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Warnings: Nothing much; reference to violence, depiction of wounds and vomiting. A bit OOC if that’s a trigger for you (which, let’s be honest, is a little bit for everyone)
A/N: I’m a human composed of 60% water, and 40% Dean whump
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“Dude, stop picking at it, you’ll only make it worse.” Sam’s unsolicited advice did not sit well with his irritable older brother; the only response Dean had was to hurl the ice pack half-way across the room, hitting Sam square in the chest.
“I’m so sorry the hole in my shoulder is causing you such discomfort. A hole I have in the first place because you Boondock Saint-ed me.” Sam silently questioned his brother’s less-than-perfect analogy and raised the previously-weaponized ice pack to his own aching jaw.
“Your right hook wasn’t exactly a warm welcome.” As Dean geared up for his comeback, Bobby interrupted--shouting from the kitchen.
“You’re both equally idiotic and cranky. Give it a rest.”
A moment of silence passed, Sam and Dean exchanging looks. They had already apologized--no verbal acknowledgement needed. Dean’s face crinkled subtly, about to speak.
“Give me my ice back…” Dean whined pathetically and Sam took pity, tossing the pack. Spazzy and tired, Dean missed the bag and it fell to the floor without much noise. Disappointment evident on his battered face, Dean glared, knowing it was out of reach. Bobby came into the room then, picked up the ice, and handed it to Dean--saving the Winchester from injured pride.
“You boys certainly did a number on each other, I’ll give you that.”
“You couldn’t have gotten to him before he turned my shoulder into a Chinese finger trap?” Dean shot his own version of bitchface over to Sam while Bobby let the issue drop, noting how worn the young hunter was. Dean buried his head in the bag of ice, giving his aching shoulder a break from the cold. Sam and Bobby exchanged looks, the former deciding to propose a formal apology.
“Dean I’m—”
“I know. It’s fine. I just need to wash all your cooties off me.” Sam gave Dean a questioning glance.
“Cooties?”
“Yes, Sam. Cooties. Germs. ~Bacteria~”
“Yeah, I get it.”
Sam let loose a very subtle side grin; he was glad to be back. God knows he felt like he’d been gone for weeks while Meg was possessing him. Bobby headed back to the kitchen and began rifling through various drawers and cabinets while the two brothers sat, unmoving. Eventually, Sam stood and moved to join Bobby, getting water while he was up. He knew that Dean was exhausted, hungry, thirsty, and overwhelmed to say the least. Sam let his eyes wander over his brother’s limp form and being that Dean was now alone in the living room, Sam heard him surrender the quietest of groans. Dean rested his head on the back of the couch, closing his eyes. Bobby, as aware as Sam, must have observed the pitiful sight too because the room’s oldest hunter locked eyes with the youngest. With their unspoken plan initiated, Sam spoke loud enough for Dean to hear, but was careful to sound defeated himself--which, quite frankly, wasn’t very difficult.
“Hey Bobby, sorry for all the crap we caused today.”
“What I’m here for after all.”
“You mind if we crash here for the night? I’m still…”
“Annoying and bitchy?” The familiar gruff from the couch elicited a small grin from Sam, and a loving eye-roll from Bobby.
“You boys can stay the week as far as I’m concerned. Though I’m not sure I have enough food...or supplies.” Bobby sent Sam a side-glance, implying he didn’t have what they’d need to take care of Dean’s shoulder. “You two rest-up and try not to kill each other. I’ll make a supply run and we’ll figure out this whole demon business after I’m sure you two can make it 24 hours without falling over.”
“Thanks, Bobby.” Sam gifted Bobby a genuine look of gratitude and the always-reliable hunter brushed it off as he grabbed his keys. Maybe Dean didn’t inherit the dislike of chick-flick moments from Dad after all.
As Bobby headed out, Sam finally relaxed enough to become aware of the throbbing pain in his arm where Bobby had burned the mark. As Sam shuffled back into the living room, he noticed a dry swallow descend in Dean’s throat and the all-too-familiar grimace of suppressing nausea cross his face. Sam sat in Bobby’s oversized armchair (well, it was oversized for Bobby, but sized just right for Sam) and stared at Dean who still sat with his head back and eyes closed, ice-pack held to his shoulder.
“You get the bullet out?” Dean responded silently, at first, nodding weakly. Eventually, he added necessary detail.
