Like a Fish Out of Water
Summary: Dean takes a little dip in some not so warm water, and Sam gets to take care of the result.
No spoilers, a bit of language. I imagine this set in Season 1 or 2, but it can really go wherever you see it.
A/N: Been a year since I started posting fanfic, woohoo! I am so happy to have been a part of this wonderful universe. To all those who've reviewed my ramblings and those who've simply perused these pages, you have my thanks and virtual hugs. To those writers whose works I read back when I was quietly creeping around fandom, you've inspired me to start putting my thoughts on pages, and I give you my sincerest thanks. Don't ever stop weaving your stories, you're all brilliant!
And without further ado, in honor of the year of rambling and ranting, I give you some whumped Dean.
Disclaimer: Please, if I owned the boys they would have long since run away from me by now.
Dean never was a fan of the expression "sleeping with the fishes".
For starters, fish smell. Badly, actually. That weird tang that comes with a dish of fried sticks or some fancy-schmancy salmon a-flambeyh-whateverness that Sam looks forward to whenever they can get to a decent restaurant…bleh, it's nasty. Maybe he's biased because the last time he tried fish, the friggen thing laid him up in the bathroom for eighteen hours, a bottle of water in one hand and the edge of the toilet bowl in the other. True, that may have been the sketchy diner's fault, but oh well. He'll stick with steak, thank you very much.
For another thing, sleeping with them implies either sticking fish by one's pillow—he did mention the smell, right?—or going down into their territory, and while Dean's no expert, he's fairly certain that humans don't do so well submerged in the water for extended periods of time. Just a guess. He's got an inkling that those little 'lungs' people have are usually meant to suck in air, not water. So he's all set with it, sleeping with fishes not such a nice concept.
He guesses it's an appropriate term for mafia men to use, then, unpleasant in so many ways.
Although he's starting to feel quite sympathetic for the men who cross said mafia men and end up on the receiving end of that little phrase. Indeed, he's rapidly discovering how very unpleasant it is to have one's head underwater staring at a bunch of fish.
Okay, so maybe he's not actually staring at fish. It's probably too cold for the little buggers to be out and about, considering the top of their little lake is completely frozen over. Well, not completely, as there is now a Dean-sized hole up there, after all. Still, they probably are off sleeping in their nice little fish caves. Dean should join them, seeing as he's already down far enough.
It would help if he knew where the caves were. He's betting they're a lot warmer than where he is at the moment, judging by the sludgy feeling he's got running through his veins.
He can't exactly remember how he ended up in this kind of predicament, floating down under some ice thinking about fish and phrases, but he figures it's probably not the best one to be in. So he swivels his head around until he catches sight of the ice, and wills himself to move towards it. Except his arms and his legs don't seem to want to cooperate, and instead he's just stuck looking up at the world above him, wondering how long he can hold his breath.
He does a pretty decent job, actually. His gym teacher back at Pontaco would be proud. Weird guy, Mr. Jones, but nice enough, and he engaged the kids in some pretty entertaining sports, water polo being one of them. Not that he would ever confess to Sam his secret fondness for water polo. Besides, it's difficult to play when completely submerged.
Dean floats, or sinks, for a little while longer, until his blurry vision picks up a dark shape floating down towards him. He has enough time to wonder how such a large fish came to be in this no name lake, or if it's a Nessie kind of deal and he and Sam have to hunt something, when his lungs suddenly decide to open up in a poor imitation of fish gills and then all he sees is blackness.
Sam looks funny as all hell with his hair wet. It's so lanky, hanging like limp seaweed from his head, and Dean would snicker if he could stop coughing.
He has no recollection of the time between the underwater and the above water, but something must have happened because he's hanging around on a cold ass fern by the lake, waterlogged, coughing up a storm of dirty lake water. Sam is patting him down with towels or a blanket or something, muttering words to Dean that he can't quite make out.
