Sick But Loved
The Impala's rolling down the I-76 Interstate highway, about two hours out of her final destination: Sioux Falls, South Dakota; her heaters on and the music's low, but her usual driver's laid out, in the backseat, with an old army blanket thrown over his stretched out form and an even older shirt thrown over his head. (The slightly smelly, threadbare piece of clothing (Dean's) was found stuffed between the seats and it's just barely doing its job — blocking out the sun.) Ass going numb from their ten hour drive, Sam's adjusting himself, behind the wheel, while at the same time flicking a glance to the rearview mirror — to his thankfully still snoring, older brother.
Dean's pretty much been passed-the-fuck-out since they left Tulsa, Oklahoma that morning; the moment they'd gotten in the car, he'd drowned himself in the last half of the bottle of Nyquil they'd had and additional cold and fever meds he'd five-finger Sally'd from various gas stations in an idiotic attempt to 'feel better' when he wakes up. Dean has an important date he doesn't want to miss and, no, it's not with some chick. Truthfully, he hasn't been banging anything these days except for a certain sasquatch that doesn't put out unless otherwise bribed. It's not love. It's more like an under-the-counter business deal. You scratch my back and I'll scratch yours kind of thing. (At least, in some part of Dean's mind that's still completely swimming in denial.)
Turning eyes back to the road, Sam can't help but grin. Fact is its Dean's thirty-fourth birthday today and Bobby has pie (No cake, Bobby, dammit, pie!) waiting for him at his house. Yep, even though Dean couldn't exactly stomach that greasy cheeseburger he'd tried to force down his throat last night, he'd said he'd be damned if he'd let fresh, homemade pie end up in the trash. To Dean, that's equivalent to beer being spilt. Shit just doesn't abide.
Of course, Sam thinks the idiot's eagerness has more to do with the fact that people actually want to celebrate his birthday than wanting to stuff his face and puke it back up later. After all, it's not like they've ever taken the time to do so since they were kids. (Back when a candy bar was a birthday cake and a matchstick was a candle.) Why Bobby wants to celebrate birthdays out of the blue, Sam just doesn't know, but he'll roll with it. After all, even red-nosed and watery-eyed, he hasn't seen Dean smile like that in a very long time. Seriously, when Bobby had asked what kind of pie Sheriff Mills should make for him (Hey, the lady had offered), Dean's smile was as bright as a thousand kilowatt bulb as he'd simply replied, "Have her pop a can of cherry filling for me, Bobby. Yep. Nothing like popped cherries."
Catching another glimpse of his older brother again, Sam's face runs slack this time. After everything they've been through, maybe Bobby's right. Maybe they do need to stop and celebrate their own lives once in a while since Death only knows when he's finally going to up and take them.
[xx]
Fifteen minutes out from Bobby's house, Sam's forced to honk-honk-honk the horn to wake Dean up, because nothing else he'd done had worked. Not even when he'd tossed that half-eaten, stale bag of Funyuns at Dean's head.
"I'm up, bitch! I'm—" Dean's suddenly cut off as the itch in his throat launches him into a haggard and painful bout of coughing.
Sam just shakes his head in the front seat. Yeah… Dean's still sick as a dog. Then again, Sam hadn't had high hopes in that department. After all, Dean had spent all night digging up that grave, in the rain, two days ago. It wasn't like it was last week and he'd had sufficient time to recuperate. But Dean's nothing if not stubborn.
"Shut up, B'm fine."
See, case in point.
[xx]
Ten minutes out now and Dean's just climbed into the passenger seat. He's back to hacking up a lung and sneezing up a storm. It's when he's spitting coughed up green goo out the rolled down window that Sam speaks up again. What he says makes Dean frown.
"You sure you're up to this? I mean—"
"Bie, Bam! Bie! Friggin birthday bie at bat," is Dean's bad-tempered, congested reply. Besides, he'd just blown his nose; his hearing's all jacked.
Sam rolls his eyes as Dean pinches his dripping nostrils shut and tries to pop his eardrums. "Forget the pie for a second and just tell me, how're you feeling?" Sam punctuates his question with the slap of the back of his hand to Dean's stubbly cheek, before smacking it over his brother's forehead.
"Ow, Bitch!" Dean rages, before calming down, wiping his nose again, and offering, "Berfect Bicture of bealth."
Sam gives his brother the side-eye. "I'll believe that when you can actually say it." After all, Sam can tell the idiot still has a fever by the red in his face and the heat radiating off him. Dean's clammy skin had felt like the Impala's hood after her engine's been running and that's never a good thing.
Once again, Sam tries to make Dean see reason. "You know, if you're not feeling up to it, I'm sure Bobby won't mind if—"
Unfortunately, Dean's not having it. "Bo try and ball this off and you're cut off bor a month, bo bastard."
