Taking Some Time (SPN, Dean)

[MissBayliss]

On 11 April 2016 at 0:45 AM, ickydog2006 said:

Yes! Is it pathetic I check for an update almost every day. Great writing as usual. 

 

On 11 April 2016 at 6:41 AM, Wow Really? said:

Yay! Yes, I too come here everyday looking for updates.. I never have anything philosophical to say.. I just get so excited when I see updates from you and all I can say is.. yay. 

Love this story and the person creating it. MWA! Thank you! 

 

On 11 April 2016 at 7:05 AM, Pyrus_Fangmon said:

AMAZING!!! How can you capture these boys so well!? It's impossible!

And all the detail.....ughhh it made me shiver!

Love love loving this!  

 

On 12 April 2016 at 10:50 AM, starpollen said:

Wow.  Just... wow.  Keep going!

 

3 hours ago, telltale said:

This really is amazing good.  All the love you have aimed at Dean right now is warming my heart, but things are  still so dark too.  That last line...   

Beautiful work.  It has me feeling a million different emotions all the time,

Wow, guys. Thank you so much  I'm really glad you like it. I find it really emotionally satisfying. I don't know why. Maybe there's something wrong with me  

 

As for chapter updates, (I love it that you're checking everyday, you sweeties) I have been and will continue to upload every week on a Monday (Australian Eastern Standard Time) , so wherever you are in the world that might work out to be about midday on the Sunday. But that's the update times  I've set myself a deadline every week and unless something really big happened, I'll continue to do that. This week I forgot to post and went to bed, but I remembered and got up to finish the chapter and have it up by midnight  I know what it's like reading a work in progress that you really like and being left hanging for months! (I've even done it myself) So this on I'm really trying to keep up for the sake of you guys, who inspire me constantly to keep at it.

Love to all xx

[Wow Really?]

10 hours ago, MissBayliss said:

 As for chapter updates, (I love it that you're checking everyday, you sweeties) I have been and will continue to upload every week on a Monday (Australian Eastern Standard Time) , so wherever you are in the world that might work out to be about midday on the Sunday. But that's the update times  I've set myself a deadline every week and unless something really big happened, I'll continue to do that. This week I forgot to post and went to bed, but I remembered and got up to finish the chapter and have it up by midnight  I know what it's like reading a work in progress that you really like and being left hanging for months! (I've even done it myself) So this on I'm really trying to keep up for the sake of you guys, who inspire me constantly to keep at it.

Love to all xx

Okay, I'm writing this down.. My scattered brain never seemed to catch on lol 

[MissBayliss]

Sorry it's a bit shorter this week.  

Chapter Eleven

 

Sam sat at the breakfast bar with the envelope containing Dean’s MRI images in front of him. It was sealed with a little sticker that said ‘To be opened by the referring doctor’. Sam’s thumb ran across it. He didn’t know how to read an MRI anyway. Surely, it would just be lines and squiggles and shapes he couldn’t understand. But then he and Dean had had their share of x-rays and CT scans. Broken ribs, concussions, etc. etc. etc. He had an idea of anatomy. And the rest he could figure out. He’d called the doctor as soon as they’d opened to make Dean another appointment to have his scan reviewed. He wasn’t so lucky this time. Dean couldn’t get in to see him for another week. A week before they knew what was really wrong. A week.

So… Sam had 7 days to figure out how to read an MRI.

He opened the envelope and pulled out one of the sheets of film, holding it up in front of the window. It was a sagittal view of Dean’s lower back.

“Jesus,” Sam inhaled, feeling his chest tighten.

He wasn’t a doctor, but the issue seemed to be obvious.

“What are you doing?”

Sam spun around, trying in vain to hide the image behind his leg.

Dean’s voice was harsh, gruff, and his brow was intensely furrowed.

“Nothing, I was just… Where’s Bobby?”

“He’s sleeping in a chair. What are you doing?” Dean took a few more steps towards him, bare feet padding on the polished timber floors.

“I was just going to see if I could… read them.”

Dean’s eyebrow went up.

“But, you know, man, we should just wait for the doctor to look them over,” Sam began stuffing the film back into the envelope.

“Well, let me see,” Dean reached his hand out, stepping closer again.

“No, Dean, I think we should wait…”

“Sam, what’s wrong?” Dean’s eyes were greener than usual, the whites reddened from pain and sickness, and they were wide, Dean’s version of angry. Which Sam knew just meant he was scared.

“Nothing,” Sam forced a small smile, “It’s just squiggles to me. We’ll wait until the doctor can take a look. I got you in next week.”

“Fantastic,” Dean said, to Sam’s relief, dropping it.

He leant over the kitchen counter like he was trying to stretch his lower back, and came to rest on his right elbow. He sucked a breath in, only to cough it out, briefly rattly but clearer towards the end. He sniffed and closed his eyes, like he was collecting himself.

Sam ran a hand across his chin, trying to calm how fast his heart had been beating, at first from seeing the state of Dean’s spine, and second from Dean catching him red handed.

Dean blew out a long breath.

Sam got himself together.

“Hey, sit down. What do you want for breakfast?” Sam pulled out the barstool for Dean to sit down in.

Dean looked sideways at the chair and straightened.

“I can stand.”

So, it was gonna be one of those days.

“You want toast? New toaster,” Sam beamed, nodding towards the box on the counter.

Dean gave a weak attempt at a sideways smile, “Not that hungry, Sammy.”

Sam furrowed his brow, “You need to have something to eat before you have your medication.”

“In that case, I’m starving,” Dean grinned, obviously growing tired of the charade and slumping into the barstool.

He coughed again, wetter this time.

Sam glanced at him as he unboxed the new toaster, “That cough still bugging you, huh.”

“What gave it away?”

Gee, Dean was in fine form today. This was going to be fun.

Sam set the toaster on the bench and started grabbing the bread, deciding to ignore Dean when he was like this. He sighed when he heard Dean stifle a sneeze, snuffling quietly behind him. It wasn’t Dean’s fault he felt like crap, and that’s why he was acting like such a jerk.

“Mornin’, boys,” Sam turned to see Bobby stumbling in, rubbing his neck and turning his head every which way.

“Mornin’, Bobby,” Sam said, grabbing a couple more pieces of bread out.

“Sit down, Sam. I’ll do that,” Bobby pushed his way into the kitchen, grabbing the carton of eggs out of the fridge.

“Thanks,” Sam smiled, allowing Bobby to take over.

Dean got up off his stool and stumbled, clutching the kitchen bench.

“Whoa, you alright, Dean?” Sam said, coming to his side.

“Quit hovering,” Dean growled, “and help me get this damn thing off so I can take a shower.”

“Breakfast’ll be ready in a minute, Dean,” Bobby said.

Dean grunted, “Just put mine in the oven. I’ll have it later.”

Sam gave Bobby a look, as he stood behind Dean and unclipped his sling. Bobby quirked an eyebrow quickly in acknowledgment and went back to cooking breakfast.

Sam pretended not to notice the sweat on the back of Dean’s neck, or the way he flinched when he touched him, or the low, almost silent, moan he made when the sling was gently removed.

Dean flexed his hand as he lowered the arm to his side, gripping his bicep with his right. He looked down at the bottles and packets of pills on the counter.

“Which ones I gotta take with food?” he asked, as if he didn’t care, when Sam knew he was barely holding it together.

“This one, and the antibiotic,” Sam pointed to the boxes.

“That’s the good one, right?” Dean picked up one of the other packets, with a ‘warning-do not operate heavy machinery’ on it.

“Yeah, that one’s for the pain.”

Dean tried to open the packet with one hand until Sam had had enough watching him struggle and took it from him, popping one out of the blister pack.

Dean dry swallowed it and coughed, holding his arm close to his chest.

“Dean, why don’t you just sit on your ass and wait for that to work. Then you can have some breakfast and the rest o’ your drugs,” Bobby offered, gently.

Dean closed his eyes, a bead of sweat craving a line from his temple to his jaw.

He cleared his throat, “Fine.”

 

…

 

Dean’s shoulder burned furiously. It felt twice the size, swollen, hot and throbbing in time with his too quick heartbeat. He wanted to ask for ice, but he didn’t feel like dealing with the coddling today. He was in a bad mood, all right? And he was allowed to be in a bad mood, dammit. He wished his responses didn’t leave his mouth so quickly, so curtly, so cutting. He wasn’t exactly pissed at Sam and Bobby. He didn’t have a reason to be. And yet he was, because he was friggen sore, and friggen sick, and friggen tired, and friggen empty.

He accidently let a high-pitched whimper escape as he sat back against the lounge. He didn’t even look towards the kitchen, hoping they hadn’t heard the small cry.

He had 20 minutes before this wonder pill kicked in. 20 unbearable minutes of pain. He gulped and thought about the hook piercing through his shoulder, stringing him up in the void, as if trapped in a giant spiders web. Ripping through skin, muscle, tendons, shattering bones. Tugging and tearing. Wishing he could pass out from the pain but remaining endlessly alert. Just so he could experience every bit of it.