“Jo.”
“Still bleeding?” Sam normally would have just pulled the shirt away and checked himself, but he figured given the night’s events, Dean might need some personal space. Sam waited a beat, but worried when Dean remained silent.
“Is it still bleeding? … Dean?”
Frustrated and reluctant, Dean opened his eyes and lowered the ice pack. He took a deep breath before prying his jacket away from the wound, letting out a deep groan when the fabric stuck. Sending his head backwards to the safety of the couch, Dean stopped prodding. Sam approached, sitting next to him, eyeing the injury.
“It’s still going pretty good. We should really put some pressure on it.” Sam sympathetically reported the news before standing to get a towel.
“Peachy.”
Returning to a more-conscious Dean, Sam pressed the towel into his shoulder, the injured brother gripping the arm of the couch with his good hand.
“You’re fine, Dean. Suck it up.”
Tough love had never really been Sam’s style but it had been their father’s; to Dean, in some way, it was familiar and comforting. After a few minutes, Sam released his hold on the towel and readjusted. When Sam resumed applying pressure, Dean lurched forward, beginning to gag. Sam let the towel drop and reached for the trashcan, pushing it towards his brother, under his head. Dean retched without commentary and Sam let him puke in peace, foregoing any pitiful sympathies so as not to embarrass him any more than he already was. Sam watched as Dean’s shirt darkened with sweat and his breaths become erratic as the fit slowed. Giving a final spit, Dean leaned back--more exhausted than before.
“Did you hit your head?” Sam asked, concerned for the worst.
“No. Jus’ th’ pain.”
Sam tried his best to not let his shock show; if Dean was verbalizing pain, how exhausted and defeated must he be? Sam, for all his practice patching up wounds and sobering up, didn’t know how to help. Especially because his own body had been the one to hurt him. Sure, it was Meg; situation reversed, Sam would never let Dean blame himself for the things a demon did in his meat-suit. But it was so much easier to dole out hall-passes than accepting one yourself. Dean sat, almost asleep, and Sam was grateful. No fever, no head trauma...Dean could sleep safely and deservedly.
“Wake me if you need me.” Sam threw out the phrase as he plopped himself on the armchair, too fatigued himself to do any more comforting.
Sam startled awake to Bobby wrestling his way through the front door with an armful of stuffed paper bags.
“You boys holding up?” Instinctively, Sam glanced over to the couch, looking for Dean. When his eyes met an empty cushion, panic overtook him.
“Relax, Sam. I hear him bangin’ around in the bathroom.” At Bobby’s announcement, Dean sluggishly emerged from the bathroom, pale and sweaty.
“Not the only time I’ve been bangin’ in a bathroom…” The joke should have come as a relief that Dean was still Dean, but the sickness that clung to his form dissuaded any enjoyment of his humor. Running his hand along the wall for balance, Dean meekly began his trek back to the couch as Bobby moved to the kitchen and Sam watched, feeling useless.
Unpacking the brown paper bags, separating food from pharmaceuticals, Bobby questioned the brothers.
“You two survive the hour? You look worse than when I left.” Still waddling to the living room, Dean replied for the both of them.
“Been better--been worse.”
“He threw up. Pain’s worse. Probably has a fever now.”
“Narc.” Sam showed no remorse for the tattle and Dean finally settled on the cushions. Returning to the living room, Bobby brought water and a small yellow prescription bottle with no label.
“Well hopefully these’ll help.” Grinning for the first time in hours, Dean clarified:
“Codeine?”
“Vicodin” Bobby excitedly corrected.
Dean gave another faint smile and pushed down on the white lid, unscrewing the cap and fishing out the white pills.
“Don’t take more than two, dude.” Sam parented.
“Shut-up, you take three.”
“Yeah well… … I’m bigger.”
Bobby let out a long whistle as Dean scowled.
“Don’t forget this is all your fault, Sasquatch.”
“Yeah, yeah, just toss the bottle.” Aiming at his brother’s head, Dean launched the bottle with as much force as he could--the bottle just barely making it to Sam.
“Dean…about--” Sam’s tone was light and hesitant.
“I know. Just get some sleep. You look like crap.”
Sam left Dean to Bobby’s capable hands and drifted off in the armchair, feeling relief in knowing that Meg hadn’t won; they were still on the same side.