but he knew Dean was right, and he had no excuse, and his stomach ached. He bent his head, letting his brother’s frustration wash over him.
“... again, so help me, I’ll salt and burn your.... Sam? Are you even listening to me?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah, nothing. You’re sulking.”
Sam frowned.
“No. I just... let it go, okay?”
“It’s not that simple, Sam-”
“Okay, I’m sorry! I’m an idiot! I totally screwed up! There, are you happy now?”
Sam didn’t wait to observe Dean’s reaction. In the absolute silence which followed his outburst he made for the bathroom, slamming and locking the door behind him. He had just enough time to turn on the shower before the nausea overtook him, bringing him to his knees before the cracked toilet bowl. Dimly, through the sounds of his own retching, he heard Dean banging on the door, but he was too occupied with being sick to pay attention to his brother.
Okay. Guess I’m still concussed.
He forced himself to his feet, wincing with the pain in his stomach, and swiftly divested himself of his clothes. Dean had stopped banging on the door. Sam could hear thumps from the bedroom, but he had little energy or inclination to imagine what his brother could be doing. Heavily, he stepped under the shower, willing the hot water to wash away the lethargy which gripped him. A headache pulsed lightly behind his eyes.
Dean was seated on his bed, remote in hand, staring at the television. He didn’t look up as Sam exited the bathroom.
“Well, that was mature.”
Sam didn’t answer.
“Grow up, Sam. I’m getting tired of bailing you out.”
“Just shut up, Dean.” And that’s not fair, I have your back a lot of the time.
Dean thrust himself off the bed.
“Fine.”
“What -”
“I’m going out.”
“Dean-”
“What?”
“I feel -” Funny. Sick.
“Not in the mood for a heart to heart, Samantha.”
“No, I... my stomach hurts.”
A plastic bottle smacked against the side of his head, and rattled onto the bed.
“Ow! Dean...”
“Suck it up, Sammy.”
Sam was silent. The pain was bad, but Dean in this mood was worse. He looked down, resisting the urge to wrap his arms around his middle, and listened as footsteps went to the door. Hinges creaked and wood collided with wood as Dean shut the door behind him - not quite a slam, but close. In the parking lot the Impala roared.
The room was cold. Sam discovered he was still clad only in a damp towel, and with movements that were clumsy with unwarranted exhaustion he pulled on clean boxers and almost clean jeans. His gray hoodie was slung over the back of the single chair, on the other side of Dean’s bed. It was too far. Suddenly sleep seemed more important.
*******************************************************
He was lying on his side, a scratchy motel blanket pulled over his shoulders, legs pulled up to his chest. The pain was constant now. Nausea came, and went, and returned, stronger than before.
Headlights gleamed through the curtains, casting brief, sharp shadows.
Dean?
Darkness again.
No, Dean’s mad at me, remember? I screwed up. That stupid bear.... I would have sworn it was a black dog. Even Dad... no, Dad never messed up.... not a hunt, anyway... Dean? Where... oh... he went out... I don’t feel so good.... never had a concussion like this before...
Cold.
Shaking hands reached for the blanket, trying to find warmth where none was available.
Black dog. No, it was a bear. Dean... Dean was so mad... where is Dean?
He went out.
I feel sick. Gonna be sick...
Sam lunged up off the bed, fell awkwardly to the floor in a tangle of long uncoordinated limbs.
Gonna throw up...
Somewhere in the confusion his body made it to the bathroom, curled up and over the toilet, before the retching took him. The desperate heaving hurt, dragging at the pain in his stomach. Soft, sobbing breaths were loud in the dingy little room. He curved in on himself, reflexively running one hand over his mouth, hating the taste of vomit in his mouth but lacking the strength to get up, rinse it out.
The taste of vomit.
That’s weird.
That’s not...
Sam blinked, trying to focus suddenly blurred eyes. He brought his wavering hand up. Red... splashes of scarlet... his palm... from his mouth... With an effort, he lifted his head, peering into the bowl.
That’s bad.
Need help. Need...
Dean.
Go to duffle.
Get phone.
Call Dean.
Hands slid on the tiles. Vision grayed for a moment, speckled black, then cleared again. The synthetic fibres of the cheap motel carpet were harsh on his palms as he crawled.
Just need...
Phone.
Dean.
Get phone.
Where...!
He panicked, scrabbling unsteadily for the duffle. Canvas slid, the zipper refractory.
Dean.
Need help.
So much blood...
Plastic slid in sweat-slicked hands.
Can’t see...
Dean.
Why am I so dizzy?
Dean...