“Dean!”

Sam was crouched in front of him, hand on his good shoulder, face full of worry.

“Huh?” Dean’s mouth was dry, throat gravelly.

“You with us?”

Dean found strength to nod, wondering how a chunk of time was some how missing.

He cleared his throat, “Yeah, where else would I be,” his eyes flitted from side to side.

“Hell?” Sam asked.

Dean’s eyes filled up, “Don’t.”

“That’s what happened, wasn’t it? You were having some kind of flash back? It’s not the first time it’s happened, Dean…”

“Sammy, I, uh…” Dean looked down, sucked on his bottom lip, “I can’t talk about that.”

“Dean… I want to make this better for you. We both do,” he indicated to Bobby, who was standing over his shoulder.

“How?” Dean squeaked out, “How could you possibly make this better?”

“Dean, I’m trying –“

“No, Sammy… I’m sick, alright? I’m tired. Stop trying to fix me… You can’t fix everything.”

Dramatic storm outs worked more effectively when you could quickly get out of a chair.

Sam’s gentle hand was enough to push him back down.

“I can try.”

 

…

 

Sam heard retching from Dean’s bathroom, followed by a toilet flush. He sat on the edge of his bed, google searching how to read an MRI, and what to look for. He tapped his foot impatiently. The more he read what a normal MRI looked like, the more concerned he grew, as Dean’s certainly didn’t look like those. Bobby had gone out shopping, apparently they were lacking in essentials. Sam had offered him one of the credit cards, saying there should be enough on that one for a few things. Bobby shook his head and said he had it under control. And Sam was glad someone did. He sighed when he heard Dean throwing up, again. The gags were desperate, choking, and set him off coughing more than once. Sam hadn’t gone to see if he was okay. Dean had been pretty evasive all day, snapping at both him and Bobby whenever they came near him. But Dean was like that. He got angry from time to time, and usually irrationally so. But Sam figured this time he had a reason to be angry. It would pass, as always. Sam was more worried about what he’d be left with when it did.

The toilet flushed once again and Sam heard the running of a tap before the sound of the door clicking open.

He waiting, looking up from his laptop, for Dean to walk past his bedroom. Dean was loud these days, heavy in his steps, stumbling, halting. His breath rattled as he breathed quickly, shallowly. It was a while before he past in front of Sam’s room. Sam sat up straighter.

Dean was grey. His face slick with sweat. Red-rimmed, sunken eyes, glassy and fiercely green.

“You okay?” Sam asked, watching Dean sway as his gripped the doorframe.

“Yeah,” he grumbled, clearing his throat, “Pills make me nauseous,” he swiped a hand across his brow.

“Maybe you should lie down. You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“’M fine,” Dean muttered, swallowing.

“Oh, you’re no where near fine…”

Dean looked like he was going to fight back… and then he threw up all over himself.

 

…

[Wow Really?]

Oh, my poor baby.. 

I don't think I can wait another week for another update, so you get on that, okay?  Just kidding

I'll be right here waiting, on the edge of my seat. I might end up with a crease in my butt, but it'll be worth it. 

[ID2006]

1 hour ago, Wow Really? said:

Oh, my poor baby.. 

I don't think I can wait another week for another update, so you get on that, okay?  Just kidding

I'll be right here waiting, on the edge of my seat. I might end up with a crease in my butt, but it'll be worth it. 

Agreed

[Pyrus_Fangmon]

11 hours ago, MissBayliss said:

Stop trying to fix me… You can’t fix everything.”

Dramatic storm outs worked more effectively when you could quickly get out of a chair.

Sam’s gentle hand was enough to push him back down.

“I can try.”

Dammit, Dean! Like brother like brother! You fix him, so now he fixes you! Deal with it and get better you fluffy Squirrel! 

[telltale]

My feedback is so inadequate, but oh man I LOVE THIS more and more all the time.  It's such an intricate look at that time period and how things could have gone if the h/c PTBs loved me.

[MissBayliss]

Chapter Twelve

 

Dean hit his knees and began to list to the side, and, dammit, if he landed on that left shoulder Sam would be dealing with more than just nauseous Dean. Sam raced to his brother and guided him back onto his lap, cradling his torso and head as Dean crumpled in a heap. Sam tried to avoid the sick on Dean’s shirt.

“You’re fine, huh?”

Dean glared up at Sam, then swallowed convulsively. Sam tilted Dean to the side and he threw up again, on the floor.

“Don’ feel good, S’mmy…” Dean moaned, coughing.

“Yeah, I know, man.”

Sam ran his hand over Dean’s forehead and cheek. He was warm, sure, but he wasn’t burning up.

“Think I need to call the doctor out?” Sam asked his limp brother.

Dean didn’t respond, eyes rolling back in his head.

“Dean, Dean, Dean! Hey!”

Dean’s eyes sprung back open.

“Stay awake, Dean. I know you feel sick, but stay awake. I gotta get you cleaned up.”

Sam pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed Bobby, while Dean turned and threw up again, coughing up strings of yellow bile.

Sam braced a hand on Dean’s chest, rubbing up and down the line of his sternum, feeling the desperate inhales, and racing heart beneath his hand.

“Hey, Sam.”

“Bobby! I need you to come home. Dean’s sick.”

“I’m jumping in the car now, son. What’s wrong?”

“Just hurry. I might need you to help me lift him.”

Sam hung up the phone as Bobby continued to bark in his ear. Okay, he probably shouldn’t have left it at that, but Dean was growing heavier on his lap and he needed to try and get him to a bed before he was completely out for the count.

“Dean, hey. With me?” he said, tapping his cheek.

Dean looked at Sam for a long time through half shut eyes, as if trying to work out who it was talking to him.

“Sammy.”

“Yeah, it’s me. It’s Sammy. Come on,” Sam tried to hoist him up, but Dean didn’t seem to want to move.

“Help me out,” Sam said, through gritted teeth. He didn’t want to hurt Dean more than he already was.

“’M good, here…” Dean mumbled, “Leave me alone.”

Sam threw his head back, “Why do you have to be such a jerk? I’m trying to help you. You can’t stay on the floor.”

“Get off me,” Dean began to bat at Sam’s hands.

“Jesus, Dean!”

Sam closed his eyes, counted to ten, took a deep breath.

It’s not his fault. It’s not his fault. It’s not his fault.

“Dizzy, Sam… Can’t get up.”

Sam felt a pang of guilt. Dean’s medication made him dizzy. He was too dizzy to get up. That’s why he was feeling so sick.

“Okay, okay, sorry,” Sam muttered, lying Dean down on the ground, “We’ll just wait, okay? We’ll wait till you can get up. Let me clean you up.”

Dean wasn’t wearing his sling, which was probably a blessing because the damn thing was expensive and Sam didn’t want to have to wash vomit out of it. He unbuttoned Dean’s shirt, before realizing he probably wouldn’t be able to get it off around his shoulders. Okay, one thing at a time.

Dean eyes were closed but Sam could tell he wasn’t unconscious, because they weren’t gently closed, they were slammed shut.

“Dean, I’m just gonna grab a towel. I’ll be right back.”

Dean moaned and Sam took that as a sign he understood.

Sam cleaned up the floor around Dean, grabbing a pillow from his bed and sliding it under Dean’s head. He grabbed the trashcan from his room just in case Dean got dizzy again. He still couldn’t take Dean’s shirt off so he just folded it on itself for the meantime. There wasn’t much on it anyway.

“Feel better?” Sam asked, sitting on the floor next to Dean, watching his bare chest heave up and down.

Dean opened his eyes to look at Sam and closed them again quickly.

“Whoa, bad idea,” he groaned.

“It’ll pass, man. It’ll just take a little time.”

“At least it doesn’t hurt so bad,” Dean chuckled.

“Yeah… but it’s not doing your back any good lying on the ground. You ready to move yet?”

Dean shook his head slightly.

“Gonna throw up?” Sam asked, moving the trashcan closer.

“No,” Dean breathed.

Sam sighed, “You can’t wait a week for this doctor…”

“What does it matter, Sam?” Dean paused to cough, “I’m useless now anyway…”

“No, you’re not. Shut up,” Sam bit back. Dean saying crap like that pissed him off, because Dean was the person he looked up to, who he saw as indestructible, and if he was useless, what did that make Sam?

 

…

 

Bobby arrived and helped Sam get him up, shirt off, and onto the couch, because Dean didn’t want to go to bed during the day, because that might imply that he was sick or something. Jerk.

Once he did get through the worst of the dizziness, though, he looked much better. Less grey, more white… well, it was an improvement.

“What you buy me?” Dean croaked, craning his neck to look at Bobby and Sam lugging groceries and other assorted items through the front door.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Bobby chuckled.

“Seriously, what did you buy?” Sam asked, placing the bags on the ground, “There’s a lot of stuff here.”

“Well, you boys have never had a permanent address. And if I’m gonna be spending some time here, I’d like more than one pot and one spoon to cook with.”

