A/N: This chapter was an accident and has no point. But, it's a birthday present. And it's the thought that counts. And I just kept thinking of poor, poor sick Dean. Remix of chapter 1, from Dean's POV.
--
Dean awakens slowly. He blinks in the dawn twilight, a little confused, fingers coiling in damp grass, nausea tugging at his gut. He vaguely entertains the possibility that he's been momentarily, very slightly, unconscious.
"You okay, man?" He jumps when he hears Sam's voice next to his ear. The motion jars his head and he rubs at his temple, wincing as the dull ache turns to a sharp throb. His throat's dry but he heroically resists the urge to cough.
Sam nudges him, "Okay?"
Dean grunts out, "I'm fine."
His voice is wrecked, but it must be convincing enough because Sam falls back in the grass beside him and leaves him alone.
Dean's aware of the motion of the earth in a way that's entirely unnatural. He keeps his fingers curled into the clammy dirt and holds on. Pressure is building behind his eyes. He really, really doesn't want to sneeze right now. He breathes carefully, controlled, concentrates hard; ultimately loses the battle. Sparks fly up his ribs and arm. His head explodes and he gags wretchedly.
Sam shifts around; Dean hears the sound of a shovel in the dirt. Minutes pass and he starts to feel a little pathetic sprawled in the grass, so he pulls himself carefully up against the nearest stone. By the time Sam's finished, the woods have almost stopped spinning, and the dew has fully infiltrated the length of his jeans. He rallies and gets himself to his feet, holds his breath until he's pretty sure he's going to stay up, and then pushes off in the general direction of the car.
Blurry moments later he hits his mark and thankfully leans into the Impala's solid frame. He'd give his right arm for a tissue right about now, nose raw and dripping, sinuses clogged. He flinches when a white rag appears in front of him; looks at Sam, surprised and a little suspicious. Sometimes it's like the kid is psychic.
--
Time stutters throughout the rest of the day. Sam's in and out of his line of vision; poking at him, prodding painful places, invading his space, pushing him to a shower, and then to bed. He knows Sam's physically fine, but can feel the sadness still rolling off him. It's too much on top of everything else and Dean curls in on himself desperate to shut everything out for a while.
--
The next morning he drags himself up. Sam's been essentially alone in the room since yesterday and Dean's sure he needs to get out and get moving before he implodes. There's a potential hunt a few hundred miles north and, if nothing else, Dean can certainly handle driving. And, if he's lucky, Sam will get some sleep for a change.
His face thrums with pressure, moisture leaking through his eyes and nose. The right side is mostly numb under the bruising and Dean will take the reprieve while it lasts. His body feels battered and ready to be deep-fried. Dean smirks at the mental image and then grimaces when his stomach rebels at the idea of greasy food.
He sucks it up and bickers with his brother, rewarded by a casual grin that warms him from the inside.
--
An hour or so down the road, Dean starts to realize that a day on the road was a terrible idea. The sun keeps peeking out from between angry clouds, driving spikes into his brain until he can barely see the road in front of him. The stormy day has created an unnatural chill that the Impala's heater can't squelch and minute shivers pierce through his shoulder and ribs, stealing away his breath. Furthermore, the acute twinges keep wringing out cold sweat that soaks his body, infiltrating and igniting the raw skin along his temple and jaw and side.
Dean's pretty proud of how well he's holding it together until Sam flips out and demands to drive. Dean almost protests; knows he should order Sam to get some sleep. But Sam looks determined and, now that he thinks of it, Dean desperately just wants to close his eyes for a second.
--
Almost immediately Sam's poking Dean awake, tells him they are stopping for the day; points him to a distant room. The weather has changed unnaturally fast, overcast skies suddenly dark and icy.
Dean's tighter than he realized, muscles protesting even shallow attempts to breathe. Explosive sneezes leave him dizzy and drunk. Bright sparkles light his way to the pavement. He's about to go down hard when Sam's hand suddenly appears and effortlessly keeps him upright.
Sam's close and warm and surprisingly stable in the hazy rain. Dean grips tight and lets him steer; sends out psychic wishes for another Kleenex.