Sam sniffs derisively. "Yeah, like you could go that long."
Dean's answer is a snide, "Batch me."
"Oh, I'll watch you alright," Sam sarcastically shoots back, "watch you face-plant into your steak and potatoes once you pass-the-fuck out again since you're obviously just going to run yourself into the ground like an idiot … idiot."
Dean's red-veined eyes are actually lit up. Obviously, he ignored everything Sam just said except, "Barbeque? Bo bean like beer and bactual steak?"
Looking over to Dean, Sam's irritation slightly slips at his brother's awed, hopeful expression. "Yeah, Dean, beer and actual steak."
Like a kid on Christmas morning, Dean's red, splotchy face splits into an even wider grin. "Birthdays bock!" …And then he's back to sneezing and coughing and getting half his germs all over the Impala's interior and poor, poor Sam.
"Ew, Dean! Gross! Dude, learn to cover your damn mouth!"
[xx]
The moment the door opens Dean puts on his best smile. However, his red-veined eyes, puffy lids, raw nose, bed-hair, the lines on his face where his cheek was pressed into the seat, and the piece of tissue stuffed up his left nostril kind of hinders the effect. Bobby takes one look at Dean and says, "Boy, you look like a hairball a damn cat puked up. Twice." Turning to Sam, the bearded man grouses, "And you. Why the heck didn't you just say the idjit was feeling like hammered crap the last time we were on the damn phone?"
"Hey! I baid I bas—" The loud sneeze Dean suddenly lets loose cuts him off and shoots the tissue from his nose; it wetly lands on Bobby's right shoulder.
Sam tries to play it off by nonchalantly — and very quickly — brushing the offending item off the beared man with an innocent face while Dean continues to let out several 'ah-choo's beside him. Thankfully, Bobby doesn't notice and takes Sam's hand on him as a consoling pat to his shoulder. Crisis averted, Sam finally finds his reply to Bobby's previous question.
"Well, you see, my idiot of a brother here said he'd take the scissors to my hair if I told you the truth and we both know what happened the last time Dean made good on that particular promise."
Bobby remembers alright. A twelve-year old Sam had shown up on his doorstep looking like Patches The Cat — the old feline that used to roam the neighborhood. (Poor thing had had the mange before it kicked the old proverbial bucket.)
Having had enough of the two of them talking as if he's not even there, Dean shoulders past their gruff father figure with a grumbled, "Be going to do bis or what? Or am I bonna have to kidnap by bown frigging birthday pie here, 'cause, you bow, will if I have bo."
Sam shakes his head as he too makes his way inside. "I say just give him the damn pie. It's all he's been talking about."
"Hey there, you two," Sheriff Mills says, making her entrance from the kitchen with a beer in her hands even though she's still in uniform.
"Should you be drinking on the bob?" Dean immediately asks. He hadn't really meant to say it, but it was the first thing out of his mouth. Hey, he never said he had 'the people' skills. He'll leave that to Sam.
Sheriff Mills produces a cocky grin as she looks at her watch. "I've been off-duty for, oh, half an hour or so. Would've went home and changed, but figured I'd drop off the pies first."
"Pies? As in plural?" Sam asks, already knowing that this information will make his brother all kinds of happy.
"Y—" Sheriff Mills is suddenly cut off from the bear hug being thrust upon her person.
"I lub bou," Dean says into her shoulder ... getting nose-drippings on the gold star pinned there.
Her response to this is a frowned, "I'm still armed here."
Bobby decides to step in, before the short-tempered woman pulls out her gun. "How's 'bout you let go of the nice lady before you get yourself shot and we all mosey on down to the garage? Steaks on the grill and there's a case of beer in the cooler."
As Dean extracts himself and heads toward the door, Bobby elbows Sam, "You sure the idjits up for this?" he quietly says out of earshot of Dean, who's outside now and stopped by the bottom step — hacking up a second lung.
Sam just snorts as he watches Sheriff Mills carefully meandering around the germ hot zone. "No. But you know Dean. If there's pie involved, he's gonna try." Then Sam sobers as he fully turns to Bobby. "Hey, I just wanted to say I really appreciate this. I mean, you should've seen his face when I told him. Seriously, can't remember the last time he smiled that wide. Really, thanks."
Bobby readjusts the cap on his head, thanking god for his beard that hides most of the heat now burning his cheeks. Walking away, he grumbles, "Let's just get this show on the road, before either of us starts growing woman parts here."
Sam just grins and follows after him.
[xx]
"Happy Birthd—!"
"Ah-choo!"
"Not over the food!"