Sam rolled his eyes.

“So, boring stuff,” Dean huffed, lying back down. His handprint scar looked redder today, maybe because his whole shoulder was red, mottled with yellow and green bruises.

“Boring, huh. I guess I’ll just take the DVD player back…”

Dean’s eyes grew wide and he looked over, “Seriously?”

Sam’s facial expression probably mirrored Dean’s. He’d never really had anything like that. He was used to watching crappy soap operas and porn, with awful quality, on a 12 inch screen. This place had a TV, a big TV from what they were used to, and now they had a DVD player too?

Sam sighed sadly, “That’s awesome, Bobby, but we don’t have any movies.”

“Yeah, well, I thought so. I picked you up a couple.”

Sam felt his face go red.

“Bobby you didn’t have to…”

“Sure, I did. Ain’t no trouble at all.”

“Yeah, he wanted to do it, Sam. Come on,” Dean added, earning another chuckle from the older man.

“Why don’t you set the thing up, Sam, while I fix us some lunch.”

“Should’a had you come round sooner,” Dean grinned.

“Well someone had to take out that werewolf pack.”

Bobby had said it flippantly, and it was too late then to take it back. Dean’s face hardened. Without his shirt on Sam could see all the muscles in his chest and shoulders stiffen. Bobby’s face grew dark, knowing what he’d done. Dean hated this. He hated lying around all day.

“What’s it matter? I’m useless now anyway…”

Dean was built to hunt. It had been engrained in him since the day he carried Sam out of their burning house. And now he was here. Like this.

Dean pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the lounge.

“Dean…”

“I’m, uh… I’m just gonna get a shirt and go for a drive.”

“Dean, you can’t drive…”

Dean stood up, solid, and walked down the hall to his room.

“Sam, I didn’t mean…”

“No, it’s not your fault, Bobby.”

Dean came back out wearing a t-shirt. Still no sling. Sam didn’t know how he’d got the thing over his head by himself, but his pain pills were pretty effective, didn’t mean he wasn’t going to hurt later for it though.

“Keys,” he demanded.

“Dean.”

“Keys, Sam,” Dean held out his hand and Sam reluctantly pulled them from his pocket and handed them to his brother.

“Dean, come on, son. Sam’s about to set the DVD player up.”

“Thanks, but I’ll pass,” Dean grumbled, as he shut walked out the front door, slamming it behind him.

 

…

 

Dean’s right hand gripped the steering wheel. He’d realized it was a mistake after he’d had to back the impala out of the garage with one hand. Baby was a big girl and wasn’t always the easiest at turning around. Still, he’d needed to get out, get away. It was bad enough how much he hurt. It was bad enough living tortured and tormented by nightmares and flashbacks of hell. That was bad enough. Hunting was his saving grace. Saving people. Doing something to try and erase all the things he’d done downstairs, how much pain he’d inflicted on others. It didn’t wipe it out, not at all, nothing ever could, but it eased the burden, took the bite out of the sting. Now he couldn’t even do that. He couldn’t even do what God had pulled him out of the pit to do. He was a failure. Useless. And he’d never be what he used to be. He’d never climb out of this hole he was drowning in. Never.

So he thought, hey, drown away, and found a bar.

It was the same bar they’d gone to for dinner that night he’d actually left the house. It was the only other thing he’d seen in this town.

He hadn’t brought a jacket. He was wearing a black t-shirt, jeans and boots. No sling. No ice for his shoulder, no heat for his back. Pain killers sitting like cement in his stomach. The taste of chalk in his mouth. His face and arms burned and prickled and he knew his fever was climbing slowly. Lava in his lungs, cotton wool in his head.

“Hey,” It was the gorgeous hostess from the other night behind the bar, “You’re back without your friend.”

Dean hugged his left arm into his chest as he sat down, wincing, “Brother,” he corrected, before coughing into his too tight fist.

“You okay?” she raised an eyebrow, “You’re looking even more beat up than the other night… No wonder you never called me.”

Her playful smile would usually have Dean leaning across the counter, wrapping her around his little finger, heading out the door with her, but today…

“Look, can I just get a whiskey?” he drawled, his voice catching on the mucus in his throat.

“Sure,” she looked concerned, but poured him a glass.

The place was dead right now, so she stayed in front of him and poured herself one too.

The whiskey burned his throat and he coughed urgently, body heaving, wet and nasty sounding. His shoulder was jostled by the fit, and his neck and shoulder muscles clenched in sympathy.

“Argh, son of a bitch,” he wrapped his right hand around his left shoulder, trying to hold it there. Really should have worn the sling, Winchester.

“Here.”

He looked up and the hostess, Riley, he read on her name tag, had poured a glass of water and set it in front of him.

“Need some asprin or something?” she asked.

Dean sipped the water and shook his head, “No, I’m on enough painkillers already,” he managed a smirk.

“Should you be drinking?” she quirked an eyebrow.

“Probably not,” Dean said, taking another sip of whiskey, “But I didn’t come here for a lecture.”

“Hey,” she held her hands up, “not trying to give you one. You seem like you got a lot going on. I’m not big on judging other people. You make your own decisions.”

Dean nodded, “I like your attitude, Riley.”

“Oh, we’re on a first name basis are we?” she grinned, “That would work if I knew your name, stranger?”

Dean smirked, but his gaze stayed down, towards his whiskey, “Dean,” he cleared his throat.

“Dean,” she nodded.

Dean stifled a sneeze against his wrist and accepted the napkin he pushed into his hand.

“Thanks,” he sniffed.

“No problem.”

 

…

 

Dean stayed until his pills started wearing off. He’d drunk quite a bit but he wasn’t drunk. Too much going on in his head. Too much adrenaline keeping him sober. In the last hour the bar had gotten more crowded, and the few people that had been there when he arrived were well and truly cut off.

He knew it was time to head back. That Sam and Bobby would be worried. More importantly he wasn’t going to miss taking his medication. Dizzy and puking his guts up was better than the fire in his back and shoulder, and he’d choose it every time. He’d felt a few shivers run through him and air was starting to hurt his exposed skin.

Yeah, time to go home.

He pushed off his barstool, deciding not to say goodbye to Riley, better to just cut and run. Nothing would ever happen anyway.

 

…

 

Dean came stumbling in just as the sun was going down. He smelled of whiskey and beer, and smoke. Limping slightly and hugging his arm, like it was about to fall off.

Sam wanted to yell and scream. Remind him he wasn’t supposed to be drinking. Punch him out and chain him to his bed so he could keep an eye on him. But Bobby had told him to let him be.

“Dean’s always been a guy to go away and think about things. He needs to be on his own sometimes.”

Sam agreed, but it didn’t mean he had to like it.

“Hey,” he said, watching Dean settle on the couch.

Dean glanced at him, “Hey, Sammy.”

“You want some ice?”

Dean sighed, corners of his mouth turning up, “Yeah, thanks… that’s be awesome.”

Dean allowed Sam to help him into a button down, fix his sling over the top, lie his heat pad on the lounge, strap some ice to his shoulder and prop him up with some pillows so he could breathe comfortably. Sure, Sam was pissed that Dean had left, that he’d been making this hard for all of them, but it was the little things. It was moments like this when Dean accepted his help. When Dean realized he needed Sam. Those moments… they made it all worth it.

 

…

 

When Dean woke up from his nap he was sore and slightly hungover. Okay, maybe he had been a little drunk. He hadn’t dreamt, thank God, or whatever.

Sam was there, Bobby too, talking a few metres away in the kitchen.

“Keep it down,” Dean groaned, faking annoyance, “Some of us are trying to sleep.”

“Well, look who decided to join us,” Bobby smirked, “Thought you were gonna sleep through the night.”

Dean shifted, trying to ease the ache in his back.

“Yeah, well, all this sleeping makes me tired.”

Sam brought Dean a glass of water and a handful of pills.

“Dean, I called your doctor about the painkillers making you sick.”

“Mm…” Dean said, pushing himself to sit upright.

“He said it can happen with those drugs but he wants you to come in tomorrow so he can change you on to something else. He’s going to review your scans while you’re there as well.”

“How’d you swing that?” Dean croaked.

Sam tilted his head, “Are you hungry? Bobby making dinner.”

Dean rolled his eyes at Sam’s avoidance of the question.

“I’d kill for a burger.”

Bobby chuckled, “How did I know you were gonna say that?”

 

…

 

That night Dean, Sam and Bobby ate burgers and chips, courtesy of Bobby and his new cooking utensils, and watched Indiana Jones, on their new DVD player. And all the while Dean thought about what the doctor would say tomorrow, and pretended not to be terrified.

 

…

[Pyrus_Fangmon]

Bayliss, Sweetheart! How in the world can you nail everyone!??? My heart has never cringed so much in my life, and I love it so much!  

14 hours ago, MissBayliss said:

“Why don’t you set the thing up, Sam, while I fix us some lunch.”

“Should’a had you come round sooner,” Dean grinned.

“Well someone had to take out that werewolf pack.”