Windows, walls, beds swirled nauseatingly, a kaleidoscope of light sparkles and dark blotches. A dull thud. Pain which blurred through his head but bowed before the greater agony in his side. Bristly fibres against his cheek.
Dean....
There was a soft, unheard thump as the phone slithered from suddenly limp fingers.
*******************************************************
Dean swallowed the last of his beer and looked around, his hunter instincts not allowing him to relax without fully scoping out his surroundings. The bar was not the worst he’d ever been in. But then he’d been in some interesting dives in his years. The clientele were only what he’d expected. Paunchy young-old men who obviously had less than a nodding acquaintance with a razor mingled with the occasional over-made-up and underdressed female. The somewhat determinedly blonde woman behind the bar could have been anything from twenty-five to fifty. Dean rather suspected the latter.
Sam would hate this place.
At the thought of his brother, the half-amused expression on Dean’s face faded. Sam had screwed up today. Any hunter of any experience should be able to tell the difference between the supernatural and an honest to goodness wild animal attack. And Sam was experienced. How many hundreds of hunts had he researched? How many had he participated in? He’d even met his fair share of black dogs. Dean put the empty beer bottle down a little harder than necessary.
Sometimes it was just impossible to know what was going on inside that shaggy head. Things would be going just fine, and then he would spring something unexpected, straight from left field, leaving Dean bemused and trying to catch up. And then it would turn out to be something that he’d been stewing on for days and Dean hadn’t even noticed.
Sometimes he wished they could just go back to those days when his brother was a chubby toddler. Then, little Sammy was satisfied with candy, with a cuddle and his favourite shabby teddy bear. For a moment Dean remembered the huge dark eyes and soft silky hair, the warmth of the small body curled against his. Sam had definitely been easier then. Life had been easier then.
He waved the waitress over and ordered another beer. He could play some pool. They were a little short of cash. He looked over at the game being played, and thought about joining in, and sat unmoving.
I wasn’t too hard on him.
I’ve been harder.
Dad was much worse when we were growing up, and we rolled with it, and learned. And life went on.
He looked at the full beer bottle in his hand. Took a gulp, and swallowed, and put it down again.
Sam hadn’t really argued. He’d come out of the bathroom and sat on his bed and not looked at Dean. It was unlike him. Sam was moody and argumentative, and stubborn enough to defend himself even when he was wrong.
It’s not like either of us was hurt...
Shut up, Dean. You weren’t too hard on him.
Dean took another swallow of beer. Then he stood up, one hand depositing coins on the scratched and grubby wood, and left. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d paid for a bottle of beer and not finished it.
*******************************************************
The moonlight was kind to the motel. In the pale silver it was easy to pretend that the paint wasn’t peeling and that the potholes in the parking lot were actually landscaping features. Dean grunted as one wheel of the Impala dipped into one such feature, his baby groaning in protest at the indignity of the treatment.
The parking lot was pretty much deserted. This wasn’t exactly the tourist hub of the United States. He and Sam were the only suckers who had thought it worth their while to be there, and even they’d been mistaken. Dean’s mouth twisted at the thought, and for a moment he thought wistfully of that half-full bottle back at the bar.
There was no light showing through the shabby curtains of their motel room as he approached it. He glanced at his watch. Not that late. Probably about the earliest he’d ever left a bar, in fact. Sam had better appreciate his thoughtfulness.
Not that I did it for Sam.
Why did I do it?
His key rasped in the un-oiled lock, and he pushed the door open.
Moonlight through murky curtains produced odd shadows. Things were difficult to make out clearly.
There was enough light, though. Enough to see the sprawled unconscious figure of his little brother, the slack tangled limbs, the cell phone lying inches from limply curling fingers, mute testament to a failed plea for help.
Chapter 3
Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters aren't mine, I'm not earning any money from this, etc
Rating: T
“Well, that was anti-climactic.”
“Thank you, Webster.”
“A freakin’ bear!”
“Whoa. Whoa. I’m not the one who found the hunt. You said it looked suspicious.”
“Well.” Sam paused. He hated to give Dean ammunition, but there was no escaping the truth of that. He had led them on a wild-goose chase. Or a black-dog-which-turned-out-to-be-angry-but-very-much-non-supernatural-bear chase. He kicked himself mentally. He was a seasoned hunter. A seasoned researcher. He should know the difference between wild animals and monsters by now.
