Dean has a fever. Tripe, really. Sentimental pap. Literary chitterlings.
As dusk faded to night, Dean woke and rolled his head restlessly against the pillow. The cool of the sheets against his face gave him faint realization that his skin was aflame with fever, and he was shivering a bit, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He burrowed further into the womb of down blankets, pulling his knees toward his chest and sinking his cheek into the softness of the pillow. The weight of the blankets was delicious, comforting, safe. Following a long nap, he decided, he would gorge on soups and stews and flame-grilled steaks and hot toddies and fuckin' double-dipped onion rings with Tabasco. Shuddering with a fever chill, he told himself he would never be cold and miserable again.
But his fingers…they were like icicles despite his fever and the toasty cocoon he had created in the bed. He tucked his hand into his armpit, trying to drive out the chill. Yet even as he did so, the cold seemed to be creeping through his arm. Frigid pins and needles slipped up his shoulders to the back of his neck and into his chest, constricting around his heart. His breath grew ragged as if he had plunged into wintry water. He tossed onto his other side, trying to curl tighter into himself. The ice climbed up his neck and slid around his brain. With a cry of frustration, he flung his blankets away and sat bolt up.
His bed had disappeared. He wasn't in a motel room at all. He was laying in a pit of mud, vomit, blood, bits of bodies…the detritus of war. He pushed himself to his feet with great effort, and reached up to wipe a trail of slime from his face with the back of his arm. As he stood there in the stench of the killing field, the sudden remembrance of the fight crashed into his brain. "Sammy!" he choked, whirling to scan the myriad bodies laid low in the dirt. His eyes fell on the bloodied bulk of his baby brother, twisted and broken in the pits of carnage.
To Dean, Sam seemed strangely diminished in death. His cheeks had sunken in, framing his teeth in a grim mask. Blood was clotting on his brow and flies had already gathered to feed, buzzing and humming like a living mask on Sam's face. But from that broken form came a whisper of breath. "Dean…"
And as Sam spoke, an immense boulder thundered down on his skull, sending bits of bone and flesh flying. Dean stumbled backward, slipping in a puddle of gore and crashing to the earth, feeling blood splash onto his face. Above him stood Lucifer. His clothing was shredded and covered with filth, but his form was tall and straight. Dean scrambled over the savaged corpse of his brother, crying out loud at the cold, murderous gaze of the devil himself.
"Dean." The voice was like the hiss of a thousand serpents, a sound that Dean knew would echo in his mind until his last moment, which seemed likely to come soon. At Lucifer's feet lay Bobby's body, the pieces of his shattered shotgun scattered around him like petals of funeral flowers, his eyes open and sightless, sad even in death. Lucifer's foot was on his neck, and rivulets of blood were pooling in the hollow of his throat. "You dared to challenge me, to fight against me. And now you're going to see what happens those who defy the darkness."
Lucifer stepped over Bobby's body and towered over Dean, who cowered, terror strangling his breath and dimming his sight. As he stared at the hellhounds that gathered at the devil's side, a blur of sounds and images sparked across Dean's mind.
Sam's laugh.
Bobby's calloused hands.
Castiel's quizzical blue eyes.
His father's gentle smile of approval.
His mother's soft embrace.
And as the fangs of the devil's hounds sliced Dean's flesh, tearing his throat open, drowning him in his own blood, all fear left him. All he could feel was the comfort of those who loved him. And as a smile tugged his mouth, all fell into shadow.
A soft mattress yielded beneath his body. Dean struggled to sit upright, but as he put weight upon his right arm, it collapsed beneath him and he knocked his skull against the headboard of the bed. The memory of the dream was still strobing in his brain, and his head pounded in rhythm with his hammering heartbeat. He could feel the compulsion of impending tears pressing at the backs of his eyes. He growled low in his throat, forcing back the sob, allowing his frustration to erupt.
The room was dark. Through the blinds he could see the moon, which was only occasionally showing itself from behind huge storm clouds. Every minute or so the clouds, streaked blood red, shone with lightning, and the rumble of thunder made Dean quiver slightly. He rolled his left shoulder underneath him, wincing as his other arm flopped like a lifeless fish against his stomach. He strained with all his might and managed to raise himself into a seated position. He allowed himself a short moment's rest, puffing from the exertion of merely sitting up. The throbbing in his head increased in volume, a tide crashing against a rocky shore. He took a deep breath and swung his legs over the side of the bed, stretching his feet toward the floor. But his legs were weak and numb, and he lost his purchase on the mattress, plummeting from the edge of the bed. He landed on his hands and knees, but his arms, unable to hold his own weight, collapsed beneath him and he smashed chin first onto the carpet. A spurt of pain and blood shot through his mouth as he bit down on his tongue. He spat, ignoring the dribble of spittle and grume that snaked down his chin.