Bobby had said it flippantly, and it was too late then to take it back. Dean’s face hardened. Without his shirt on Sam could see all the muscles in his chest and shoulders stiffen. Bobby’s face grew dark, knowing what he’d done. Dean hated this. He hated lying around all day.

“What’s it matter? I’m useless now anyway…”

Dean was built to hunt. It had been engrained in him since the day he carried Sam out of their burning house. And now he was here. Like this.

Dean pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the lounge.

“Dean…”

“I’m, uh… I’m just gonna get a shirt and go for a drive.”

Totally pictured this scene perfectly. I swear you know Dean like the back of your hand. Are you stalking him!? O-o

[Wow Really?]

Dude, this story.... this. STORY.....   (there I go being all profound again)..

But seriously, please promise me that you'll write throughout the upcoming hiatus.. I can live through however many months without and episode, as long as I know you are writing. And posting 

[telltale]

I'm loving how you're really exploring Dean's emotional life fully; it's so great.  And even though so much of it is so sad, the way you show Sam and Bobby caring for him makes me happy at the same time.

[MissBayliss]

Chapter Thirteen

 

Dean woke and the room was dark. TV still on, but muted, casting ominous shadows around, making it seem like things were moving when they weren’t. He felt dizzy, sick. Sam was asleep in the recliner. Bobby could be heard snoring in the guest room.

Dean could feel the heavy pressure in his chest and the desperate need to cough. He didn't want to. He knew it would hurt, but he couldn't help it. Once he started though, he couldn't stop. He needed to sit up straight but he was having a hard time moving that far. He started to panic when he realised the coughing wasn't slowing down. Tears in his eyes. Pain exploding everywhere.

"Dean?"

Sam's groggy voice sounded from the recliner and Dean was relieved he'd woken him up with his coughing, because he certainly couldn't call out to him in this state.

"Crap..."

Suddenly Sam was gone. And what the hell was he thinking leaving him like this? He was dying. He couldn't breathe. And Sam had abandoned him. He coughed and coughed. He could see stars across his vision. Knew he couldn't hold onto consciousness much longer.

"Here, it's okay," Sam said, the familiar hum of the nebuliser whirring beside them. "Slow it down, Dean. Breathe."

Dean finally got a breath and the coughing stopped. His face was stained with tears and he felt overly warm, hands and feet prickling.

Dean's half shut eyes peered over the mask at Sam as he rubbed a hand through his hair, eyes puffy from sleep.

"How did you get this sick?" he asked, seemingly to himself.

"Sorry," Dean panted, voice raw from the fit.

"Hey, no. Don't apologise-"

"'M sorry, Sammy... I'm sorry."

Dean knew Sam was right. He shouldn't have to apologise. It wasn't his fault. But it was hard for Dean to see how something wasn't his fault. Surely he'd done something to deserve it. Who was he kidding? Of course he deserved it.

"Stop it, Dean,” Sam said firmly, and apparently he's still been muttering it.

Dean only stopped talking when he coughed again. It didn't hurt so bad this time, the machine helping him catch his breath.

"You've got a fever again," Sam mumbled, brushing a hand across his forehead.

"What time is it?" Dean groaned.

Sam squinted at his watch, "Almost 4am."

"The movie finished," He breathed, closing his eyes.

"Yeah, dude," Sam laughed, "You were asleep within the first 20 minutes."

"You drugged me."

"Hey, those sleeping pills have you out so hard you don't have any nightmares. Everybody wins."

"Hooray for everybody," Dean grumbled, sarcastically.

"Hey," Sam said, like what's up with you?

Oh, Sammy if you only knew...

"Well, then talk to me, Dean."

Crap. He was doing that thing where he said his inside thoughts out loud. Friggen fevers.

"Okay, yeah, we gotta get you to bed. Get that fever down before your brains melt."

"Wouldn't be the first time..." Dean couldn't help but laugh, because it was either that or cry.

Sam's eyes were wide and worried, and Dean wanted to tell him don't worry, Sammy. But why shouldn't he worry?

"Can you make it to the bedroom?" Sam asked, sliding a hand behind his shoulders.

The neb had finished and the mask was no longer on his face, and when did that happen?

Sam tried to pull Dean forward, and if he wasn't in pain before, he was definitely in pain now.

"Ah! Stop-" Dean launched into another coughing fit.

"Crap, sorry," Sam said, hand spread across Dean's warm chest.

"Do you wanna just... stay here?"

Dean nodded, swallowing back a warm wave of nausea.

"You gonna be sick?"

Dean had to think for far too long. By the time he'd finished thinking Sam was shoving a bowl into his hand.

"M good," Dean swallowed again. His throat was on fire, "M not gonna."

"Okay, well just rest for a second. Catch your breath."

Dean didn't realise he was panting, chest heaving up and down like he was struggling for air.

"Slow it down. You're gonna make yourself cough again."

"Thought I was... supposed to be... coughing."

"Not till you're blue in the face."

"You're... blue."

Sam huffed a laugh, "Nice to see you can still think quickly on your feet."

"Shut up... bitch."

Sam laughed again, "Fine, jerk."

Dean grew warm and eventually he fell into a weird kind of sleep, where he could hear what was going on around him but couldn’t move his body. It was strange and frightening, but mostly he was too tired to care.

“What’s wrong, boy?”

“His fever’s back. I think it’s bad, he just conked out on me.”

“Where’s your thermometer?”

“Uh, it’s in Dean’s bathroom. Can you grab some wet washcloths too? We need to cool him down.”

“On it.”

He could hear Sam was worried, Bobby too, even though Bobby was better at hiding it. Dean always could see right through him.

Family don’t end with blood, boy.

Dean liked that Bobby was here. In all this, he’d never let him down, always cared for him. It was nice to be cared for.

“Dean, you with me? We gotta cool you down, okay? You’re spiking a pretty high fever.”

“Isn’t he supposed to be getting better? What’s he on the friggen antibiotics for?”

“Yeah, I dunno, Bobby. They don’t seem to be working… but then I haven’t been able to get the jerk to stop drinking.”

“Idjit.”

“Yeah… I don’t blame him though.”

“Yeah, must be tough. Can’t imagine what he’s going through.”

You don’t want to.

“Dean?”

 

…

 

Sam fisted a hand in his hair, tugging slightly. Dean had been completely out for a while. Still. Almost comfortable. As he knew it would, that gave way to the thrashing and the nightmares, even as they tried to lower his fever.

It had come down some. They’d been layering him with cool washers and he’d managed to choke down some Tylenol in one of his more lucid moments. The fever wasn’t the problem now though. He was clearly trapped in hell again, screaming.

“I’ve gotta call Maxine. Watch him,” Sam said, leaving Bobby beside Dean where he still lay on the couch.

Sam shut himself in his room, momentarily pressing his hands to his ears, because he could still hear Dean screaming.

He took a composing breath and dialed Maxine.

“Hello? Sam?”

“… Hey, Maxine.”

“Is everything okay?”

He could tell from her voice that she already knew why he was calling. He was kidding himself if he thought the walls of this house were going to hold Dean’s cries.

“Sorry about the noise,” he laughed, “Dean’s not having a good night.”

She paused, “That’s okay, Sam. Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine… I was just calling to give you a head’s up and to apologise.”

“You don’t have to say sorry.”

Sam laughed again, feeling close to tears, “Did he wake the baby?”

“No,” he could hear the smile in her voice, “His crib’s on the other side of the house and he could sleep through an earthquake. Don’t worry about us.”

“Jesus, it’s 5am,” Sam sighed, looking at his watch.

“Hey, we’re used to getting up early. It’s no trouble. Just take care of yourselves. Let us know if you need anything.”

“Thank you,” Sam breathed, feeling water pool in his eyes.

“No problem. Bye, Sam.”

“Bye.”

Sam sat on the end of his bed, lowered his face into his hands, listening to Dean continue to scream and Bobby trying to comfort him, and cried.

 

…

 

Dean didn’t so much wake up, as he did drift into consciousness. When he as dreaming he felt like he was at the bottom of the ocean, fighting with everything he had to get to the surface. When he did manage to break through and wake up, he still felt trapped under water, everything distorted around him. He wasn’t used to seeing this world. Not anymore.

“Dean?”

He groaned.

“You with us?”

Sam was sitting on the coffee table beside him, coffee cup in his hand.

“I think so,” Dean croaked, voice hoarse.

“Good,” Sam smiled.

“I take it, it was a rough night?” he asked, unsure really as to what happened.

“Rough morning. It’s almost 10.”

Dean closed his eyes, drew his eyebrows together.

“Geez… what did I do?”

“Nah, man, don’t worry about it.”

Dean glanced at Sam, “That bad, huh?”

“It’s fine…”

Dean closed his eyes again. His back was sore, he tried to wiggle into a more comfortable position but nothing was comfortable.

“Your back playing up?”

Dean thought about making some smartass comment but he didn’t have the energy.

“Yeah.”

“Your doctor’s appointment is in a few hours. Wanna have a shower?”