Absently he rubbed his stomach. The pain was still there, not agonising, but nagging enough to distract him, to prevent him from functioning at full capacity. A faint but grumbling nausea had kept his appetite at bay for the last three days, beyond what he would have expected from the concussion. At breakfast, Dean had looked pointedly at the almost uneaten pancakes on his plate, and Sam had been hard-pressed to find an excuse for not eating them. Dean had muttered something about the concussion. Sam had tacitly run with that. Of course it was the concussion. What else could it be? Although he’d never had a concussion that gave him stomach-ache.
Dean threw himself down onto his bed, ignoring the outraged creaks of ancient springs, and looked at his brother. His expression was less than complimentary.
“Next time I’m finding a hunt.”
“Whatever, Dean.” Sam didn’t have the energy to handle Dean in a snippy mood.
“Whatever? That was completely the most useless day I’ve had in a long time. Not to mention that we wasted an entire tank of gas getting here. And a bunch of bullets taking that not-black-dog down before it wasted us.”
Sam wanted to argue, defend himself, but he knew Dean was right, and he had no excuse, and his stomach ached. He bent his head, letting his brother’s frustration wash over him.
“... again, so help me, I’ll salt and burn your.... Sam? Are you even listening to me?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah, nothing. You’re sulking.”
Sam frowned.
“No. I just... let it go, okay?”
“It’s not that simple, Sam-”
“Okay, I’m sorry! I’m an idiot! I totally screwed up! There, are you happy now?”
Sam didn’t wait to observe Dean’s reaction. In the absolute silence which followed his outburst he made for the bathroom, slamming and locking the door behind him. He had just enough time to turn on the shower before the nausea overtook him, bringing him to his knees before the cracked toilet bowl. Dimly, through the sounds of his own retching, he heard Dean banging on the door, but he was too occupied with being sick to pay attention to his brother.
Okay. Guess I’m still concussed.
He forced himself to his feet, wincing with the pain in his stomach, and swiftly divested himself of his clothes. Dean had stopped banging on the door. Sam could hear thumps from the bedroom, but he had little energy or inclination to imagine what his brother could be doing. Heavily, he stepped under the shower, willing the hot water to wash away the lethargy which gripped him. A headache pulsed lightly behind his eyes.
Dean was seated on his bed, remote in hand, staring at the television. He didn’t look up as Sam exited the bathroom.
“Well, that was mature.”
Sam didn’t answer.
“Grow up, Sam. I’m getting tired of bailing you out.”
“Just shut up, Dean.” And that’s not fair, I have your back a lot of the time.
Dean thrust himself off the bed.
“Fine.”
“What -”
“I’m going out.”
“Dean-”
“What?”
“I feel -” Funny. Sick.
“Not in the mood for a heart to heart, Samantha.”
“No, I... my stomach hurts.”
A plastic bottle smacked against the side of his head, and rattled onto the bed.
“Ow! Dean...”
“Suck it up, Sammy.”
Sam was silent. The pain was bad, but Dean in this mood was worse. He looked down, resisting the urge to wrap his arms around his middle, and listened as footsteps went to the door. Hinges creaked and wood collided with wood as Dean shut the door behind him - not quite a slam, but close. In the parking lot the Impala roared.
The room was cold. Sam discovered he was still clad only in a damp towel, and with movements that were clumsy with unwarranted exhaustion he pulled on clean boxers and almost clean jeans. His gray hoodie was slung over the back of the single chair, on the other side of Dean’s bed. It was too far. Suddenly sleep seemed more important.
*******************************************************
He was lying on his side, a scratchy motel blanket pulled over his shoulders, legs pulled up to his chest. The pain was constant now. Nausea came, and went, and returned, stronger than before.
Headlights gleamed through the curtains, casting brief, sharp shadows.
Dean?
Darkness again.
No, Dean’s mad at me, remember? I screwed up. That stupid bear.... I would have sworn it was a black dog. Even Dad... no, Dad never messed up.... not a hunt, anyway... Dean? Where... oh... he went out... I don’t feel so good.... never had a concussion like this before...
Cold.
Shaking hands reached for the blanket, trying to find warmth where none was available.
Black dog. No, it was a bear. Dean... Dean was so mad... where is Dean?
He went out.
I feel sick. Gonna be sick...
Sam lunged up off the bed, fell awkwardly to the floor in a tangle of long uncoordinated limbs.
Gonna throw up...
Somewhere in the confusion his body made it to the bathroom, curled up and over the toilet, before the retching took him. The desperate heaving hurt, dragging at the pain in his stomach. Soft, sobbing breaths were loud in the dingy little room. He curved in on himself, reflexively running one hand over his mouth, hating the taste of vomit in his mouth but lacking the strength to get up, rinse it out.
The taste of vomit.