Nausea rolled over him, his stomach heaving. He curled his knees against his chest and rested his cheek against the floor, willing himself to be completely still, praying that the desperate pangs inside him would subside. He retched once, then violently brought up a scalding stomach-full of blood. A rasping cry issued from his lips, a mewl of fear, weariness and horror at his own helplessness. He sputtered out another mouthful of blood, terrified of choking and being found in such a humiliating position, legs askew at crazy angles and his arms slung wide into a pool of his own puke. A tear escaped his eye and crossed the bridge of his nose, tickling the skin, before dropping silently to the soiled floor. "So this is how it is," he thought to himself. "My life gone, like piss in an alley."
He started at the sound of a key in the lock of the motel room door. Energized anew to keep his pride intact, Dean struggled to get to his feet, but his shaky legs would not hold him. He sank back to the floor, willing his eyes to dry…he may be down, but he wasn't about to be found bawling in a pile of his own vomit. The door creaked slowly open and Sam entered, preceded a stack of takeout containers. He stared at the ruffled, empty bed, a look of puzzlement on his face. Dean lifted his head and gave a little hiccup, sending a froth of gore spilling from his mouth. Sam started, then set the Styrofoam containers hastily on the bedside table. He hurried to Dean's side and, ignoring the spatter of blood and bile, lifted his brother into his strong arms. Dean, despite his humiliation, wearily laid his head against Sam's shoulder, relieved at being rescued.
He sighed mightily as Sam reinstalled him in the bed. "I'm sorry, Sam," he croaked miserably, trying to ignore the streaks of bloody vomit on his brother's clothes. "I'm sorry."
"Knock it off," replied Sam gruffly. "There's nothing to be sorry for." With surprising gentleness, he deftly stripped Dean of his soiled boxers, tossing them in a wad across the room and pulling the covers up over Dean's chest. He silently padded to the bathroom and soaked a towel in hot water. Sitting on the side of the bed, he swabbed the towel across Dean's throat and chest, cleaning away the puke and the blood. "You shouldn't be trying to get up so soon, Dean," he said in a faintly accusatory tone, but there was an undercurrent of concern and, Dean thought, sadness. "I think you've earned a break, for Christ sake."
Dean leaned back into the soft bed pillows, letting the warmth of the water relax his aching muscles. Sam stood, strode back to the bathroom, silently rinsed out the washcloth and resoaked it in the steaming water. He then dug through his pack, bringing out several sachets of sweet smelling herbs, which he added to the water. He stirred everything into a thick paste, and coated the cloth in the pungent mix. He then carefully laid the poultice across Dean's bare chest. "Bobby sent these. Said they may help." Dean inhaled deeply, sucking in the spicy scent, but immediately broke into a spasm of tortured coughing. Sam laced an arm behind Dean's back and pulled him upright, gently rubbing his brother's back as he hacked miserably. Finally the attack subsided, and Dean spat out a mouthful of thickly clotted blood, not caring if he soiled the bedding. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes, streaking down to soak the hair at his temples and drip into his ears. He gulped greedily for breath, panic rising.
"Slow down, Dean. Calm down," soothed Sam. "You have to calm down, or you won't be able to catch your breath." Dean nodded wildly, hiccupping once or twice, then holding his breath for a short moment. As he slowly exhaled, Sam touched his forehead and said, "There you go." Dean sagged back against the pillows in exhausted relief, slowly savoring his breaths.
"You need to rest. No getting out of bed, no traipsing to the bar for pool and beers. You're gonna stay in bed until I tell you otherwise." Sam pulled the covers back over Dean's chest and tucked them in tightly. "Don't make me break out the handcuffs."
"Pervert," muttered Dean, trying to fight the fatigue that was threatening to drag his eyelids closed.
"Go to sleep," Sam commanded, but he softened the harshness of his tone with a gentle pat of Dean's cheek. Dean took a shallow breath, enough to inhale the fragrant steam of the herbs on his chest, but not so deep as to start himself coughing again. As the scent twined sleepy fingers through his brain, Dean drowsed, then slipped into a depthless slumber.