Dean groaned, then smiled, “Don’t know if I’m up for that yet, Sammy.”

“Okay, I’ll grab you some coffee,” Sam said, getting up on the table.

“Hey.”

“Yeah?” Sam stooped.

“Thanks.”

 

…

 

Dean sat soaking in the bath. He'd been in there for over an hour now. For some reason, it hadn't miraculously cured him. He didn't know what he was thinking. Yeah, years of torment and agony, solved by a warm bubble bath. Go screw yourself. It had felt good while the water was warm, airing on the side of hot even, scalding. But now he was just resting on his ass bone in luke warm water. Even the bubbles had deserted him. The pressure he felt on his sacrum, pressing in from all angels by angry, angry muscles, was making his thighs cramp up, his knees ache and his calves sting. One of his feet had pins and needles.

"Well, this is great," he said out loud. Gasping as a white hot poker stabbed into his hip.

How the hell was he supposed to get out of here? His back and legs were so stiff. Yeah, this had been a great idea at the start. Now, not so much.

He lifted his right elbow to rest on the edge of the tub and pushed up, trying to get his feet under him.

“God,” he groaned, as he found his feet, standing up.

He heard a thump on the door.

“Hey, you okay?”

Dean rolled his eyes, stepping out onto the bathmat, ever pressing a hand against the wall.

“I’m fine! Go away!”

Sam didn’t reply, so Dean knew he was just standing outside the door, hovering, waiting for him to slip up.

Dean looked in the mirror and tried not to see black eyes staring back at him.

You’re gonna die. And this, this is what you’re going to become.

He left the bathroom with his jeans on and nothing else. Sam was in the hallway as he expected.

“Need help with your shirt?”

Dean tried to avoid his gaze.

“Dean…”

“Yeah… alright.”

 

…

 

"So, do you want to start with the shoulder or the back?"

Dean sat hunched in the chair in the doctor’s surgery.

"I guess shoulder, doc," Sam spoke up, when Dean didn’t make any move to speak.

"Alright," Dr. Reid placed the films on the board and turned on the backlight. "Well, I read the report from the radiologist. I'd have thought you would have told me you'd been shot before..."

Dean faked a smile, "What difference does it make?"

"Well, it could make quite a bit of difference. So, you've taken a bullet to this shoulder… twice?"

Dean nodded, looking vague, "Yeah something like that."

"Okay... It appears that you haven't had any kind of medical treatment for this either time..."

"That's correct," Sam said, earning a glare from Dean.

"Well, you're quite lucky considering. It seems both times the bullet missed your collarbone, however, your scapula," he pointed, "this shoulder blade at the back here, has been shattered and healed over several times. It's not anything to worry about, the bones have formed nice calluses, and apart from the shape of the bone being slightly disfigured it shouldn't cause you any long term problems."

"Kay, get to the good stuff," Dean moaned.

The doctor gave a patient look and placed another film on the light box.

"The repeated dislocations have caused massive instability in the ligaments that hold your shoulder in place. You have a tear in your joint socket and also a complete ligament tear. That's a surgery job to fix. We'll do a minimally invasive procedure where we make a small incision and go in with some cameras and tools and fix the tears. The ligaments are all quite stretched as well so while we're in there we'll take a piece out of each one to make them shorter, and reattach them, to give you more stability in that shoulder joint."

Dean was pale, and swallowed like he was holding back vomit.

"You okay?" Sam asked.

Dean looked more annoyed now, "I'm fine. So, when does this all happen?"

"I think we should discuss your back first before we start booking things in."

Dean tapped his foot, and Sam knew he was close to exploding.

"The shoulder is the easy one... Your back is a little more complicated at this stage," Dr. Reid said, swapping out the pictures once again, "Now you said you first injured your back in a fall?"

"Yeah," Dean nodded, sweat beading on his brow.

"Okay, well, it must have been quite a traumatic event because several vertebrae were broken. A compression fracture is what we call it. Basically the bone is put under so much pressure it collapses on itself. Fortunately the bones haven’t shattered or fragmented, but I'm sure you can see something else very wrong with this image..."

Sam could. Anyone with two eyes could.

"Let me explain. These are your vertebrae here, in between each vertebrae are the discs. A healthy disc, like this one up here," he said pointing to a disc higher up in Dean's spine, "should be very light, almost white in the middle. That's the soft nucleus inside. When a disc is put under great pressure it can bulge, or even rupture, spilling out the nucleus into the back or the sides. This bright white line is your spinal cord. That carries all your nerves. About here," he pointed again, "is where the spinal cord ends and the nerve roots break off and run down into your legs. Right here," he pointed to the massive black blob in the middle of Dean's spinal cord, "is a large disc herniation. The entire disc has basically been crushed by the two fractured vertebrae. This is pushing on those nerves and that's why you're getting pain in your hips and legs, all the way down to your feet,” The doctor switched off the light and pulled up a seat in front of them, “Dean… this is an incredibly painful injury, I'm surprised you can still stand."

Dean smiled, but looked like he might pass out.

"So, what do we do?"

"Well, I wish that was the end of it... but sometimes when trauma happens after these discs have ruptured fragments of the herniation can break off and travel either higher or lower in your spinal column. You said the pain had got worse recently?"

"Yeah, well, it's hard to say when. It's hurt for a long time."

"I understand," the doctor nodded, "it seems some of the disc has broken off and has travelled lower down."

"How do we fix it, doctor? Surgery?" Sam asked, leg bouncing up and down.

The doctor sighed, "It's hard to say if we’ll be able to fix the herniation and the fragment with surgery."

"What do you mean?" Dean breathed.

"Well, the position the herniation is in, is right in the middle of the spinal cord. We could try and remove it but there's just too great a risk at further damaging those nerves."

"So, what are you saying to me?"

"We can do surgery to fuse the two fractured vertebrae. That’ll stop them from degrading or slipping and hopefully minimize some of your pain… the herniation, we won’t know until we get inside, but even then, it’s a long shot that we’ll be able to remove it all.”

"So, what does that mean exactly?” Sam asked, hesitantly.

“Right now it’s a matter of preserving what we have,” The doctor’s face turned dark, “and the pain may improve… but will most likely never go away.”

“You’re kidding me, right? Dean raised his voice slightly.

“I’m sorry.”

Sam sat back in his chair, flicking his eyes over Dean. He felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. He could only imagine what Dean was going through.

Dean was white knuckling the arm of his chair.

“Dean,” Dr. Reid enquired, curiously, “what’s your pain like right now?”

Dean eyes lit, like there was fire behind them. He took a halting breath.

“It’s not great.”

“Scale of 1 to 10?”

100 billion…

“Probably a 7.”

The doctor raised an eyebrow.

“8.”

“Can I give you something for that? Would that be okay? Before we start discussing our options.”

Dean bit his lip and nodded.

Dr. Reid stood and walked over to his desk.

Sam put a hand on Dean’s shoulder.

“Sam, can you, uh, give us a minute?” Dean said, clearing his throat.

Sam was taken aback, but swallowed and nodded, “Of course, man. I’ll just be outside.”

 

…

 

Dean relaxed as the needle released sweet painkillers throughout his body.

“So, doc,” he said, “Give this to me straight. What am I looking at here?”

Dr. Reid clasped his hands in front of him.

“Shoulder surgery has a very high success rate. Your nerves have been damaged slightly by the dislocation but that should heal. Post surgery you’re looking at 6 weeks in a sling and up to 6 months recovery and rehabilitation. The back will take longer, and will require more rehab.”

“That’s if I get the surgery?” Dean clarified.

“That’s if you get the surgery.”

Dean’s head spun, “And what if I don’t?”

Dr. Reid sat back, “That’s your decision, Dean. I’m not going to say that your problems will be solved with this surgery. I wish I could, but I just don’t know. There’s too much to risk when we’re that close to nerves. However, without surgery it could get worse, much worse.”

“What are the other options? Are there any?”

“Just pain management. Epidural injections, painkillers, nerve blockers. But it’s trial and error.”

“Okay…”
“Should we get Sam back in here?”

Dean’s head was dipping. He was happily numb from the painkiller injection but he was still panicked, still storming inside.

“Book in the shoulder surgery. I’ll think about the rest.”

Dr. Reid put a hand under Dean’s right elbow to help him stand.

“Can I get you to sit up on the table first? I want to listen to your lungs again.”

 

…

 

Dr. Reid hadn’t been happy with the progression of Dean’s chest infection. The antibiotics weren’t working like he’d wanted them to. He prescribed him additional antibiotics with a stern talking to about alcohol use and antibiotic resistance. Blah, blah, blah. He gave him different painkillers that shouldn’t cause much dizziness and nausea. He checked his shoulder again to make sure he hadn’t damaged it further since the MRI.

"Now, how did you say you got this scar again?"

"I didn't."

Sam was practically jumping up and down in his seat in the waiting room by the time Dean emerged, pale and shaken, because what was worse than not knowing what was going on inside his body, was knowing exactly what was going on inside his body.