"…It's bot like B'm doing it bon—bon—bahhhhh—ch!" Dean's sneeze is thankfully thwarted by a fresh tissue shoved over his nose compliments of one Sam Winchester. Dean loudly and wetly oozes snot into Sam's tissue-covered hand. Needless to say, Sam makes a face but doesn't pull away until the poor guy's done honking his nose.
"Banks," Dean hoarsely replies, as Sam goes to throw the offending soaked item in the nearest garbage can … before going off to wash his hands at the garage's back sink. Red-nosed and with half-lidded cloudy eyes, Dean just sways in his seat with a barely lucid stare. To be honest, since coming outside where the weather's a chilly January cold, his condition is steadily getting worse by the second.
"You sure you're alright?" Sheriff Mills questions with a quirked brow. "You know, we could take this inside if you—"
"B'm fine," is Dean's stubborn reply as he precariously hovers over his plate of steak, potatoes, and grilled corn with a knife in one hand and a fork perched in the other. He can do this. He can. No stinking cold is going to keep him from enjoying this. Besides, the pies — cherry, apple, and pumpkin — are over there, on top of the two nearest tool boxes, and he can only have some if he's able to finish at least half of his steak — Sam's words.
"Just don't go ralfing your food back up while we're still in the middle of chewing our own," Bobby remarks as he goes to cut into his steak.
"By bot bo," Dean replies, but, right now, feeling his stomach already beginning to rumble, he's not making any promises.
[xx]
"O-k," Sheriff Mills says, putting down her fork and looking a little green around the gills. "Think I've had enough." And she's not just talking about her food.
"B'm sorr—Hurk!" Dean suddenly hurls into the strategically placed bucket, by his chair, that Sam had managed to scrounge up when he had first started spewing like a fire hydrant — after his fifth chew. The smell and the sound doesn't just put Sheriff Mills off her food. Bobby shakes his head as he too puts down his own eating utensils.
Although he's grimacing and leaning away from a puking Dean, Sam still reaches out a hand and rubs soothing circles over his brother's back. "There, there," he awkwardly says, before getting up out of his seat as Dean's upchucking dwindles to mere dry heaves. "How about we get you up and into bed, huh? Doesn't that sound good?"
"Bot a … baby," Dean groans with tear tracks running down his pale face as he wipes his mouth with the back of a hand.
"I know. I know," Sam croons, still completely treating his big brother like a fragile, little kid. "Come on, big guy. I'll help you up."
"Bon't beed belp," Dean irritably grumbles … like a petulant child as he next tries to wipe his face with the bottom of his shirt.
Both Sherif Mills and Bobby avert their eyes as Dean flashes a bit of perky nipple.
"Come on. Up you go," Sam says with an arm wrapped around Dean's shoulders to support him; a sick Dean looks and sounds so pitiful that it just makes Sam want to baby him even more.
"Bet boff be," —A sad, longing look over his shoulder, toward the untouched desserts— "By bies."
"They'll still be here for you, Dean," Sam reassures him with a roll of his eyes.
"Don't you worry," Sheriff Mills adds. "I'll just have Bobby here wrap 'em up for you."
Dean pauses in being strong-armed through the yard. "Bomise?" he asks the woman grinning back at him.
"Promise."
With his pies safe, Dean's too fatigued to keep up his façade. He just lets Sam steer him back toward the house. Honestly, he's about two seconds from passing…
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, Dean!" Sam cries out with his arms suddenly burdened with the full force of Dean's dead weight. "Jesus Chr—!" Sam's curse is cut off as he tries not to buckle underneath the strain. Soon, he's manhandling his brother into his arms like a newlywed husband sweeping up his blushing bride … if she were suddenly comatose and a guy and his stupid, hardheaded brother, who he sometimes has sex with.
When Sam and Dean are out of earshot, Sheriff Mills turns to Bobby with a sigh. "Guy looks like death warmed over."
Bobby just shakes his head as he gets up to deal with the puke bucket. "Naw. Seen Death. Looked a hell of a lot better than that."
[xx]
"Bam, bell Bobby B'm borry," Dean deliriously moans as he crack his lids open after being tucked in their shared bed in the room left to them upstairs.
Sitting on the edge of the creaky mattress, Sam runs a hand over Dean's sweaty brow, softly brushing the poor guy's damp hair back with affection. "Hey, hey. Stop. It's ok. Dude, you're sick. Trust me. He understands. Now, here. Blow."
Dean honks his nose into the tissue Sam's holding. After Sam throws it away in the trashcan, by the nightstand, he finds Dean's lax fingers softly wrapped around his wrist.
"Bom … bed," Dean urges with knit brows and, yeah, Sam knows his brother must be really out of it if he's begging him to climb into bed with him at four in the afternoon and, you know, not even for sex. After all, Dean doesn't cuddle.