--
Sam pulls off his wet clothes, gives him some nasty licorice medicine, and pushes him to the bed. It feels awesome. Sturdy. Anchored. The covers are cool and soothing along his back. Dean decides to rest for a minute until he's sure he can make it to the bathroom on his own. He wants some painkillers, and a hot shower would probably loosen the pressure in his sinuses. And tissues. There's probably a whole box in there.
--
Dean wakes up in the dark. He can hear Sam's soft breathing from the next bed. A blanket has been draped over him and he feels warm. Turning his head is enough to reawaken the pounding. Harsh coughs surprise him and he grimaces at the bitter mucus tang left on his tongue. He scrapes it forward with his teeth and drags a finger in his mouth. He scans the darkness; when no options miraculously appear, he wipes the thick phlegm on the bedspread. Then, after a pause, he just pulls the edge of it up to blow his nose.
Finally able to draw in air without hacking, he forces himself to stay still, waiting out the cramping that's twisting though his shoulder and chest. As the tension in his body slowly uncoils, he lets Sam's steady breaths lull him back to sleep.
--
It's only the promise of medicated relief that convinces Dean to drag his aching body to the bathroom in the morning. Sam has left the ibuprofen out and Dean washes three down with metallic motel water.
What the shower lacks in pressure it makes up for with steamy damp heat. Dean's pretty sure he's running a fever and the hot water feels amazing and works wonders on his clogged nasal passages. Coughing rips at his throat, but it's worth it when he's able to expel a mouthful of yellow gunk from his lungs. He spits and blows his nose directly into his hands, letting the shower spray wash it away.
His ribs and shoulder are vividly bruised. He clenches a careful fist and winces as the muscles pull. He moves a hand to his cheek and temple, lightly pressing on the reddened skin. It's sore but nothing that a few days and some extra strength Tylenol won't cure.
Sam's still in bed when Dean comes out. He's awake but burrowing his face into his pillow. Dean's grins at the towel he's been dragging through his hair. Careful aim and yatzee! Sam pushes the towel off and stops feigning sleep.
Dean keeps it light. Doesn't need Sam worrying about more than he's already dealing with. Sam's pushing the sling again, but an arm in a sling means Dean can't drive, so, no dice.
Sam plays dirty and tosses him the towel. And, yeah, that sucked. But Dean stays strong and is surprised by the flash of hurt he sees in Sam's eyes.
Sam goes to shower and Dean takes a time out before getting dressed. If he could just think through the fuzz in his head he's sure he can figure this out.
Sam's had a rough few months and Dean's been working hard to keep things easy. It's not that he wouldn't love to take a break and let Sam take the wheel for a little while.
He shuffles through the papers that Sam has left on the table. Sam has outlined the entire case. It's good work and well organized. The sling catches his eye. Sam wants him to wear it. Even though it means Dean will need Sam to drive. And need him to carry the gear. And man the shovel. And watch their backs.
Though, come to think of it, Sam's been doing all of those things for the last two days.
--
Sam obviously opted for the childproof version. As Dean's trying to figure out how to finagle his way into the contraption without doing permanent damage, Sam comes out of the bathroom. Dean's embarrassed by his lack of grace, but he feels a little relief at the grin he sees pulling at Sam's lip.
There's really something wrong with the stupid thing and finally Dean lets Sam help him. He steals himself for more pain but then is pleasantly surprised at how gentle his brother can be. Even better, once Dean's arm is held snug against his chest, he's finally able to draw in a breath without it pulling so painfully at his neck and side.
Dean tenses as he feels a sneeze building. The jarring exhalation doesn't make him feel like he's going to pass out.
Sam palms the back of his neck. Can obviously feel the fever. Dean lets Sam keep him steady and close for a second. Sam's watching him closely and Dean can predict his next comment, "You still look rough, man. We could stick around another day."
"Yeah, yeah, let's go already." He detours through the bathroom for some extra tissues and leaves the heavy stuff for Sam. "Hey, Sam."
"Yeah?"
"Want me to drive?"
Sam's answering grin is totally worth the wet towel in his face.
--
end.