They got back home and Dean lay up on the couch, watching some crap on TV.

Bobby had to leave. He caught a case two states over. Said he’d be back before the surgery. Gave Dean a warm smile and a pat on the shoulder, and suddenly Dean felt like he was fifteen and his dad was leaving him behind to go hunt some monster without him, because someone needed to watch out for Sammy. Except this time it was Sam watching out for him.

And it couldn’t have killed him more.

 

…

[Pyrus_Fangmon]

Ohh....ohh my heart! My baby!

Sweetheart!

Darling!

Baby cakes!  Please for the love of Bobby don't ever stop writing! I'm crying, then laughing, then crying again, then rolling on the floor in confused tears! The references And words and just pure detail and meaning you've brought into this story is beyond anything I have ever read!  

[ID2006]

How did I miss a week. Oh well, more pleasure for me today. Love this, as always 

[Wow Really?]

3 hours ago, Pyrus_Fangmon said:

Ohh....ohh my heart! My baby!

Sweetheart!

Darling!

Baby cakes!  Please for the love of Bobby don't ever stop writing! I'm crying, then laughing, then crying again, then rolling on the floor in confused tears! The references And words and just pure detail and meaning you've brought into this story is beyond anything I have ever read!  

What she said! ⬆️

[telltale]

This remains so, so in character, and what a painful, amazing chapter.  Deeeean.  That last bit especially was like a punch to the gut.

[MissBayliss]

Sorry it's a day late! And my heart wasn't exactly in this one  

Chapter Fourteen

 

Sam woke up and the house was dark and quiet… too quiet. If he couldn’t hear Dean, that usually meant he wasn’t asleep. Or he wasn’t in the house.

Sam got up and padded gently towards Dean’s room.

He saw his brother standing in his room in the dark.

"Dean... You alright?"

Dean stared out the window into the blackness.

"The side gate rattles in the wind…"

He could see Dean was on edge, muscles tight across his shoulders.

"I'll fix it in the morning," Sam said, rubbing sleep from his eye and pushing his hair back off his face.

"Mm," Dean moaned, as though a rattling gate wasn't really the source of the problem. "I hate it when it's this windy..."

"I can't fix the weather, dude," Sam said, leaning on the doorframe.

"I know," Dean replied with not an ounce of humour.

"Dean, you sure you're alright?"

Dean finally turned from the window to look at his brother. He was pale.

"You have to quit asking me that, Sammy."

Sam frowned, eyebrows squeezing together.

“Do you want a sleeping pill?”

Dean coughed, “No, I don’t wanna sleep,” he quirked the corner of his mouth, trying to smile, but almost like he’d forgotten how.

A gust of wind shook past the house.

“You hear it?” Dean turned to look out the window again.

Sam listened, “Yeah.”

Dean turned his head slightly and Sam saw him chewing on his bottom lip.

“Dean… is there something you want to talk to me about?”

Dean’s eyes were wide, “I don’t wanna talk about it, Sammy.”

“You keep saying that,” Sam finally entered the room, sat down on the end of his brother’s bed, “but I think maybe you want to. I think maybe you need to.”

Dean laughed, then his bottom lip quivered and he swallowed, “I’m scared, Sam.”

Sam waited, scared any kind of movement or word would startle Dean back to hide in his hole.

“Truth is, uh…” Dean continued, “I’m not doing so well.”

I kinda noticed, Sam thought.

Dean sat on the bed with his back to Sam. He flinched and hissed.
“Ah,” he groaned, clenching his jaw.

“You alright?” Sam put a hand out to Dean’s shoulder, but hovered just above it, afraid to touch him.

Dean’s shoulders shook and Sam thought for a moment maybe he was crying, and then he realised he was laughing.

“You know how many cases I did with dad?”

Sam tilted his head curiously, “No.”

“Neither do I,” Dean looked down, “See, I was going on hunt’s with dad by the time I was old enough to handle the recoil on my sawed off.”

Sam caught a glimpse of happy nostalgia in his eyes as he leant forward.

“And I kept hunting with the old man long after you ditched us for Stanford...”

Sam clenched his jaw at the subtle dig.

“Until?” Sam prompted.

Dean smirked, “I, uh, may not have been completely honest with you when I told you how this happened,” he pointed to his back.

“What do you mean?” Sam asked, jaw still tight.

“You’d been gone for a year, we were still getting the hang of hunting just the two of us… Dad, uh… we screwed up. I ended up in the line of fire, as well as two other civilians…”

“What happened?”

Dean sighed, “It was a poltergeist in Mississippi. Big old, creepy house. Some kids had broken in to try and spend the night on a dare…”

Sam scoffed, “Cause when does that ever end well?”

“Yeah,” Dean breathed, “Things were already going sideways by the time we got there. We had to get the kids out of the house, but dad thought he knew where the bones were buried…”

 

…

 

“Dean! I want you to get in there and get those kids out!” John shouted above the noise coming from inside the house, as the wind picked up around them.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going round back to burn the bones!”

“No, dad, I think we should stay together. This spirit is powerful. We don’t even know if – ”

“Dean, I gave you an order! Go!”

Dean’s gaze lingered on his father for a moment before he sprinted towards the house, wet grass squelching beneath his boots as he pounded towards the door.

He could hear the teenagers screaming for help inside…

 

…

 

“He was wrong,” Dean stood back up and stared out the window, “The bones were supposed to be buried under the floorboards of the gazebo, so dad torched the thing. Except he hadn’t done the research right. The gazebo was torn down years ago and rebuilt, so who knows where the bones ended up. What we needed to do was cleanse the house.”

“And he sent you in there without any backup?”

Dean was still before he spoke again.

“I told him. I said not to split up.”

“Dean…”

“The thing tossed me around like a ragdoll,” Dean bit his lip.

“The kids?” Sam asked.

“Didn’t make it.”

Sam closed his eyes and bowed his head.

“But you said you finished the case?”

“Dad did. Caleb and Pastor Jim came up to help him. I was laid up in a motel room. Every morning when I woke up I couldn’t feel my feet for a solid hour.”

“God,” Sam sighed.

“I tried to keep hunting with dad after I’d decided not to see the specialist, but, uh, I was slow, off my face on pain meds half the time just to be able to get out of bed. Dad dumped me at Bobby’s telling me to “get right”. Eventually things settled down and I could go back to hunting… but things never were the same.”

“Dean…”

Dean coughed into his hand, “Sam… I’m tired.”
Sam sighed again, knowing he’d missed his window of opportunity for asking questions.

“You want the sleeping pill now?”

Dean sat down on his bed and rubbed his face, “Yeah, and Tylenol or something.”

“Okay,” Sam stood up, “Be right back.”

Sam tried to ignore the shake in Dean’s hand and the wet trail from his eye to his jaw, as he handed him the pills and glass of water. He waited for Dean to hand the glass back to him before he spoke.

“Why didn’t you just tell me that’s what happened?” he whispered.

“At first it was about protecting dad, then it was about preserving his memory… but now… I just don’t give a crap.”

Sam sighed, giving Dean’s good shoulder a squeeze before leaving the room and heading back to bed. He lay back on his pillows, seething from the mistake their dad had made that had cost Dean so much, and pretended he couldn’t hear Dean cry himself to sleep.

 

…

 

Sam got up early, before Dean, and went out to fix the side gate. He’d made a trip to the hardware store and back, attached a new latch and was making a pot of coffee when Dean finally wandered in, eyes puffy, hair mussed, face drawn and pale.

“Hey,” Sam said, jovially, trying to set the day off on a good note.

“Hey,” Dean’s voice was croaky and he cleared his throat loudly.

“Coffee?” Sam asked, grabbing another mug.

Dean nodded, sliding onto the barstool.

“I fixed the gate.”

“Thanks,” Dean said, eyes vacant.

“If you’re feeling up to it later, maybe we can go out for lunch,” Sam offered, handing Dean his coffee.

“Sure,” Dean replied, mechanically.

Sam frowned, wondering what else around the house needed fixing.

 

…

 

It was mid morning and they’d already had breakfast. Dean had showered and gotten into his jeans and a button down, the sling now a permanent accessory to his outfit. Sam sat at the breakfast bar, clicking away on his phone and scrawling in a notebook. Dean crossed the kitchen to peer in the fridge.

"Dean... I was thinking maybe I should get a job.”

"What? Why?"

"We've spent all our cash and the credit card's tapped. We could pull some more fake ones but if we're not moving around we'll be too easy to trace."

"We've got more cards..."

"Yeah, but they won't last forever. The medications alone..."

Dean looked down.

"We can't afford this, Dean. The house, the medication, your surgery..."

"And what are you gonna do?" Dean bit.

Sam sighed, "I could get some work bartending. Hustle pool when I can."

"Yeah, cause there's so much money in that," Dean rolled his eyes.

"What choice do we have?"

Dean stiffened, "Well, if you're getting a job I'll get one too. I can work, and I'm not letting you leave me sit here all day like a house wife while you're out working."