Sam gives a lopsided grin down to his big brother who looks so weak and vulnerable. Dean looks so damn adorable he can't help but plant a small kiss on the guy's sizzling forehead — germs be damned. "Dean, besides it being a little too early for me to hit the sack, I think I should go help Bobby clean up your mess and at least say bye to the Sheriff. She did bring your pies after all."
"By bies," Dean says in a miserable tone, like he just ran over a cherished cat he'll never see again.
Sam rolls his eyes thinking: yeah, your stupid pies, but he does take pity on Dean.
"Look, if you go your sick ass back to sleep, when you wake up, I'll get you some ice-cream to go with your pie. But only if you feel you can stomach it." With a pointed look, he looks down at a feverish Dean. "We have a deal?"
Dean's reply is a dopey smile that is half real gratitude and half cold medicine induced. Regardless, his lashes flutter closed and he's back to snoring before Sam moves to go back outside.
[xx]
"How's he doing?" Bobby asks, washing out the barf bucket in the garage's sink.
"He's asleep," Sam says with a sigh, sipping at a beer as he leans a hip on the counter next to the man. "For now anyway."
"How long's he been like that?" Sheriff Mills asks, wrapping up the food still laid out on the wooden picnic table.
"Last two days. I was stuck running interference with the local cops down in Tulsa while he was left to do the salt and burn out in the rain all night by himself."
"That'll do it," Bobby replies, while the Sheriff just shakes her head.
As Sam moves to help out at the picnic table, he says, "Oh, yeah. Dean says he's sorry about the mess. I tried to tell him he's sick and that we all understand, but you know him."
Bobby's response is a mumbled, "idjit" said with a single shake of his head. After all, it's not really the celebration that's important. It's the being together that matters the most and, getting up in his years, Bobby wants to spend at least a few days out of the year together without doing so under the threat of death or being out on some hunt. After all, blood or not, these are his sons and if he has to clean up after one of them from being sick, well, Bobby Singer will do it, because he loves these idjits … even if they might one day get him killed.
"You know, smiling doesn't suit you, Singer. Kind of creepy."
Bobby turns to the female who's bailed his sorry ass out of trouble too many times to count. "And being nice don't suit you either, woman. How 'bout we call this little truce of ours a day and get you back on the road?"
Sheriff Mills grins. "My thoughts exactly." Before she turns to leave, she adds, "I put that extra tub of whip cream in your fridge. Make sure you tell Dean."
Bobby just rolls his eyes. "Trust me. Won't have to. Boy'll find it himself."
"Oh, yeah," Sam adds with certainty as he comes up behind them with the sealed Tupperware container holding the remaining three steaks. "Don't worry about it. If it has to do with pie, my brother could be blindfolded and he'd still find it. Besides, I'll be the one getting the pie for him later. Kind of promised him a few slices with icecream if he went back to sleep."
"Must be nice to have a brother like you." Sheriff Mills says, grabbing her keys.
"I wouldn't be so sure of that," Sam replies with an awkward smile, thinking if she only knew.
Bobby's thinking the same thing, but he graciously keeps his comments to himself, thank you very much. After all, the walls are thin in his house and that guest room's mattress springs can be pretty darn loud … no matter how quiet those boys think they're being. (It's times like those — when he's sleeping with a pillow over his head — that Bobby's thankful he's not really their father.) But Sam and Dean are Sam and Dean and they're still his family, even if they put the dysfunction in dysfunctional and keep giving him small heart attacks by almost and sometimes getting themselves killed.
[xx]
Later that night, Sam's trying to sleep with his back to his brother who is awake and won't leave him the hell alone. "Dean, no. You're sick and I'm trying to sleep here."
"Bome bon, Bammy. B'm beeling better," Dean tries to wheedle.
"Dude, Bobby's downstairs and you sound even worse than before."
"Basn't bopped bo before," Dean counters.
"Dean, you're not fucking me. You smell like Vicks Vapor Rub and you're still dripping from the nose. Forgive me if I'm not turned on here."
Dean grumbles out a, "…Biggid Bitch."
"I'm not frigid, jerk. I'm tired and trying to be considerate," Sam retorts with a frown.
"Bam."
"No, Dean."
"Bammy."
"I said no."
"Bobbammit, B'm borny."
"Yeah, well, I'm not. So, go watch some TV or something if you can't sleep."
[xx]
Downstairs in his bedroom and tucked in his bed, Bobby can't help but think: thank god, because, yeah, he's tired too and he really doesn't need to hear all that going on tonight even if it is Dean's thirty-fourth birthday. However, Bobby's back to shoving the pillow over his head as Dean starts up a new coughing and sneezing fit that shows no sign of stopping anytime soon.