He finally stops and takes in a few heaving breaths, feeling his brother's warm hand at his back. He swivels his head around, taking in the surroundings, but they're blurred and faded like a worn out set of photos. He can see the stars above him though, and pauses to think how bright they are tonight. His breath folds out in front of him and he stares at it, mesmerized, then realizes the fact that he can see his breath means it's cold and if it's cold and he's wet isn't that a bad thing?
The macho part of him tells him it's no big deal, rub a little dirt on it and he'll be fine. The other part tells him he fell into a lake, an ice covered lake, and that's probably not a good thing. Then there's the overwhelming part of him that tells him to check on Sam, because if he was in the lake and now he's out then somewhere in between he either grew fins and swam back up—and he quickly checks for fins and finds no confirmation that he has any—or Sam dove in to get him. Judging by the wet rat around him, he's putting his bet on the latter.
He tries to push up, ask his brother if he's okay and get them both out of here—doesn't Sammy know hypothermia's dangerous?—but he can't seem to get his damn mouth to work. Sam's still trying to talk to him but Dean can't seem to make the words he's hearing connect to the proper receptors in his waterlogged brain. Then he doesn't have time to think at all because Sasquatch is scooping him up into those giant octopus arms and hightailing it into the woods.
He really needs to stop the in and out his consciousness seems to be enjoying so much. Now they're inside somewhere and Sam has a ridiculous looking hat on his head, and possibly different clothes, while Dean appears to be on a couch completely naked with some blankets on top of him. It's like a bizarre morning after picture, minus the hot chicks and the alcohol. Or maybe not without the alcohol, Dean's head is still a little fuzzy.
He sees Sam bending over something and leans up to see what it is before the room is slowly bathed in light and heat from a fireplace. Nicely done, Sammy, little boy scout.
Sam comes back to him and looms like the giant he is, speaking to him and Dean can finally focus enough to make some of it out.
"—alright? I gotta get you warm, okay? Dean? You with me yet?"
"Mmmmmrrrrrmph." Well, that didn't come out as expected.
"It's okay, I've gotcha."
"Smmmmm." Okay, a little better that time. "Smmm. L'ke?"
"Like? What're you saying?"
Come on, Sammy, you're smarter than this. Figure it out.
"L-l-l-l-lak-k-k-e?" Jeez, his teeth like to chatter.
Sam shakes his head slowly, trying to puzzle out Dean's gibberish. "Lake? Yeah, you fell through the ice, Dean. You got a little wet, but I'll get you warmed up."
Dean tries to shake his own head, trying to focus enough to get out what he needs to get out. Before his brain flails off again. "Nnn. You?"
Sam's still trying his hardest to contribute to the one sided conversation. "Me? No, I didn't fall in. You fell in. You've got hypothermia, Dean."
Dean huffs in frustration, feeling the water still sinking in his chest. "No. You, l-l-lake. 'Kay?"
Lightbulb, sure as an old Looney Tunes cartoon, flashes above Sam's head. "Yeah, Dean, I'm fine. I jumped in to get you. I've got dry clothes and I'm keeping warm, but you were in there a lot longer than me."
Dean slumps down, too disoriented to push the subject any further. He feels the focus he worked to gain start to slip again, and feels the trickle of cold set into his bones. Creepy feeling. He shivers.
"It's okay. I'm gonna get you warmed up, alright? Just stay awake."
Of course he's going to stay awake, why wouldn't he? There's no reason to sleep. Well, now that he thinks about it, the fire is nice, and the blankets are nice, and his head sinks a little lower into the side of the couch and his eyes start to flutter down.
A hand, a hot hand, clasps around his cheek and jolts him awake again.
"Hey, no sleeping, Dean. Stay awake. I'll be right back, keep those eyes open. No sleep."
Meh, no sleep. Party pooper.
He stays awake though, because Sam may have said he's okay, but jumping into cold water in the middle of winter in the middle of nowhere is not a thing to take lightly. Dean steadfastly ignores the small voice in his head that chitters you're the idiot who let yourself get flung into the water and the idiot who's now got hypothermia, genius and continues to keep his eyes as open as they'll go.