"You can't get a job, Dean," Sam breathed.

"Why not?"

"You know why."

"What? Because I got a bum shoulder and a screwy back? I'm not paralysed, Sam. I can still fix cars."

"Dean..."

"What? What, Sam? I want a job too. I can work. I've worked all my life. I can do this. I'm not letting you carry us on your own. That's not how this works. I can do it, Sammy."

Sam looked Dean in the eye.

"No... you can't."

Dean stared at Sam for the longest time. Adam's apple working, jaw clenching, blinking rapidly to get rid of the tears.

"Just sit down, Dean," Sam said eventually.

Dean shook his head slightly, "No, I don't wanna sit down," he said quietly as he limped towards the front door.

"Where are you going?" Sam sighed.

"For a walk!" Dean shouted on his way out, followed by a tremendous door slam.

 

…

 

Dean headed down the steps at the front of the house. He was slow. Ridged. The man across the street was putting his bins on the curb and glanced up at him. He gave a sympathetic smile and an encouraging nod. And who the hell gave him the right to look at him like that? He didn't even know this guy. How dare he give him a sympathy nod. He must have been talking to Dave. Christ, the whole friggen neighbourhood probably knew who he was by now.

That's the freak that screams every night.

Dean did his best to glare but he probably looked too pathetic for that. He stumbled on the last step and almost face planted into the cement path. Geez, that would have looked good for his case.

Let me get a job, Sammy. I can't even walk down the stairs without busting in my head.

The guy was still looking at him. As if contemplating coming over to help, and so help him if he did because Dean would have clocked him so hard he'd never get back up.

He didn't know why he was so angry. Maybe it was the constant gnawing pain. Maybe he wasn't even angry. Maybe he was more depressed than anything. Because Sam was right. He couldn't get a job. He couldn't even look after himself right now. And, not surprisingly, coming to that conclusion didn't make him feel better.

His limp grew slightly worse as he continued walking, reaching the park near the end of their street.

He took a funny step and felt something shift in his spine, pinching, almost dropping him to his knees it hurt so bad.

His eyes were closed, hand against his lower back. Breathe.

"Dean? Are you alright?" The panicked voice belonged to Maxine, walking back towards her house pushing a baby in a stroller.

He reached out his hand to her, the need to lean on something desperate.

She grabbed his arm and allowed him to put some weight on her.

"Gah," he groaned, "Sorry, Max. Lost my footing for a second there."

"You're awfully pale. Do you want to sit down?"

"No," Dean shook his head, teeth clenched, "No, it's okay. But if you're heading in that direction I might walk with you, if that's okay?"

"Yeah, absolutely. Here, lean on this."

Dean walked beside her, right hand bracing himself on the stroller. God, it hurt so bad.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"I will be," he tried to give a reassuring smile but his heart wasn't exactly in it, "It's just time for more painkillers."

She put her hand on his, and that was it. It was too much.

He turned his face away, pretending to look at something across the road. He gritted his teeth, steeled his jaw as a tear slipped from his eye.

"Dean?" Maxine said, so soft and gentle.

Dean cleared his throat, fixed his eyes straight ahead, allowing the tears to fall freely. His expression blank. He couldn't bring a hand up to wipe them away, because he only had one hand right now and that one was busy keeping him upright.

"Do you want me to call Sam?"

"No," Dean forced a small smile, looking down at his feet.

By some miracle he made it back to the house. Sam was sitting out on the porch and jumped up when he saw him, hurrying down the steps to help Dean back up them.

"I got it," Dean mumbled, annoyed, although he leant against Sam anyway because he had no choice.

"What happened?" Sam asked, looking back at Maxine.

"Nothing happened. Leave me alone," Dean said, shaking Sam off his arm and wandering into the house.

 

...

 

"You're right, Sam."

"About what?"

"About everything. About me... I can't do the same things you can do. And I'm not alright."

"Dean, it'll just take -"

"Take some time, I know. That's all I'm hearing is 'it'll just take time'. Well, we don't have time, Sammy. I can't be out of this game. Not after the things I've done. Not after all..." he choked on his words, sobs pushing their way up his throat, "Not after everything."

"Dean," Sam breathed, "You can't be blamed for the things you did down there. You did what you had to. You need to forgive yourself, man."

Dean dropped his head, chin to his chest, scrunching his face as the tears flowed in streams down his cheeks.

"I can't, Sammy... I can't."

[telltale]

Aw, I think you should be really happy with this chapter.  Dean's feelings of helplessness and uselessness are palpable and exactly how I'd imagine him to feel if he could no longer hunt.  The way his self-image is tied up with hunting/the job is both very complicated and very simple in different ways and I think you really captured that with this chapter.

[Pyrus_Fangmon]

 Dean!!! Come here sugar baby! Mama's here to hold you!

Gaaahhhhh!!!! Why must you capture all the feels of a true episode!? My heart can't take this!

 

[MissBayliss]

Thanks, you guys  . There's a treat in this chapter for my sneeze fetishy friends  (I know it hasn't really been going that way, but the story supports it and I was in a mood). Hope you enjoy it  

 

Ps. Dean in the last part of this chapter is very close to how I've been feeling the last few days. It's tough. It'll get better again... but right now, it's tough. Thanks for supporting this story. It's helpful. 

 

Chapter Fifteen

 

Dean needed a drink. Like really needed a drink. His hands were shaking, his heart pounding. His mouth filled up with saliva at the thought of a sip of jack, or beer, or anything. He just needed something.

He was sitting on his bed in his room, nebuliser mark over his face, mist flying around him. After his walk and his crying session, he was finding it harder to get a breath. He didn’t know if it was from anxiety or the chest infection or what, but he was feeling terrible. He just needed to shake this off, everything was closing in around him and he felt trapped. He just wanted something to go right. Why shouldn’t one thing go right for him? Oh yeah, he’d done insurmountable torture in hell.

He sniffed, trying to breathe through his nose but everything was so clogged, painful and throbbing behind his cheekbones. Yep, don’t forget that pesky sinus infection either. He grumbled under his breath. Maybe a drink wasn’t a good idea. He needed to kick this, so the antibiotics needed a chance to work. He could see that now. Didn’t mean if someone put a bottle in front of him he’d be able to say no.

After he’d spoken to Sam he’d shut himself in his room. He was achy, in pain, but he decided to clamp down on voicing it. He figured Sam knew by now. And now he knew what it was from, how it all happened. Dean had never mentioned it to him because he’d never wanted to admit that his dad had gotten it wrong. Sure, they were both partly to blame for things going the way they did, but John had said he had it under control, thought he knew exactly what to do… and he didn’t listen. Dean had told him not to send him in there alone and he didn’t listen. He never friggen listened. And two people died. Kids.

Dean’s chest was clenching up and he coughed, realising the mist had disappeared and the sweet medicine had run out. He lifted his clumsy right hand and pulled the mask off his face. He attempted to breathe through his nose but he was so stuffy, nothing was getting through there.

“Okay,” he whispered to himself, “You need to relax.”

He stumbled into his bathroom and turned on the hot tap in the shower, perching himself on the toilet lid, and pushing the door shut. Steam was what he needed. That might break up the solid block in his nasal passage.

For a while it didn’t seem to be doing anything at all. The heat had made him sweat, but his sweat was cold. A droplet ran down his back between his shoulder blades like an icy finger tracing his spine. He shivered and wrapped his arm around his chest. A cough bubbled up that he directed towards his shoulder.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, giving a subconscious sniff.

Air vibrated up his nasal passage into his sinuses, and he snuffled wetly.

He hastily grabbed the toilet paper from the roll and ripped off about 1000 squares, quickly bundling them to his face.

“Huh’TTSSSCHHuh! Oh my god…”

He blew his nose and a mass of hot, sticky mucus came rushing out, gurgling into the scratchy toilet paper. He glanced briefly at the mess before folding it in on itself to find a dry part, quickly, as he sneezed three more times. Wet, forceful. He blew again. Green.

He coughed until he saw stars, the same green gunk coming up out of his lungs to land in the toilet paper.

“Better out than in,” he grumbled, congestedly, his breath hot, voice crackling.

He must have sneezed another ten times before there was a tentative knock on the door and Sam’s concerned voice.

“Dean? You okay? You don’t sound so good.”

“You can come in,” he tried to talk through the congestion, ended up coughing.

Sam opened the door and his jaw dropped.

“Dean! It’s a friggen sauna in here! Are you trying to bring your fever back?” he quickly shut the water off and turned to his brother, taking in his appearance in a glance.

Dean knew he looked like crap. Sitting hunched on the edge of the toilet, wads of used up toilet paper on the floor and another bunch nestled over his face, catching his hot breath. He could hear the rattle in his own lungs as he breathed, could feel the sweat dripping, running towards the end of his nose to get lost in the toilet paper. He felt sick to his stomach and was trying so hard not to throw up, because the congestion that was clearing out his nose was also clearing down the back, running down his throat and into his belly, churning. He swallowed thickly.