That’s weird.
That’s not...
Sam blinked, trying to focus suddenly blurred eyes. He brought his wavering hand up. Red... splashes of scarlet... his palm... from his mouth... With an effort, he lifted his head, peering into the bowl.
That’s bad.
Need help. Need...
Dean.
Go to duffle.
Get phone.
Call Dean.
Hands slid on the tiles. Vision grayed for a moment, speckled black, then cleared again. The synthetic fibres of the cheap motel carpet were harsh on his palms as he crawled.
Just need...
Phone.
Dean.
Get phone.
Where...!
He panicked, scrabbling unsteadily for the duffle. Canvas slid, the zipper refractory.
Dean.
Need help.
So much blood...
Plastic slid in sweat-slicked hands.
Can’t see...
Dean.
Why am I so dizzy?
Dean...
Windows, walls, beds swirled nauseatingly, a kaleidoscope of light sparkles and dark blotches. A dull thud. Pain which blurred through his head but bowed before the greater agony in his side. Bristly fibres against his cheek.
Dean....
There was a soft, unheard thump as the phone slithered from suddenly limp fingers.
*******************************************************
Dean swallowed the last of his beer and looked around, his hunter instincts not allowing him to relax without fully scoping out his surroundings. The bar was not the worst he’d ever been in. But then he’d been in some interesting dives in his years. The clientele were only what he’d expected. Paunchy young-old men who obviously had less than a nodding acquaintance with a razor mingled with the occasional over-made-up and underdressed female. The somewhat determinedly blonde woman behind the bar could have been anything from twenty-five to fifty. Dean rather suspected the latter.
Sam would hate this place.
At the thought of his brother, the half-amused expression on Dean’s face faded. Sam had screwed up today. Any hunter of any experience should be able to tell the difference between the supernatural and an honest to goodness wild animal attack. And Sam was experienced. How many hundreds of hunts had he researched? How many had he participated in? He’d even met his fair share of black dogs. Dean put the empty beer bottle down a little harder than necessary.
Sometimes it was just impossible to know what was going on inside that shaggy head. Things would be going just fine, and then he would spring something unexpected, straight from left field, leaving Dean bemused and trying to catch up. And then it would turn out to be something that he’d been stewing on for days and Dean hadn’t even noticed.
Sometimes he wished they could just go back to those days when his brother was a chubby toddler. Then, little Sammy was satisfied with candy, with a cuddle and his favourite shabby teddy bear. For a moment Dean remembered the huge dark eyes and soft silky hair, the warmth of the small body curled against his. Sam had definitely been easier then. Life had been easier then.
He waved the waitress over and ordered another beer. He could play some pool. They were a little short of cash. He looked over at the game being played, and thought about joining in, and sat unmoving.
I wasn’t too hard on him.
I’ve been harder.
Dad was much worse when we were growing up, and we rolled with it, and learned. And life went on.
He looked at the full beer bottle in his hand. Took a gulp, and swallowed, and put it down again.
Sam hadn’t really argued. He’d come out of the bathroom and sat on his bed and not looked at Dean. It was unlike him. Sam was moody and argumentative, and stubborn enough to defend himself even when he was wrong.
It’s not like either of us was hurt...
Shut up, Dean. You weren’t too hard on him.
Dean took another swallow of beer. Then he stood up, one hand depositing coins on the scratched and grubby wood, and left. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d paid for a bottle of beer and not finished it.
*******************************************************
The moonlight was kind to the motel. In the pale silver it was easy to pretend that the paint wasn’t peeling and that the potholes in the parking lot were actually landscaping features. Dean grunted as one wheel of the Impala dipped into one such feature, his baby groaning in protest at the indignity of the treatment.
The parking lot was pretty much deserted. This wasn’t exactly the tourist hub of the United States. He and Sam were the only suckers who had thought it worth their while to be there, and even they’d been mistaken. Dean’s mouth twisted at the thought, and for a moment he thought wistfully of that half-full bottle back at the bar.
There was no light showing through the shabby curtains of their motel room as he approached it. He glanced at his watch. Not that late. Probably about the earliest he’d ever left a bar, in fact. Sam had better appreciate his thoughtfulness.
Not that I did it for Sam.
Why did I do it?
His key rasped in the un-oiled lock, and he pushed the door open.
Moonlight through murky curtains produced odd shadows. Things were difficult to make out clearly.
There was enough light, though. Enough to see the sprawled unconscious figure of his little brother, the slack tangled limbs, the cell phone lying inches from limply curling fingers, mute testament to a failed plea for help.
Chapter 3