He's starting to shiver a bit more, recognizes dimly that that's a good thing, and snuggles a bit further under the blankets. They won't warm him up, but the fire's doing that just nicely. He thinks that the bottom of a lake should have fires in it too, keep people down there from freezing.
Dean's frozen brain is not so intelligent, it seems. But he lets it wander, content to just wait for Sasquatch to come back, and thinks about not sleeping.
"Dean! Come on, dammit, wake up!"
Dean gets jolted back into the world by a very loud, very distraught Sam, who seems to enjoy the act of looming, little pain in the ass. Dean loves his brother though, so he won't smack him on the head for being clingy and loomy this time. Mostly because he doesn't think he can raise his arm high enough to perform said smack. He settles instead for a fumbled "mmrmph".
Sam shakes his head and pulls the blanket up higher. "You gotta stay awake for me, man, alright?"
"Meh."
"Yeah, meh yourself. This might feel hot to you, alright, but it'll help."
Huh?
Before Dean can protest, Sam strips down the blankets, leaving only one. He then lays something else over it that makes Dean melt into a happy puddle of goo.
"Wazzit?"
"Electric blanket. Not bad, huh?" There's no response, but as Sam puts the other blankets back on he watches his brother snuggle down into the warmth like a purring kitten into a fresh pile of laundry. He's so cozy that he doesn't even react when Sam gently probes the back of his head, not until he brushes over something that makes him cringe.
"Whoops, sorry. Looks like you took a knock to the head, too. It's not that bad though, so…you remember what happened? Creature flinging you onto the lake?"
"Mmmrmph."
"Well, that's helpful." Sam gets up again, and Dean notices a shiver running through his brother's shoulders. Or maybe that's just Dean shivering and watching the world shake around him.
He still keeps his eyes on his brother until he goes into the next room, the kitchen of this little cabin. The tremors are starting to make him ache, and he wonders idly if the fish in the lake shiver, too. That water was damn cold.
And just like that he's gone back to the sleeping fishes phrase. He starts puzzling through his head over when it's appropriate to use fish instead of fishes when talking about multiple fish. Maybe he should find the mob boss who came up with it and ask him how he knew which plural form to use. And then he realizes how ridiculous that is. Not the finding a mob boss part, because that would be easy for sure, but the fact that the English language would decide to pluralize a word by keeping it the exact same. Maybe he should hunt down the guy who came up with that genius idea, instead.
And then, of course, he lets his mind drift to the interesting world of the English language pluralisms. Sheep and bison and deer and moose and antelope…okay, the English language had it out for animals, apparently.
Sam's moving around him and tucking the blankets in closer, and part of Dean wants to make a joke about swaddling but he's still distracted by the words tumbling in his head.
"Sheep. Sheeeeeeep. Sheepies? S'my?"
"Yeah, Dean, I'm right here. Stay awake, okay?"
"S'myyy?" His voice is all squiggly, pushing out past sloppy lips, but he's trying anyway. There are questions to be answered, and Sammy's smart, he probably knows them.
"Yeah, Dean. It's okay."
"How come 's not sheepies?"
Sam's face is completely bewildered. "Um, I dunno, Dean. Jeez, maybe you hit your head harder than I thought…"
Sam must be out of his gourd, because Dean's head feels fine. Well, except for that bit where he thinks there may still be some water in it, but other than that, perfectly fine. Maybe a little numb. Not as bad as his fingers, though, so that's a good sign, he supposes.
"Sheep. 'N deer, 'n some fish, too."
"O-okay. What about them?"
Dean just sighs. His brother's not going to understand this any time soon, he figures. He settles for a muffled, "stupid 'nglish" instead.
He closes his eyes for an instant, and just like that Sam's disappeared again. For a Gigantor the kid knows how to sneak around. Well, fine, Dean's just going to snuggle with the blanket, then.
"Dean! For crying out loud, man. I can't leave you alone for a second, can I." Sam's voice, snappy and a bit panicked, causes Dean to open his heavy eyes yet again.
"S'rry".
"It's alright, just keep 'em open, dude."