“Whoa, man,” Sam was crouched in front of him, hand on his good shoulder, which Dean realised was keeping him from falling on his face, “You look like you’re gonna pass out.”

“I’m okay,” he mumbled, not game enough to remove the tissues. He sneezed again.

“Well, I guess the steam worked,” Sam glanced around at the state of the room, the state of his brother.

“Yeah,” Dean’s voice crackled and he coughed again, sticky chunks landing in the toilet paper, “Gross…” he mumbled, because… yeah, gross.

“I was coming to ask you if you wanted lunch. I was gonna make burgers.”

“Urgh,” Dean groaned, sniffing experimentally and lowering the toilet paper.

“Do you want soup?” Sam asked as if the question was a surprise even to him.

Dean furrowed his brow, panting through his mouth, “Chick’n noodle?”

Sam smiled, patted his brother’s knee, “Chicken noodle.”

 

…

 

Dean submitted to his brother’s help, mostly because he was still sneezing every five seconds. But at least he could breathe… well, sort of. Sam propped him up in his bed on a stack of pillows, placing a tissue box at his elbow.

Dean bunched the tissues gratefully around his nose and didn’t stop sneezing.

“Do you want me to move the TV in here?” Sam asked, looking over Dean’s feeble body.

“Nah,” Dean’s voice cracked, unable to make an ‘n’ sound in his current state.

He was still pouting over the conversation from earlier that day. Hiding out in his room was his plan, and even though Sam was needed to help him up off the toilet and to his bed, didn’t mean he was going to talk to him more than he had to.

“Okay,” Sam said, hovering by the door, “I’ll just make you some soup.”

Dean nodded, sneezing into a tissue.

 

…

 

He fell asleep while waiting for the soup. Woke up in a cold sweat, trembling and afraid, Sam’s name on his lips, feeling every sensation of a knife being drawn from throat to naval, fire in his gut.

He couldn’t hear Sam thundering down the hallway so he must have been having a quiet night terror, muttering and whispering and whimpering, not thrashing and screaming and crying.

He coughed a sticky lump into some tissues and threw them on the floor. He had a dull ache in his ribs, a knotted feeling in his lower back, and a hot knife through his shoulder. His nose was raw and felt hollow, abused, but better than it had been.

Sam tapped on his door and opened it, bringing in a tray with a bowl on it, as well as a glass of orange juice and an array of pills.

Dean laughed, “Where’d you get that tray?”

Sam smiled, looking like he felt a little silly, “Bobby bought it with all that stuff.”

“Feel like I’m at a bed and breakfast.”

Sam chuckled, “Yeah…” he placed the tray at his brother’s side.

“Smells great,” Dean lifted the bowl onto his lap.

“Surprised you can smell anything,” Sam said, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

“Yeah, me too.”

Sam picked at a thread on the bedspread.

Dean took a tentative mouthful of noodles and broth.

Sam was looking up at him expectantly, waiting for the verdict.

“This is great,” Dean’s voice crackled, but he didn’t bother clearing his throat. Instead he took another spoonful of the soup to his lips, relishing the warmth on his throat.

“It’s canned,” Sam smirked.

Dean shrugged, “Good things come in cans.”

Sam looked down, smiling, “Fruit.”

“Soup,” Dean nodded towards the bowl.

“Beans.”

“Spaghetti.”

“Soda.”

“Beer.”

Sam’s expression changed and Dean glanced away out the window. Why the hell did he mention beer?

“Uh, you should take your medicine when you’re finished with that. You’ve gotta be hurting now,” Sam said, standing up.

Dean nodded, but didn’t say anything.

“You need anything else?”

Dean watched the bowl teeter on his lap as he raised the spoon, “Got a spare hand?”

Sam took a step towards him.

“I’m kidding,” he smiled, “I’m fine.”

Sam furrowed his brow like he didn’t believe it, “Okay… I’ll be outside. I’m gonna borrow Dave’s mower and mow the lawn.”

“You sound excited.”

Sam smirked, “Enjoy your soup. Get some rest.”

 

…

 

He could feel the tears burn behind his eyes, his breath quickening, because no position was comfortable. Any way he moved the pain in his back was still there, intensifying. He could feel himself teetering on the edge of a full blown panic attack, because it hurt so bad.

You’re fine. You’re fine. You’re fine.

He was shaken from his daze by the familiar rock riff as his phone buzzed near his hip. It was Bobby.

“Hey, what’s up?” his voice was strained.

Crap, get it together.

“Hey, Dean. Is Sam there? He’s not answering his phone.”

Dean struggled forward, sitting up on the edge of his bed, panting.

“He’s mowing the lawn, believe it or not. Why? What do you need?” Dean coughed when he got to the end of his sentence, tilting the mouthpiece of the phone away from his face.

“I need him to look something up for me. I’m in a bit of a jam. Need to know what can kill a Ciguapa.”

“A what now?”

“A Ciguapa. They’re usually found in the Dominican republic.”

“Well, what the hell is one doing here?” Dean winced, coughed again.

“Dean… could you get Sam for me, son?”

Dean pushed himself to his feet, fighting through the black spots in his vision.

“Dammit, Bobby. I’m fine. I’ll call you back.”

Dean flipped his phone closed and leant against the wall. He took a breath, wiped his nose on his sleeve and pushed off, making his way to Sam’s room. He snagged his laptop and headed for the kitchen, settling himself in front of it at the breakfast bar. He grabbed the bottle of Tylenol and shoved a couple in his mouth. He was going to need something to get through this.

“Okay, Ciguapa… See-gwaa-pah.” he exaggerated the syllables as he moved his mouth.

His eyes widened as he read about it.

“What the hell’s Bobby doing taking this on alone?” he muttered to himself.

He took his hand off the track pad to rub at his lower back, feeling the blood run away from his face.

“Shit,” he pressed the heel of his palm into his eye.

He took a moment, then sniffed, blinking owlishly.

Get. It. Together.

He tapped away, researching the lore. These looked like nasty suckers. Kinda hot though, he thought, staring at a depiction of the creature.

His back spasmed and he froze.

Oh, God. It’s too much…

He pulled open sweaty eyelids, focusing on the computer in front of him. There it was.

He grabbed his phone and called Bobby.

“Dean, tell me you got somethin’,” Bobby sounded out of breath.

Called in the nick of time.

“You gotta burn her,” he grunted, “But don’t get close. You can’t let her look you in the eye and don’t let her touch your skin. Use a flare gun or something.”

“Thanks, boy!”

Bobby hung up and Dean pressed his phone to his forehead. It killed him not to be with Bobby right now, but this had given him something. He could help. He didn’t have to be out of the game completely. Now he had something… Now he had hope.

He pushed himself up out of the chair and heard the door open as Sam walked in. He gripped the countertop, vision sliding, world tilting.

“Dean? You alright?”

Sam was across the room in two seconds.

Being upright had caused a surge of pain that was hard to see through, but he was coming out of it slowly, colour and sound returning to the world.

He opened his mouth to answer but Sam was already talking again.

“Ciguapa? What the hell is that? Are you hunting?”

“Bobby called,” Dean grumbled, “Needed help.”

“Huh,” Sam was bent over, reading off the screen.

“Sam?” Dean asked, feeling the panic rise up his chest.

“Yeah.”

“It’s bad.”

Sam looked at him, really looked at him, and Dean was glad he saw understanding in his eyes, because he was at the point where he couldn’t do it alone. The pain was too much.

Sam straightened and put a hand around his brothers arm, “What do you need?”

 

…

[telltale]

I hope you feel better soon.  I'm glad the story is cathartic for you in some way.    I know it definitely is for me as a reader, the way you don't shy away from how lost Dean is, and take the time to have others care for him the way there can never be so much time on the show.  It's so nice.  And this might sound weird, but I love the way you have him tearful so often; it's completely in keeping with someone in his mental and physical state yet only certain authors can write him in that kind of state where it feels very in character like this, very Dean.  Love the incessant sneezing too, of course.  Poor bb.

[ID2006]

I always love,when I step away from the forum and get to come back to this

[starpollen]

Lovin the whupin Yay angst and needy hurt sick boyz.

[Wow Really?]

Sorry I'm just now getting around to this.. Let's just say that I can relate (and sympathize) with the rough time you're having. Hopefully things smooth out soon 

Also, this chapter has everything that I crave in a fic. EVERYTHING. Thanks so much for continuing.. These kinds of stories are a great escape for me. 

Lastly, I'm thinking that if there was such thing as a 'cough fetish forum', I'd join that too... :-) 

 

[Pyrus_Fangmon]

On 5/16/2016 at 7:17 AM, MissBayliss said:

“Sam?” Dean asked, feeling the panic rise up his chest.

“Yeah.”

“It’s bad.”

-

Sam straightened and put a hand around his brothers arm, “What do you need?”

This! Holy hell my heart us aching at this! Dean, honey bunches! 

You capture the emotions and characters just beautifully! I know I say that every time, but oh my god. Don't you ever stop!

And you. Feel better soon!