"You suck." Ha, full sentence, no stuttering. Sort of.
"Be nice or I won't give you your treat."
Dean groans and rolls his eyes, then tries to subtly cant his head to see what his brother's got in store for him. Sam's large hands do a pretty good job as a present box, though. He's settled himself into a chair in front of Dean and has a smug little smile on his face.
"You ready? Ta-da."
It's a mug. Just a mug. With something steamy coming out of it. Which actually smells rather good.
Sam helps Dean wiggle his hands out of the piles of blankets, but won't give him the mug until he agrees to the ridiculous pair of mittens Sam's procured. The sweet smell from the cup has a pretty convincing argument in favor of those mittens, however, and the promise of potential alcoholic coffee wins the fight in his head, so Dean sucks it up and puts them on. His hands are shaking badly, but good ol' Sammy's there to keep them steady while Dean brings the drink to his lips.
It's good, but definitely no whiskey in there.
"Wazzit?"
"It's cocoa, Dean."
"Cocoa? Th'hll is this place."
"It's a cabin in the middle of the mountains, genius. Not everyone keeps warm with whiskey."
"Feh." He keeps on sipping it.
The warmth from the fire and the cocoa is doing wonders for him. He thinks the last of the water's finally evaporated from his brain, and feeling is starting to come back to his toes. Swaddled up as he is, there's not much else to do but sip, stare at Sam, and think.
"Heh. Weird."
"What is?" Sam's brow furrows.
"Goose is geese, but moose isn't meese. 'S weird."
Sam rolls his eyes and tucks the blanket further by Dean's side. "Sure thing, Dean. Weird."
"Imma call 'em meese. Meeeeeese."
"You do that."
Dean wonders why his brother isn't up to much conversation. Sure, he's a bit of a popsicle, but he's still entertaining. Usually when Dean gets himself into a pickle Sam's there to rant and ramble in all sorts of fun ways, but now he just stays silent.
Sam turns for a moment, and Dean can see another shiver make its way through his brother's arm. Sam's shoulders are still trembling, and his breath is a bit shallow, and Dean knows that means his brother's much colder than he said he was. Regardless of the amount of time he was in there, Dean knows how bad it could get if Sam doesn't warm up soon. After all, Dean took the dunk first and is currently laying butt naked on the couch.
"Sam."
"Yeah?"
"C'mere." Dean clumsily motions to the couch, and Sam leans forward. Gently placing the mug on the table, with as much strength as he can muster, Dean manages to pull the top blanket off of him, saying a quiet goodbye to that warmth, and flops it over to his brother.
Sam takes it with surprise. "Dean, what are you doing?"
"You're cold. T-take it."
"No way. You need it a lot more than I do—"
"You jumped in. Got wet. Hyp—hyp—hyp—" Aw hell, this is hard to do.
"I'm fine, Dean. You were almost at the top of the lake anyway. I was in for ten seconds, tops."
"Dun' matt'r."
Sam rolls his eyes again—kid's gonna get them stuck in the back of his head one of these days if he keeps that up— but he holds on to the blanket.
"I'm alright. Really." Sam goes quiet for a minute, and Dean listens to the sound of the cogs and wheels spinning in his head. "You killed it, by the way. That shot you got off was enough to drop it right as it threw you. I shoulda been closer to you, Dean, I—one second you were there, and the next you were gone. I looked for something I could use to grab you, but by the time I got to the edge of the ice where you'd fallen in, you'd been in there so long…I could see you in the water, and I just…I just had to go for it. Had to try to get you out." He sighs, heavy and long.
"You scared me for a minute, there, Dean."
Dean doesn't say anything. There isn't anything to say, really. Accidents happen in hunting. People get hurt, and everyone else is left to pick up the pieces. It's terrifying and unfair, but it's what they do, and that's all there is to it.
He picks up the mug, still mostly full, and hands it to Sam. Then he shifts his body over to the edge of the couch a bit more, and motions for Sam to sit on the other end. The electric blanket's big enough for the both of them to share.
The couch, not so much, but they make do.
End.